the short snorter by charles einstein _his saucer was parked in the woods, and mr. steariot (from venus) was parked in the lobby...._ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, august 1958. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] three paths led through the woods away from the resort hotel, and of the three two were clearly marked: one with a sign that said it led to the lake, the other pointing toward the golf links. the third pathway was unmarked, and this was the one that inevitably the lovers and the honeymooners took--the path that alice and fred daniels followed today. the sun was unusually warm for this time of year, but only a few yards along the pathway fred and alice were swallowed up by the great and near-great trees of the forest. the sunlight was, except for an occasional patch of light here and there, warded away by the foliage above. the forest was very quiet. the pathway bridged a silent brook, and then, perhaps a third of a mile into the woods, turned abruptly to the left and the woods became even more dense, the pathway narrow. through the trees to the right at this point was a clearing, an unusual grassy circle perhaps sixty yards in diameter. it was not the clearing itself, however, but, instead, the glint of color in the sunlight that caused fred and alice to stop and look. alice said, "fred, what is that?" "don't know," he said. "something red. let's look." the two of them turned off the path and made their way through a dismal barrage of thicket to the clearing that lay beyond. when they got there, they saw the circular object--_vehicle_ might be a better word. it was possibly fifteen yards in diameter. it seemed to be made of three rings, smaller ones bottom and top and the larger one ribbing the center, and to be constructed of some kind of plastic. between the central and upper rings were set a series of small windows. the entire thing was painted a gaudy red. "what do you think it is?" fred said. "a flying saucer," alice said promptly. she laughed a little, but clutched at her husband's arm. "isn't it?" "i don't know." "but what else would it be?" "i don't know," fred said again. "let's look inside." "fred," alice said, "you'd better not--" "don't be silly," he said, and walked resolutely up to the object and, standing on tiptoe, peered through one of the windows. "what is it?" alice called from the edge of the clearing. "what do you see?" "it's empty," he called back. "what's inside?" fred shook his head. "you won't believe it." "what?" "it's got a steering wheel," he called out hollowly. "and some dials." "my goodness," alice said. "is it a real one?" "how do i know?" he said, and rejoined her, casting a series of glances uncertainly over his shoulder at the bright red saucer behind him. "what do you suppose we ought to do?" "tell somebody," alice said. "i suppose." "who do we tell?" "i don't know. there must be _somebody_--" they looked almost guiltily at each other. "nobody'll believe us," fred said. "why not?" alice said. "it's _here_, isn't it?" fred stopped and thought. "who knows how long it'll stay?" they looked at each other again. then alice said slowly, "if we went back and got the camera--" * * * * * swiftly, they made their way back toward the hotel through the quiet forest. when they got there, they found mr. mason, the manager of the hotel, adjusting the badminton net in front of the main porch. mr. mason loosed a ready smile. "how's everything?" he said. "find enough to do?" "yes, thank you," fred said to him. "we were just walking through the woods. we came back for our camera. then we're off again." mr. mason nodded. "find the saucer?" fred looked at him. "you mean the flying saucer?" the manager nodded again. "i see you did find it. good. take a picture of it, by all means. i've already taken a whole batch myself." "you have?" fred said, frowning. "what's it all about?" "it's a flying saucer," mr. mason said. "from venus. mr. steariot, who piloted it, is a guest here. i can introduce you to him if you like. he speaks excellent english." fred daniels said, "wait a minute. you--" "oh, there's no point in it," mr. mason said in a weary tone of voice. "no point in it at all. i took pictures. i tried to get the army up here. i wrote letters." he shrugged expressively. "it's a cynical age we live in, i guess. everybody's very polite, but they make it clear they think it's just a gimmick i worked up to get the hotel publicity." he nodded seriously. "the whole trouble's with mr. steariot. if he had a light bulb for a head, or seven legs, or talked funny, why, it'd be a different thing entirely. but he looks and acts just like you or i. here i've got a legitimate flying saucer sitting on my property and you might as well try to tell them it's a--well, a flying saucer! for all they'll believe me. now you two have seen it with your own eyes and you don't believe it either." fred swallowed and looked at alice for a moment. then he said, "what did you say his name was?" "mr. steariot," mr. mason said. "actually, he's just as happy nobody believes he's from venus. if they believed it, they'd probably lock him up in jail somewhere or impound his saucer. as it is, he says this is the first vacation he's had in years." mr. mason looked unhappily about him. "he's probably in the lounge now. want to meet him?" fred said dazedly, "i--" "ah, come on," mr. mason said. "he won't bite you." he led the way up the steps of the porch and into the lounge and over to where a small, mustachioed man, wearing eyeglasses and appearing to be in his late forties, was working a crossword puzzle in the morning paper. "mr. steariot," mr. mason said, "i should like you to meet mr. and mrs. daniels, also guests here. they have just seen your saucer." "charmed," mr. steariot said, and got to his feet. he shook hands with fred daniels. "are you here for a long stay, mr. daniels?" "i'm not sure," fred said, a little unhappily. "mr. mason told us you were from venus." "i told them about you, mr. steariot," mr. mason said. "naturally, they don't believe it any more than anybody else." "no reason why they should," mr. steariot said amiably. "no reason in the world, if i may coin a phrase. dr. phelps at the institute didn't believe it either." mr. mason said, "mr. steariot here had a long interview with dr. phelps of the geophysical institute at princeton when he first arrived here on earth with us." "oh," fred said. he gazed uncomfortably at mr. steariot. "we didn't mean to interrupt you." "i was only doing the crossword puzzle," mr. steariot said. "do you know a two-letter word for sun-god?" alice said, "is this your first trip here?" "you mean here to the hotel," mr. steariot said, "or to earth?" "earth," fred said, dismally. "my second," mr. steariot said. "first trip i wound up near leningrad. terrible time. i thought they'd talk english, but they don't, and they thought i was an american, and two of their officials got into the saucer with me, and the only way i could save myself was to take off with them. they're on venus now." "this accounts," mr. mason broke in, "for the way those two high russian officials suddenly disappeared from sight three years ago. you remember? everybody thought they'd been liquidated." fred daniels looked around the room. a hollow, frightening feeling had come upon him. there were hundreds of questions he could have asked, and yet he wanted nothing so much as to be away from there. his wife alice, though, was constrained to learn more about mr. steariot. she said, "mr. steariot, may i ask you something?" "by all means," mr. steariot said, and blinked owlishly at her. "do you," alice said to him, "carry any money?" it was, fred daniels realized, a marvelous question. if there were sham here, this would be the quickest way to-"why, of course." mr. steariot said, and reached for his wallet. "let's see--health insurance--saucer driver's license--here, my dear. a five-djino bill." he extracted a yellow banknote and handed it to alice. the banknote, slightly larger than an american dollar bill, was remarkably similar in other particulars. it had upon it a picture of a flying saucer, the figure 5, and, spelled out, "five djinos". "let me sign it for you," mr. steariot said, taking out a pen. "you can have it for a souvenier." "like the short snorters in the war," mr. mason, the hotel manager, said. "you remember them, mr. daniels? where people got famous signatures on five and ten and twenty-dollar bills and exchanged them and what not, and they called them short snorters?" "i remember," fred daniels said. "something like that." "five djinos on venus," mr. steariot said, signing his name with a flourish, "is worth about twenty dollars here on earth. no official rate of exchange, of course, but from what i've seen, that's about what i'd judge. here you go." he handed the bill over. "well, wait, then," fred daniels said. "i ought to sign one of _our_ bills for _you_." "ah, no need for that," mr. steariot said. "no doubt you need twenty dollars worse than i need five djinos." "don't be ridiculous," fred said, a little stiffly; and, by now committed, he went into his wallet and came out with a twenty dollar bill. he signed his name to it, using mr. steariot's fountain pen. "wonderful," mr. steariot said. "how nice to have met you both." * * * * * "i feel very badly about this," mr. mason, the hotel manager, said to fred and alice. the three of them were on the porch outside. "this short snorter business always seems to happen whenever i introduce mr. steariot to anyone. dr. phelps at the institute gave him fifty dollars. can you imagine that?" "it's interesting in its way," fred said. "it just occurred to me: mr. steariot can spend earth money here, but we can't spend venus money." "that's true," mr. mason said. "on the other hand, mr. steariot has never once, to my knowledge, been the one to bring up the subject. i think it's quite painful to him, really. but the same thing inevitably occurs to everybody he meets. you know, let's see the color of your money. i guess people are pretty much the same everywhere--that is, everywhere on _earth_. they judge everything in terms of money, including whether you've even been born on earth! 'let's see your money,' they say to mr. steariot, and out he comes with one of those damn five-djino bills, and we're off." "you know," alice daniels said thoughtfully, "in a way it's a lesson. isn't it, fred? i mean, everybody is money conscious. maybe too much so. i'm not sorry it cost us twenty dollars to meet mr. steariot." "you may be right," fred said to her. "you may be right. who knows, some day this five-djino bill may be a very valuable--" "there you go again," alice cut in. "always putting it in terms of money." "but _you're_ the one," fred said, "who thought to ask him about it in the first place." "don't quarrel," mr. mason, the hotel manager, said to them. "after all, for you it's just a vacation. for me, i've got this man sitting in my lounge day in and day out doing crossword puzzles and trading short snorters with my guests. nobody really believes he's from venus--nobody important, anyway. it's a little frightening, when you're trying to run a happy hotel. sometimes i wish he'd go back to wherever he came from." "well," fred said, "he's bound to leave one of these days." "maybe," mr. mason said doubtfully. "offhand, though, i'd say the way he's taking it in, he can't afford to." minnewaska mountain houses 1898 [illustration: the wildmere house] [illustration: the cliff house] lake minnewaska is located on the summit of the shawangunk mountains, ten miles southwest of new paltz, in ulster county, new york. new paltz, a station on the wallkill valley railroad, is eighty-eight miles (about three and one-half hours) distant from new york; nine miles west of poughkeepsie, on the hudson, and fifteen miles southwest of kingston. n.y. this lake, which is fed by springs and is very deep and clear as crystal, is held in a strikingly picturesque, rocky and well-wooded bowl, rising one hundred and fifty feet above the lake on the eastern side and sixty feet on the western, and from either edge the rocks tumble precipitously down to the wallkill and hudson river valleys on the one side, and to the rondout valley on the other. minnewaska is now widely known as a summer resort: _first_. for the remarkably bracing and restoring quality of its atmosphere. it being on the crown of a ridge, dew seldom falls. the drainage of each house is away from the lake and far down the mountain side, and the hills all around are covered with resinous pine forests. _second_. for the remarkably select character of the guests who frequent the place, a large portion of whom return year after year. _third_. for the wonderful and unique combination of the grand and the picturesque in its scenery. awosting falls within a mile of the lake are these picturesque falls, above sixty feet high; and about half a mile lower down, the same stream falls over one hundred feet by a series of pretty cascades. [illustration: awosting falls] [illustration: the wildmere] [illustration: awosting lake] the great crevices about three-quarters of a mile distant are a series of wonderful rents in the mountains over one hundred feet deep, some of the fissures being open to the light and others covered. millbrook mountains one and three-fourths miles from the lake are the millbrook mountains, where the cliffs are in some places perpendicular, and in others over-hanging the rocks five hundred feet below. the views here are remarkably grand and impressive. the palmaghatt still nearer, in a deep glen of the mountain, is the palmaghatt, where is a large forest of massive primeval hemlocks. to all these and many other strange and picturesque places, good walks have been constructed, and a large number of covered seats and summer-houses (about ninety in all) have been built. three drives have been built recently to millbrook mountains, kempton ledge, and beacon hill. awosting lake since last season over two thousand acres adjoining minnewaska have been added to the estate, which now covers above five thousand acres of land. this new tract includes the magnificent awosting lake, having four times the extent of lake minnewaska; also the lofty high point; the bold hamilton ledge, several miles long and several hundred feet in perpendicular height; the picturesque stonykill falls, ninety-five feet high, and much other strange scenery peculiar to the shawangunk mountains. new roads a fine road, three and one-half miles long, has been built from minnewaska to awosting lake, passing through the wild huntington ravine (dark hole). during the spring and summer this road will be extended around the lake four and one-half miles farther. another road has been built through the palmaghatt to the edge of hamilton ledge. all these roads are of very easy grades, being for the most part nearly level, and are specially adapted to the use of the bicycle. [illustration: the ferns] [illustration: undercliff] approaches to minnewaska by west shore railroad to kingston, and by special trains to new paltz. by new york, ontario & western railway from new york to new paltz, via cornwall and campbell hall. by new york central & hudson river railroad or by new york and albany day boats to kingston point, and by rail to new paltz. by new york, lake erie & western railroad to goshen, and by wallkill valley railroad to new paltz. the highland & new paltz electric railroad will make good connections with new york central and west shore trains at poughkeepsie and highland. after the summer time-tables are arranged, schedules of trains, etc., will be sent on application. tickets from new york, brooklyn, and philadelphia will be sold to and from new paltz, and baggage checked through. parties wishing to inspect the rooms in may will be met at the train upon proper notice being given, and when wishing to stay over night, can be comfortably accommodated at one of the houses. [illustration: the wildmere] the cliff house opened in 1879 and enlarged in 1881, will accommodate about two hundred and twenty-five guests. this house is located on the eastern side of the lake on a commanding height, eighteen hundred feet above tide-water, or nearly as high as the catskill mountain house; and from nearly every room in the hotel there are magnificent valley and mountain views, taking in the mountains of new jersey on the south; the highlands of the hudson and newburg bay to the southeast; the housatonic mountains of connecticut to the east; the whole line of the berkshire mountains of massachusetts and the green mountains of vermont to the northeast; the helderberg mountains to the north; the bold outline of the catskills and the shandaken mountains to the northwest: and the neversink and shawangunk hills to the west. the views embrace several river valleys, including the valley of the hudson from cornwall to the mountains about lake george. from the cupola of this house six states can be seen at one view. to accommodate the constantly increasing patronage, a new hotel was opened in 1887 on the western edge of this rocky rim, called the wildmere house this is somewhat larger than the cliff house, and commands very similar views. the wildmere is lighted with gas, the halls are heated by furnaces, while the rooms, both public and private, are mostly provided with open fireplaces for burning the resinous mountain pine that abounds in this region. a large portion of the rooms in both houses are provided with private balconies. [illustration] reading rooms. in each house is a large and well-lighted reading-room, containing all the leading english and american monthly and quarterly periodicals and weekly and daily papers, and also a carefully selected library of books for reading and reference. postal and telegraph offices will be open during the season at the lake. telegrams should be addressed to lake minnewaska, n. y., and letters to minnewaska p. o., ulster county, n. y. a good physician will reside permanently at the lake. the wildmere house opens june 15th and closes october 1st to 10th. the cliff house opens june 29th and closes about september 15th. both minnewaska houses will be kept on a strictly temperance plan. the same arrangements with regard to meats, fruits, cream, etc., that have made the table so satisfactory for the past nineteen years, have been made for the coming season. visitors are not expected to arrive or depart on sunday. no dogs taken. rates of board. _june_: single rooms, $11 to $14; double rooms. $22 to $25. _july and august_: single rooms, $15 to $20; double rooms, $25 to $35. _from september 1st to close of the season:_ single rooms, $14 to $16; double rooms, $25 to $28. day rates: _june_. $2; _july and august_, $3; _after september 1st_, $2.50. liberal arrangements will be made for families coming early. for further information, address alfred h. smiley. proprietor, minnewaska p. o., n. y. [illustration: summer house on lake] boating. boat liveries are operated in connection with both houses. they are provided with the celebrated st. lawrence river skiffs, which can be rented by the week or day, with or without oarsmen, at reasonable rates. eight skiffs have been added to the fleet since last season. owing to the land-locked location of the lake, ladies and children can enjoy the pleasures of boating with perfect safety. bathing. another of the many attractions of the lake is the delightful still-water bathing. the water is soft, becomes warm early in the season, and the bathing is free from enervating effects usually experienced in fresh-water bathing. two new bath-houses, exclusively for ladies, have been constructed, and a bathing-master and life-guard are always present to assist ladies and children. recreation. exercise in the open air is acknowledged by every one to be of the greatest assistance in the recuperation of the nervous system and a grand specific for building up the physical body. every effort has been put forth to stimulate and foster active exercise. walking parties find each year new paths leading through deep forests to quiet recesses of the mountains and points of vantage hitherto unapproachable. sports, etc. the ball ground, tennis courts, bowling alleys and shuffle boards give an ample field for the spirit of contest, while the many delightful walks and drives meet the requirements of those in search of moderate exercise. verderskill falls. a view of this charming cascade is shown on this page. the falls are situated two miles beyond awosting lake. references the management at lake minnewaska has aimed to provide the comforts of a good home at reasonable rates for the refined and moral classes, where they could enjoy the splendid scenery without molestation from the fast and rougher elements of society. that this object has been attained, the proprietor would respectfully refer to the following persons, nearly all of whom have remained at the lake for a considerable period of time--many of them for several years in succession. none of these persons have been consulted as to this use of their names, but any of them, doubtless, if approached at proper times, would be glad to give any information they may possess about the lake. the names are selected to represent a variety of professions and circles of society and are arranged alphabetically. new york. mr. and mrs. lawrence abbott, 13 astor place. rev. dr. and mrs. robt. k. booth, 177 west end ave. prof. and mrs. h. carrington bolton, university club mr. and mrs. win. b. boulton, 13 e. 34th st. dr. d. m. cammann, 19 e. 33d st. mr. and mrs. herman h. cammann, 43 w. 38th st. mr. and mrs. matthew clarkson, 15 w. 45th st. dr. floyd m. crandall, 113 w. 95th st. dr. d. bryson delevan, 1 e. 33d st. mr. and mrs. frank h. dodd, 222 w. 70th st. prof, and mrs. chas. a. doremus, 59 w. 51st st. mr. and mrs. b. greef, 106 spring st. mr. samuel b. haines, 52 e. 78th st. mr. daniel huntington, 49 e. 20th st. miss cornelia jay, 155 w. 58th st. dr. john jay. rev. and mrs. e. h. krans, 33 w. 12th st. mr. and mrs. h. pi. laidlaw, 31 w. 73rd st. mr. and mrs. wallace peck, 22 e. 55th st. mrs. t. m. peters, 264 w. 94th st. mr. and mrs. c. h. pierce, 333 w. 85th st. mr. and mrs. wm. m. spackman, 820 madison ave. ki v. and mrs. l. h. schwab, 101 lawrence st. mr. and mrs. james talcott, 7 w. 57th st. mr. w. vannorden, 16 w. 48th st. dr. and mrs. richard vansantvord, 106 w. 122d st. mr. f. s. wait, 1 e. 39th st. dr. and mrs. jos. e. winters, 25 w. 37th st. [illustration: peterskill falls] brooklyn. rev. dr. and mrs. lyman abbott, columbia heights. rev. and mrs. j. a. billingsley, 446 macon st. mr. and mrs. albert bruen, 256 cumberland st. mr. and mrs. wm. b. crittenden, 66 willow st. mr. and mrs. james w. cromwell, 29 brevoort place. mr. and mrs. t. henry dewey, 95 willow st. mr. a. h. dewitt, 120 willow st. dr. and mrs. z. taylor emory, 481 washington ave. miss m. latimer, 63 remsen st. dr. and mrs. e. a. lewis, 102 pierrepont st. mr. edward merritt, 3 monroe place. mrs. james miller, 21 schermerhorn st. mr. and mrs. m. a. ruland, 292 greene ave. mr. and mrs. chas. f. squibb, 152 columbia heights. mr. and mrs. c. h. tiebout, 112 prospect park, west. mr. and mrs. john j. williams, 401 clinton ave. philadelphia. mr. and mrs. jos. w. baker, chestnut hill. miss h. s. benson, chestnut hill. hon. craig biddle, 2033 pine st. mr. and mrs. james s. biddle, 1714 locust st. mr. and mis. j. c. browne, 907 clinton st. mr. w. h. castle, 4241 walnut st. mr. and mrs. b. b. comegys, 4205 walnut st. mr. and mrs. thos. p. cope, chew st., near walnut. mr. and mrs. robert corson, 11th and pine sts. hon. and mrs. geo. m. dallas, 1514 pine st. rev. and mrs. j. b. douglass, 2213 locust st. mr. and mrs. patterson dubois, 1031 walnut st. mr. and mrs. howard evans, 2033 locust st. mrs. elizabeth h. farnum, 1214 arch st. mr. and mrs. wm. west frazier, 701 s. front st. mr. and mrs. philip garrett, logan p. o. mr. and mrs. f. c. gillingham, 5314 knox st. mr. and mrs. f. ross hansen, 3604 barring st. mr. and mrs. chas. c. harrison, 1618 locust st. mrs. geo. l. harrison, school lane. mr. charles hartshorne, 228 s. third st. mr. and mrs. chas. s. hinchman, 3635 chestnut st. mr. and mrs. chas. b. keen, 4210 walnut st. dr. and mrs. a. f. kempton, 2118 pine st. mr. and mrs. robert m. lewis, 123 s. 22d st. rev. and mrs. w. p. lewis, 1346 pine st. mr. and mrs. alfred mellor, 2130 mt. vernon st. mr. and mrs. wm. h. merrick, school lane, germantown. judge and mrs. clement b. penrose, germantown. mr. and mrs. frederick prime, 1008 spruce st. mr. and mrs. charles richardson, 1307 spruce st. mr. and mrs. edward s. sayres, 1825 spruce st. dr. jos. a. seiss, 1338 spring garden st. mr. and mrs. coleman sellers, 3301 barring st. rev. dr. and mrs. c. ellis stevens, 2217 spruce st. mrs. wm. bacon stevens, 1914 s. rittenhouse sq. hon. and mrs. m. russell thayer, 1824 pine st. mr. chas. w. trotter, 2024 spruce st. mr. and mrs. john g. watmough, 2114 walnut st. mr. and mrs. jos. m. wilson, 1106 spruce st. mr. and mrs. c. cresson wistar, 5355 knox st. mr. and mrs. thomas wood. 2038 spring garden st. mr. and mrs. ernest zanzinger, 1736 pine st. [illustration: cliff house looking south] miscellaneous. mr. and mrs. w. h. ackerman, chicago, 111. dr. and mrs. francis bacon, new haven, conn. rev. dr. and mrs. benjamin, irvington-on-hudson. rev. and mrs. alfred b. baker, princeton, n. j. mr. and mrs. thos. p. barn field, pan-tucket, r. i. gen. and mrs. john s. berry, baltimore, md. mr. j. r. campbell, oil city, pa. mr. and mrs. g. s. capelle, wilmington, del. mrs. i. w. cochran, morristown, n. j. prof, and mrs. geo. e. day, divinity school, new haven, conn. mr. and mrs. james w. degraff, plainfield, n. j. mr. and mrs. wm. h. doane, auburn ave., cincinnati, o. mr. and mrs. charles eddison, irvington-on-hudson. mr. and mrs. joseph p. elliot, baltimore, md. prof. geo. p. fisher, new haven, conn. dr. and mrs. h. b. frissell, hampton, va. mr. and mrs. theodore gilman, palisade avenue. yonkers, n. y. mr. and mrs. chas. c. glover, 20 lafayette square, washington, d. c. judge and mrs. a. b. hagner, washington, d. c. rev. teunis f. hamlin, 1306 connecticut avenue, washington, d. c. mr. and mrs. benjamin hicks, old westbury, l. i. mr. and mrs. e. c. higbee, cleveland, o. mr. and mrs. a. d. holman, tenerly, n. j. mr. and mrs. h. t. hull, morristown, n. j. prof, and mrs. t. w. hunt, princeton, n. j. mrs. george inness, montclair, n. j. rev. and mrs. d. o. irving, east orange, n. j. mr. and mrs. geo. e. ketchum, 135 locust hill ave., yonkers, n. y. mr. and mrs. a. w. kilborne, orange, n. j. rev. and mrs. j. p. e. kumler, 413 s. highland ave., pittsburg, pa. mr. and mrs. c. h. langdon, elizabeth, n. j. miss grace denio litchfield, washington, d. c. rev. and mrs. james m. ludlow, east orange, n. j. mr. and mrs. wm. d. murray, plainfield, n. j. mrs. henry j. owen, 10 mercer st., princeton, n. j. mr. and mrs. a. s. patterson, plainfield, n. j. prof, and mrs. frank c. porter, new haven, conn. mr. and mrs. w. b. price, newark, n. j. hon. and mrs. f. o. prince, 311 beacon st., boston. rev. geo. t. purves, princeton, n. j. pres. and mrs. g. w. smith, trinity college, hartford, conn. mrs. c. e. stockley, euclid place, cleveland, o. mrs. n. h. swayne, toledo, o. mr. and mrs. w. e. tillinghast, englewood, n. j. mr. and mrs. j. evarts tracy. plainfield, n. j. rev. dr. and mrs. a. g. vermilye, englewood, n. j. mr. and mrs. charles dudley warner, hartford, conn. gen. and mrs. j. h. watmouth, washington, d. c. prof, and mrs. j. f. weir, new haven, conn. mrs. j. willock, allegheny, pa. mr. and mrs. geo. p. wilson, 4 first st., albany. mrs. c. p. wurts, new haven, conn. mr. and mrs. ellis yarnall, haverford college, pa. [illustration: the wildmere cliff summer houses] [illustration: the cliffs from wildmere] [illustration: lake shore walk] [illustration] hagerty's enzymes by a. l. haley _there's a place for every man and a man for every place, but on robot-harried mars the situation was just a little different._ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from planet stories spring 1955. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] harper breen sank down gingerly into the new relaxo-lounge. he placed twitching hands on the arm-rests and laid his head back stiffly. he closed his fluttering eyelids and clamped his mouth to keep the corner from jumping. "just lie back, harp," droned his sister soothingly. "just give in and let go of everything." harper tried to let go of everything. he gave in to the chair. and gently the chair went to work. it rocked rhythmically, it vibrated tenderly. with velvety cushions it massaged his back and arms and legs. for all of five minutes harper stood it. then with a frenzied lunge he escaped the embrace of the relaxo-lounge and fled to a gloriously stationary sofa. "harp!" his sister, bella, was ready to weep with exasperation. "dr. franz said it would be just the thing for you! why won't you give it a trial?" harper glared at the preposterous chair. "franz!" he snarled. "that prize fathead! i've paid him a fortune in fees. i haven't slept for weeks. i can't eat anything but soup. my nerves are jangling like a four-alarm fire. and what does he prescribe? a blasted jiggling baby carriage! why, i ought to send him the bill for it!" completely outraged, he lay back on the couch and closed his eyes. "now, harp, you know you've never obeyed his orders. he told you last year that you'd have to ease up. why do you have to try to run the whole world? it's the strain of all your business worries that's causing your trouble. he told you to take a long vacation or you'd crack up. don't blame him for your own stubbornness." harper snorted. his large nose developed the sound magnificently. "vacation!" he snorted. "batting a silly ball around or dragging a hook after a stupid fish! fine activities for an intelligent middle-aged man! and let me correct you. it isn't business worries that are driving me to a crack-up. it's the strain of trying to get some sensible, reasonable coöperation from the nincompoops i have to hire! it's the idiocy of the human race that's got me whipped! it's the--" "hey, harp, old man!" his brother-in-law, turning the pages of the new colorama magazine, interplanetary, had paused at a double-spread. "didn't you have a finger in those martian equatorial wells they sunk twenty years ago?" harper's hands twitched violently. "don't mention that fiasco!" he rasped. "that deal nearly cost me my shirt! water, hell! those wells spewed up the craziest conglomeration of liquids ever tapped!" * * * * * scribney, whose large, phlegmatic person and calm professorial brain were the complete antithesis of harper's picked-crow physique and scheming financier's wits, looked severely over his glasses. harp's nervous tribulations were beginning to bore him, as well as interfere with the harmony of his home. "you're away behind the times, harp," he declared. "don't you know that those have proved to be the most astoundingly curative springs ever discovered anywhere? don't you know that a syndicate has built the largest extra-terrestial hotel of the solar system there and that people are flocking to it to get cured of whatever ails 'em? old man, you missed a bet!" leaping from the sofa, harper rudely snatched the magazine from scribney's hands. he glared at the spread which depicted a star-shaped structure of bottle-green glass resting jewel-like on the rufous rock of mars. the main portion of the building consisted of a circular skyscraper with a glass-domed roof. between its star-shaped annexes, other domes covered landscaped gardens and noxious pools which in the drawing looked lovely and enticing. "why, i remember now!" exclaimed bella. "that's where the durants went two years ago! he was about dead and she looked like a hag. they came back in wonderful shape. don't you remember, scrib?" dutifully scribney remembered and commented on the change the martian springs had effected in the durants. "it's the very thing for you, harp," he advised. "you'd get a good rest on the way out. this gas they use in the rockets nowadays is as good as a rest-cure; it sort of floats you along the time-track in a pleasant daze, they tell me. and you can finish the cure at the hotel while looking it over. and not only that." confidentially he leaned toward his insignificant looking brother-in-law. "the chemists over at dade mccann have just isolated an enzyme from one species of martian fungus that breaks down crude oil into its components without the need for chemical processing. there's a fortune waiting for the man who corners that fungus market and learns to process the stuff!" scribney had gauged his victim's mental processes accurately. the magazine sagged in harp's hands, and his sharp eyes became shrewd and calculating. he even forgot to twitch. "maybe you're right, scrib," he acknowledged. "combine a rest-cure with business, eh?" raising the magazine, he began reading the advertisement. and that was when he saw the line about the robots. "--the only hotel staffed entirely with robot servants--" "robots!" he shrilled. "you mean they've developed the things to that point? why hasn't somebody told me? i'll have jackson's hide! i'll disfranchise him! i'll--" "harp!" exploded bella. "stop it! maybe jackson doesn't know a thing about it, whatever it is! if it's something at the emerald star hotel, why don't you just go and find out for yourself instead of throwing a tantrum? that's the only sensible way!" "you're right, bella," agreed harper incisively. "i'll go and find out for myself. immediately!" scooping up his hat, he left at his usual lope. "well!" remarked his sister. "all i can say is that they'd better turn that happy-gas on extra strong for harp's trip out!" * * * * * the trip out did harper a world of good. under the influence of the soporific gas that permeated the rocket, he really relaxed for the first time in years, sinking with the other passengers into a hazy lethargy with little sense of passing time and almost no memory of the interval. it seemed hardly more than a handful of hours until they were strapping themselves into deceleration hammocks for the landing. and then harper was waking with lassitude still heavy in his veins. he struggled out of the hammock, made his way to the airlock, and found himself whisked by pneumatic tube directly into the lobby of the emerald star hotel. appreciatively he gazed around at the half-acre of moss-gray carpeting, green-tinted by the light sifting through the walls of martian copper-glass, and at the vistas of beautiful domed gardens framed by a dozen arches. but most of all, the robots won his delighted approval. he could see at once that they had been developed to an amazingly high state of perfection. how, he wondered again, had this been done without his knowledge? was scrib right? was he slipping? gnawing at the doubt, he watched the robots moving efficiently about, pushing patients in wheelchairs, carrying trays, guiding newcomers, performing janitorial duties tirelessly, promptly, and best of all, silently. harper was enthralled. he'd staff his offices with them. hang the expense! there'd be no more of that obnoxious personal friction and proneness to error that was always deviling the most carefully trained office staffs! he'd investigate and find out the exact potentialities of these robots while here, and then go home and introduce them into the field of business. he'd show them whether he was slipping! briskly he went over to the desk. he was immediately confronted with a sample of that human obstinacy that was slowly driving him mad. machines, he sighed to himself. wonderful silent machines! for a woman was arguing stridently with the desk clerk who, poor man, was a high strung fellow human instead of a robot. harper watched him shrinking and turning pale lavender in the stress of the argument. "a nurse!" shouted the woman. "i want a nurse! a real woman! for what you charge, you should be able to give me a television star if i want one! i won't have another of those damnable robots in my room, do you hear?" no one within the confines of the huge lobby could have helped hearing. the clerk flinched visibly. "now, mrs. jacobsen," he soothed. "you know the hotel is staffed entirely with robots. they're much more expensive, really, than human employees, but so much more efficient, you know. admit it, they give excellent service, don't they, now?" toothily he smiled at the enraged woman. "that's just it!" mrs. jacobsen glared. "the service is _too_ good. i might just as well have a set of push buttons in the room. i want someone to _hear_ what i say! i want to be able to change my mind once in awhile!" harper snorted. "wants someone she can devil," he diagnosed. "someone she can get a kick out of ordering around." with vast contempt he stepped to the desk beside her and peremptorily rapped for the clerk. "one moment, sir," begged that harassed individual. "just one moment, please." he turned back to the woman. but she had turned her glare on harper. "you could at least be civil enough to wait your turn!" harper smirked. "my good woman, i'm not a robot. robots, of course, are always civil. but you should know by now that civility isn't a normal human trait." leaving her temporarily quashed, he beckoned authoritatively to the clerk. "i've just arrived and want to get settled. i'm here merely for a rest-cure, no treatments. you can assign my quarters before continuing your--ah--discussion with the lady." the clerk sputtered. mrs. jacobsen sputtered. but not for nothing was harper one of the leading business executives of the earth. harper's implacable stare won his point. wiping beads of moisture from his forehead, the clerk fumbled for a card, typed it out, and was about to deposit it in the punch box when a fist hit the desk a resounding blow and another voice, male, roared out at harper's elbow. "this is a helluva joint!" roared the voice. "man could rot away to the knees while he's waitin' for accommodations. service!" again his fist banged the counter. the clerk jumped. he dropped harper's card and had to stoop for it. absently holding it, he straightened up to face mrs. jacobsen and the irate newcomer. hastily he pushed a tagged key at harper. "here you are, mr. breen. i'm sure you'll find it comfortable." with a pallid smile he pressed a button and consigned harper to the care of a silent and efficient robot. * * * * * the room was more than comfortable. it was beautiful. its bank of clear windows set in the green glass wall framed startling rubicund views of the martian hinterland where, harper affectionately thought, fungi were busy producing enzymes that were going to be worth millions for him and his associates. there remained only the small detail of discovering how to extract them economically and to process them on this more than arid and almost airless planet. details for his bright young laboratory men; mere details.... leaving his luggage to be unpacked by the robot attendant, he went up to the domed roof restaurant. lunching boldly on broiled halibut with consomme, salad and a bland custard, he stared out at the dark blue sky of mars, with deimos hanging in the east in three-quarter phase while phobos raced up from the west like a meteor behind schedule. leaning back in his cushioned chair, he even more boldly lit a slim cigar--his first in months--and inhaled happily. for once old scribney had certainly been right, he reflected. yes sir, scrib had rung the bell, and he wasn't the man to forget it. with a wonderful sense of well-being he returned to his room and prepared to relax. harper opened his eyes. two robots were bending over him. he saw that they were dressed in white, like hospital attendants. but he had no further opportunity to examine them. with brisk, well-co-ordinated movements they wheeled a stretcher along-side his couch, stuck a hypo into his arm, bundled him onto the stretcher and started wheeling him out. harper's tongue finally functioned. "what's all this?" he demanded. "there's nothing wrong with me. let me go!" he struggled to rise, but a metal hand pushed him firmly on the chest. inexorably it pushed him flat. "you've got the wrong room!" yelled harp. "let me go!" but the hypo began to take effect. his yells became weaker and drowsier. hazily, as he drifted off, he thought of mrs. jacobsen. maybe she had something, at that. * * * * * there was a tentative knock on the door. "come in," called harper bleakly. as soon as the door opened he regretted his invitation, for the opening framed the large untidy man who had noisily pounded on the desk demanding service while he, harp, was being registered. "say, pardner," he said hoarsely, "you haven't seen any of them robots around here, have you?" harper scowled. "oh, haven't i?" he grated. "robots! do you know what they did to me." indignation lit fires in his pale eyes. "came in here while i was lying down peacefully digesting the first meal i've enjoyed in months, dragged me off to the surgery, and pumped it all out! the only meal i've enjoyed in months!" blackly he sank his chin onto his fist and contemplated the outrage. "why didn't you stop 'em?" reasonably asked the visitor. "stop a robot?" harper glared pityingly. "how? you can't reason with the blasted things. and as for using force--it's man against metal. you try it!" he ground his teeth together in futile rage. "and to think i had the insane notion that robots were the last word! why, i was ready to staff my offices with the things!" the big man placed his large hands on his own capacious stomach and groaned. "i'm sure sorry it was you and not me, pardner. i could use some of that treatment right now. musta been that steak and onions i ate after all that tundra dope i've been livin' on." "tundra?" a faint spark of alertness lightened harper's dull rage. "you mean you work out here on the tundra?" "that's right. how'd you think i got in such a helluva shape? i'm superintendent of one of the fungus plants. i'm jake ellis of hagerty's enzymes. there's good money in it, but man, what a job! no air worth mentionin'. temperature always freezin' or below. pressure suits. huts. factory. processed food. nothin' else. just nothin'. that's where they could use some robots. it sure ain't no job for a real live man. and in fact, there ain't many men left there. if old man hagerty only knew it, he's about out of business." harper sat up as if he'd been needled. he opened his mouth to speak. but just then the door opened briskly and two robots entered. with a horrified stare, harper clutched his maltreated stomach. he saw a third robot enter, wheeling a chair. "a wheel chair!" squeaked the victim. "i tell you, there's nothing wrong with me! take it away! i'm only here for a rest-cure! believe me! take it away!" the robots ignored him. for the first time in his spectacular and ruthless career harper was up against creatures that he could neither bribe, persuade nor browbeat, inveigle nor ignore. it shattered his ebbing self-confidence. he began waving his hands helplessly. the robots not only ignored harper. they paid no attention at all to jake ellis, who was plucking at their metallic arms pleading, "take me, boys. i need the treatment bad, whatever it is. i need all the treatment i can get. take me! i'm just a wreck, fellers--" stolidly they picked harper up, plunked him into the chair, strapped him down and marched out with him. dejectedly ellis returned to his own room. again he lifted the receiver of the room phone; but as usual a robot voice answered sweetly, mechanically, and meaninglessly. he hung up and went miserably to bed. * * * * * there was something nagging at harper's mind. something he should do. something that concerned robots. but he was too exhausted to think it out. for five days now his pet robots had put him through an ordeal that made him flinch every time he thought about it. which wasn't often, since he was almost past thinking. they plunked him into stinking mud-baths and held him there until he was well-done to the bone, he was sure. they soaked him in foul, steaming irradiated waters until he gagged. they brought him weird concoctions to eat and drink and then stood over him until he consumed them. they purged and massaged and exercised him. whenever they let him alone, he simply collapsed into bed and slept. there was nothing else to do anyway. they'd taken his clothes; and the phone, after an announcement that he would have no more service for two weeks, gave him nothing but a busy signal. "persecution, that's what it is!" he moaned desperately. and he turned his back to the mirror, which showed him that he was beginning to look flesh-colored instead of the parchment yellow to which he had become accustomed. he closed his mind to the fact that he was sleeping for hours on end like the proverbial baby, and that he was getting such an appetite that he could almost relish even that detestable mush they sent him for breakfast. he was determined to be furious. as soon as he could wake up enough to be. he hadn't been awake long this time before jake ellis was there again, still moaning about his lack of treatments. "nothin' yet," he gloomily informed harp. "they haven't been near me. i just can't understand it. after i signed up for the works and paid 'em in advance! and i can't find any way out of this section. the other two rooms are empty and the elevator hasn't got any button. the robots just have to come and get a man or he's stuck." "stuck!" snarled harp. "i'm never stuck! and i'm damned if i'll wait any longer to break out of this--this jail! listen, jake. i've been thinking. or trying to, with what's left of me. you came in just when that assinine clerk was registering me. i'll bet that clerk got rattled and gave me the wrong key. i'll bet you're supposed to have this room and i'm getting your treatments. why don't we switch rooms and see what happens?" "say, maybe you're right!" jake's eyes gleamed at last with hope. "i'll get my clothes." harp's eyebrows rose. "you mean they left you your clothes?" "why, sure. you mean they took yours?" harp nodded. an idea began to formulate. "leave your things, will you? i'm desperate! i'm going to see the manager of this madhouse if i have to go down dressed in a sheet. your clothes would be better than that." jake, looking over harper's skimpy frame, grunted doubtfully. "maybe you could tie 'em on so they wouldn't slip. and roll up the cuffs. it's okay with me, but just don't lose something when you're down there in that fancy lobby." harper looked at his watch. "time to go. relax, old man. the robots will be along any minute now. if you're the only man in the room, i'm sure they'll take you. they aren't equipped to figure it out. and don't worry about me. i'll anchor your duds all right." harper had guessed right. gleefully from the doorway of his new room he watched the robots wheel away his equally delighted neighbor for his first treatment. then he closed the door and began to don jake's clothing. the result was unique. he looked like a small boy in his father's clothes, except for the remarkably aged and gnome-like head sticking up on a skinny neck from a collar three sizes too big. and he was shoeless. he was completely unable to navigate in jake's number twelves. but harper was a determined man. he didn't even flinch from his image in the mirror. firmly he stepped over to jake's telephone. "this is room 618," he said authoritatively. "send up the elevator for me. i want to go down to the lobby." he'd guessed right again. "it will be right up, sir," responded the robot operator. hopefully he stepped out into the hall and shuffled to the elevator. * * * * * only the robots were immune to harper breen's progress across the huge suave lobby. he was a blot on its rich beauty, a grotesque enigma that rooted the other visitors into paralyzed staring groups. stepping out of the elevator, he had laid a course for the desk which loomed like an island in a moss-gray lake, and now he strode manfully toward it, ignoring the oversize trousers slapping around his stocking feet. only the robots shared his self control. the clerk was the first to recover from the collective stupor. frantically he pushed the button that would summon the robot guard. with a gasp of relief he saw the two massive manlike machines moving inexorably forward. he pointed to harper. "get that patient!" he ordered. "take him to the--to the mud-baths!" "no you don't!" yelled harper. "i want to see the manager!" nimbly he circled the guard and leaped behind the desk. he began to throw things at the robots. things like inkwells and typewriters and card indexes. especially, card indexes. "stop it!" begged the clerk. "you'll wreck the system! we'll never get it straight again! stop it!" "call them off!" snarled harper. "call them off or i'll ruin your switchboard!" he put a shoulder against it and prepared to heave. with one last appalled glare at the madman, the clerk picked up an electric finger and pointed it at the approaching robots. they became oddly inanimate. "that's better!" harper straightened up and meticulously smoothed the collar of his flapping coat. "now--the manager, please." "this--this way, sir." with shrinking steps the clerk led harper across the width of the lobby among the fascinated guests. he was beyond speech. opening the inconspicuous door, he waved harper inside and returned doggedly to his desk, where he began to pick up things and at the same time phrase his resignation in his mind. brushing aside the startled secretary in the outer cubicle, harper flapped and shuffled straight into the inner sanctum. the manager, who was busy chewing a cigar to shreds behind his fortress of gun metal desk, jerked hastily upright and glared at the intruder. "my good man--" he began. "don't 'my-good-man' me!" snapped harper. he glared back at the manager. reaching as far across the expanse of desktop as he could stretch, he shook his puny fist. "do you know who i am? i'm harper s. breen, of breen and helgart, incorporated! and do you know why i haven't even a card to prove it? do you know why i have to make my way downstairs in garb that makes a laughing stock of me? do you know why? because that assinine clerk of yours put me in the wrong room and those damnable robots of yours then proceeded to make a prisoner of me! me, harper s. breen! why, i'll sue you until you'll be lucky if you have a sheet of writing-paper left in this idiot's retreat!" hayes, the manager, blanched. then he began to mottle in an apoplectic pattern. and suddenly with a gusty sigh, he collapsed into his chair. with a shaking hand he mopped his forehead. "_my_ robots!" he muttered. "as if i invented the damned things!" despondently he looked at harper. "go ahead and sue, mr. breen. if you don't, somebody else will. and if nobody sues, we'll go broke anyway, at the rate our guest list is declining. i'm ready to hand in my resignation." again he sighed. "the trouble," he explained, "is that those fool robots are completely logical, and people aren't. there's no way to mix the two. it's dynamite. maybe people can gradually learn to live with robots, but they haven't yet. only we had to find it out the hard way. we--" he grimaced disgustedly--"had to pioneer in the use of robots. and it cost us so much that we can't afford to reconvert to human help. so--operation robot is about to bankrupt the syndicate." listening, an amazing calm settled on harper. thoughtfully now he hooked a chair to the desk with his stockinged foot, sat down and reached for the cigar that hayes automatically offered him. "oh, i don't know," he said mildly. hayes leaned forward like a drowning man sighting a liferaft. "what do you mean, you don't know? you're threatening to take our shirts, aren't you?" meticulously harper clipped and lit his cigar. "it seems to me that these robots might be useful in quite another capacity. i might even make a deal with your syndicate to take them off your hands--at a reasonable price, of course--and forget the outrages i've suffered at your establishment." hayes leaned toward him incredulous. "you mean you want these robots after what you've seen and experienced?" placidly harper puffed a smoke ring. "of course, you'd have to take into consideration that it would be an experiment for me, too. and there's the suit i'm clearly justified in instituting. however, i'm willing to discuss the matter with your superiors." with hope burgeoning for the first time in weeks, hayes lifted his head. "my dear mr. breen, to get rid of these pestiferous robots, i'll back you to the hilt! i'll notify the owners at once. at once, mr. breen! and while we wait for them, allow me to put you up as a guest of the hotel." coming around to harper, he effusively shook harp's scrawny hand, and then personally escorted him not merely to the door but across the lobby to the elevator. harper gazed out at the stunned audience. this was more like the treatment he was accustomed to! haughtily he squared his bony shoulders inside the immense jacket and stepped into the elevator. he was ready for the second step of his private operation robot. * * * * * back on earth it was a warm, misty spring day--the kind of day unknown to the planet mars. bella and scribney, superb in new spring outfits, waited restlessly while the rocket cooled and the passengers recovered from deceleration. "look, scrib!" bella clutched scribney's substantial arm. "it's finally opening." they watched the airlock open and the platform wheel into place. they watched the passengers descend, looking a trifle dazed. "there he is!" cried bella. "why, doesn't he look wonderful! scrib, it's amazing! look at him! and indeed, harper was stepping briskly downward, looking spry and fit and years younger. he came across to them actually beaming. it was the first pleasant expression they had seen on his face in years. "well, you old dog!" exclaimed scribney affectionately. "so you did it again!" harper smirked. "yep, i turned a neat little deal. i bought out hagerty's enzymes and staffed the plant with the hotel's robots. got both of 'em dirt cheap. both concerns going bankrupt because they didn't have sense enough to swap their workers. feel i owe you a bit for that tip about enzymes, scrib, so i made out a block of stock to you. all right?" "all right?" scribney gulped. why, the dried-up little turnip was human after all. "all right! yes, sir! but aren't you going to use some of those robots for office help? aren't they efficient and all that?" harper's smile vanished. "don't even mention such a thing!" he yelped. "you don't know what you're saying! i lived with those things for weeks. i wouldn't have one around! keep 'em in the factory where they belong!" he glimpsed the composed, wonderfully human face of his secretary, waiting patiently in the background. "oh there you are, smythe." he turned to his relatives. "busy day ahead. see you later, folks--" "same old harp," observed scribney. then he thought of the block of stock. "what say we celebrate our rise to a position in the syndicate, honey?" "wonderful!" she squeezed his arm, and smiling at each other, they left the port. forsyte's retreat by winston marks illustration by kelly freas [transcriber note: this etext was produced from if worlds of science fiction may 1954. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] [sidenote: _sextus rollo forsyte had his trouble with the bottle, but nothing out of a bottle ever produced such a hotel as the mahoney-plaza: only 260 rooms ... only two guests to a room ... but accommodating 5200 guests--all at the same time!... floor please?_] at last he was second in line. he squared his shoulders and pulled at the lower edges of his black double-breasted suitcoat to erase the travel wrinkles. the applicant ahead of him exploded the words, "nuts! i'll leave town first. i just _came_ from the phony-plaza. you can take that squirrel-cage and--" "next!" the employment agent called sadly. sextus rollo forsyte moved up and sat in the oak chair before the oak desk and faced the oak-featured man with the jobs. "forsyte is the name," sextus reminded. the man riffled through the application cards. "yes. indeed. lucky you came back. i have a fine position for you, mr. forsyte. right in your line." he held out a blue slip. "the general manager's position is open at the mahoney-plaza. six hundred a month, board and room. now if you will...." sextus staggered from the employment office stunned. he could handle the job, all right. as he'd said on the application form, in his forty years he had managed half a dozen large hotels. but they were handing him this plum without comment on his failure to fill in the spaces marked: complete references (names and addresses). he shrugged. they did a lot of things different in california. the most he had hoped for was a waiter's job or maybe a short order cook in a fry joint. but if they wanted to ignore the hotel associations' black list, he wouldn't argue. sextus forsyte craved anonymity with the passion that most men seek fame and glory. beneath his suave, mature exterior beat the shrinking heart of a perennial hermit whose delight was an adventure book and a bottle of whiskey. his recent employer had not objected to his fondness for reading nor solitude, but his appetite for liquor had revealed itself in a series of unfortunate crises which plague the life of any hotel executive. yes, sextus forsyte had sought his solitude in that remotest of all places, the large city hotel. his career of smiling at strange faces, welcoming famous people and snapping crisp commands to assistant managers had provided the near-perfect isolation from normal society. to the transient eye he was the poised, gregarious greeter. actually he lived in a deep well of introversion. of course, this was no affair of the succession of boards of directors who had uttered the harsh charges of "dipsomania" and fired him. but then boards of directors are never notable for their sympathy or understanding. and finally word got around the eastern seaboard about sextus. "a competent man, yes. drinks on the job. wouldn't have him as a busboy." worse than the mere prospect of unemployment was the notoriety. coldly sober, sextus had fled panic-stricken to the west coast, vaguely determined to become a beach-comber or an oyster-fisherman or whatever they did out there. he stared now at the blue slip and turned in to a florist shop. he broke his last five-dollar bill to buy a pink carnation for his buttonhole then headed down the sunny walk to the hotel. it was a fine december morning in the little beach town, such as only florida and california can advertise. he breathed the salt air and turned an appreciative ear to the gentle wash of the pacific surf. he felt so good he might even take a little breakfast before his first drink of whiskey of the day. * * * * * at the bus depot he traded his baggage checks for two old, but fine leather, two-suiters. then he taxied the remaining two blocks to the mahoney-plaza. he paused at the entrance, stepped from under the marquis and looked up mystified. the frontage indicated a rather small hostelry to pay such munificent salary to its general manager. only five stories high, it was squeezed in by low office buildings on either side like an ancient, narrow-chested old man. he handed his bags to a bell-hop and stepped into a spacious lobby. it was decorated with fine furniture, thick carpets and throngs of expensively undressed people. the boy put his bags down before a remarkably long room-desk manned by three white-suited clerks, but sextus touched his arm. "just take them up to the manager's suite, please." the boy eyed him from carnation to dusty shoes. "right off a park bench. it figures, though." he got a key from the desk clerk, picked up the bags again and they started for the elevator alcove. sextus' practiced eye vacuumed details from the lobby, the well-swept carpets, freshly emptied sand-jars and the modern elevators. the place seemed well-ordered and enjoying convention-magnitude business. he started into the first elevator, but the operator warned, "to wing 'a' only!" with such a question in his voice that sextus looked back for his bellman. that person, a sandy-haired stripling of some five-feet-four, was trying to wave him on with his head. "not that one," he said impatiently. "over here. wing 'h'." then sextus noticed there were five elevators on either side of the alcove. each was plainly marked with a letter, running from "a" through "j". this was a new wrinkle. elevators were a mode of strictly vertical transportation, meaning, as a safe generality, that they travelled in parallel routes. why, then, differentiate for separate wings when they were all grouped together in the first place? and, incidentally, why _ten_ elevators for a 200 or so room hotel, anyway? they rode to the fourth floor in one-level leaps, stopping to unload several guests on each floor. the upper floor hall was of modest length, running fore and aft of the long, narrow building, as he had first sized it up. where were all the _wings_--the wings with the separate elevators? the boy let him into the light, airy apartment, dropped his bags in the middle of the floor and started out abruptly. sextus called him back. "yeah, what'll it be--chief?" his voice was derisive. "how many rooms do we have here, fellow?" "twenny-six hunnerd and all full for the season, so if you'll just leggo of me--" "don't you enjoy your work here?" "i detest it. go ahead, fire me, chum. i'm lookin' for an excuse to clear out." "very well, you have one. check out with the captain." sextus couldn't tolerate discourteous familiarity. friendly familiarity was bad enough, but the "chum" did it. the boy banged the door behind him. sextus opened his bag. from it he extracted a fifth of whiskey which he took to the tiled bathroom. he stripped the cellophane from a drinking glass, poured it half-full of the amber liquor and drained it. he was in the shower when the phone rang. he dripped to the night stand with the patience of one who has soaked many a rug and discovered that they don't stain. "forsyte here!" he answered. "the new manager? well, this is jackson, bell-captain. whadda you mean canning jerry? i'm down to twelve skippers and you start out by firing one of my fastest boys!" "the boy was sarcastic and insolent. take it up with the service manager. anyway, how many bellmen do you need to run this cracker-box? twelve is about eight too many." there was a brief silence, then: "in the first place _i am_ your service manager, or all you got at the present. in the second damned place, you tell me where i can lay my hands on ten more boys before you go canning any more. i'm rehiring jerry as of now!" he banged the receiver in sextus' ear. unperturbed, sextus finished his shower, dressed in a lighter weight suit and picked up the phone. the house switchboard apparently was jammed. it took a full minute to get an operator. "forsyte here. your new manager, that is. instruct all department heads to be in my office in seven minutes. general conference." * * * * * another short nip at the bottle served nicely to quiet a small hunger pang. he went in search of his office. he found it on the mezzanine, suitably lavish, clean and well-furnished. he adjusted the fragrant carnation on his lapel in the large wall mirror, not entirely displeased with what it reflected. except for the suitcase wrinkles in his morning coat, he should pass inspection. his thinning hair, square jaw and wide-set eyes radiated a quiet dignity. the slight pink of his cheeks and nose was a bit more prominent than he liked. he should have had some breakfast. the phone rang and he let it. he was not yet ready to assume his duties. but as time passed and none of his staff appeared, the ring became more significant. he gave in. "forsyte here!" "sorry, mr. forsyte," it was the operator, "but none of your staff can join you just now. they send their regrets." "regrets?" sextus said icily. "did you explain who called this meeting, young lady?" her voice dropped the synthetic sweetness and became a throaty rasp. "look, buster, we're short-handed enough without you should call meetings at eleven a. m. plug the hole in your head. it's suckin' air." he broke the connection. the place was busy, he'd grant, but this was rank insubordination. his whole staff! everyone seemed keyed to the _boingg!_ point. he decided to mull it over breakfast. the spacious, well-appointed coffee-shop served his juice gelid and his coffee hot, his egg tender and his toast crisp. the bit of tension vanished as he ate with relish. he signed the check with his tight, little introverted signature. now for a quick inspection tour to see just how rough things really were. he told the boy on the service elevator, "to the bottom." his stomach writhed as the cage plummeted four floors below the street level. the kitchens, laundry, warehouse, baggage-room, switchboard room, ice-plant and personnel spaces sprawled through an acre of underground levels. they boiled with sweating men and dishevelled women engaged in the intricate business of housing, feeding, clothing, liquoring and catering to a small city under one roof. then he remembered how small the quarters were upstairs. how could they _house_ enough guests to justify all this? returning to his office he called the employment bureau. "mr. crowson? forsyte here! i'm at the hotel." "oh dear, what's wrong now?" "you didn't tell me to whom i should report. this, ah, is my first experience with employment agencies. usually there is a board of directors." "is that all?" crowson sighed audibly. "you are in full charge, i assure you. our little interview was quite satisfactory. i have certified you to your bookkeeping department, and you may draw upon your salary after a week. anything else?" "where may i reach the owner or the chairman in an emergency?" "the owner is a dr. bradford who is in hanford, washington. top secret government work. he may not be contacted until he returns. sorry, that's all i can tell you. getting on all right, mr. forsyte?" he asked with obvious reluctance. sextus cut off. two lights on the intercom were blinking at him. one call was from the kitchen. the first chef had just heaved a cleaver at the steward, and the head salad girl was in hysterics. sextus said he'd be right down. the second call was from the chief house-detective. he had caught a bell-hop peddling marijuana to the waitresses. what was the manager's new policy? sextus told him to hold the boy in the locker room for him. then one of the room clerks rang to say that gary gable, the movie star, was raising hell in the lobby because he couldn't get the bridal suite and demanded to see the manager. sextus smiled. these things were the routine of running a large hotel. he stopped at the bar for a quick one and then started for the kitchen. * * * * * the day passed pleasantly enough, and he looked forward to retiring to his quiet rooms upstairs. he thought to get some intelligent answers from his assistant manager when he walked in promptly at five p. m., but he turned out to be a university student from southern cal, working days on his master's degree in business administration and nights at the hotel. no wonder he hadn't been promoted. not that he wasn't bright--just not experienced. sextus formally offered his hand and introduced himself. the lad said, "i'm horace smith the phone is ringing excuse me." he snatched the phone with a harried look. somehow the phone never stopped ringing. sextus gave up and retired to dress for dinner. he finished his fifth of whiskey and descended to the hotel's swank oceania room, where he made himself known to the maitre d'hotel. that frenzied little moustachioed person sniffed sextus' breath and seated him behind a potted palm. discreetly avoiding the wine list, sextus dined well, noting several movie stars and other vip's in the crowded dining room. he couldn't escape the illusion that he was dining at the ambassador or the waldorf astoria--instead of in a five-story rat-trap. where did they all come from? as he awaited the elevator, he was approached by the bell-captain. "mr. forsyte?" sextus nodded stiffly. "here's an envelope mr. patterson left for you. he was the last g. m. incidentally, sorry i was a little rough on the phone, but you can see our situation here. understaffed and overcrowded. it gets thick, real thick, brother." sextus felt his belly muscles tighten. "confusion is never improved by discourtesy or insubordination," he said coldly. at that moment a bellman rushed up to the rebuffed captain who was regarding sextus with a restrained loathing. "the guy in c332 keeps screaming for his beer, but the service elevator to 'c' vector keeps dumping me off in 'f'." the captain said, "try riding to fourth on 'c' and then walk down a deck and come out through the linen room." "can't i just ride up the guest elevator, jack?" the captain stared at sextus. "our mr. forsyte wouldn't approve. now, move!" he turned to sextus and said acidly, "just one of our little extra problems." he moved off with a disgusted shake of his carefully barbered head. the nature of the bell-captain's special problem sounded interesting, but the details confused sextus. _ride to four on "c", walk down to three and out by the linen closet._ sounded like three-dimensional chess. his cage arrived and he returned to his suite. he removed his shoes, stripped to the waist and sank gratefully into the soft bed, nestling the last bottle of his suitcase reserve in the crook of his bare arm. he considered the sealed envelope marked: to my successor. urgent matters. first he opened a fresh bottle and then the envelope. he flipped through the papers. there were some tax reports ready for signature, two union contracts up for renegotiation and an estimate on re-doing 520 rooms in vectors "b" and "f". vectors? did they mean "wings"? the last paper was a personal letter, apparently addressed to him. before he could begin it the phone at his bedside jangled. operator said, "would you take this, please, mr. forsyte? i dispatched a house man, but the guest is hysterical." without awaiting his permission she cut in the woman. "hello, manager? there's a man in my bed!" "what is your room number, madame?" sextus asked with drowsy detachment. "i'm in h-408," she said, and on the "8" her voice ran up the scale in a quivering crescendo that launched sextus briskly from his bed. h-408 was his floor and his wing, luckily. he tore out of the suite and down the hall without shirt or shoes. the door stood ajar, and he pushed it open. in the middle of the floor, still gabbling into the phone, stood a lumpy, pallid woman about his own age, naked except for a pillow which she hugged fiercely to her navel. her bleached hair was a frayed bird's-nest. in bed, decently clad in a pair of blue and white striped pajamas, was a rather distinguished, gray-haired gentleman of about fifty, leaning on one elbow and watching the woman with an expression of mild astonishment and interest. to sextus' practiced eye, the man was guilty of nothing. the house detective arrived at that moment, but sextus dismissed him with a wave of his hand. he went in alone. "i'm the manager, madam," he assured her. he noted that despite her excited wails, her eyes drooped half shut. a bottle of sleeping pills on the table was uncapped. "thizz man, thizz man, thizz man!" she kept repeating and pointing her elbow at the bed. the man in question raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "damndest sensation i ever felt," he said. "i'm johnathan p. turner, attorney. before i tell you my story, please check with the desk and verify that i was assigned this room." sextus took the phone from the woman's pudgy hand which darted to rescue the sagging pillow. the room-clerk reported that mr. j. p. turner was registered to room 408, but in "j" vector, not "h". sextus' eyes swept the room. it was an unexplainable mess. two sets of luggage were jumbled on and around the baggage rack at the foot of the bed. rinsed out nylons hung from the shower rod, but a man's shaving kit occupied the shelf over the lavatory. despairing of ever arriving at a sensible explanation, sextus went to work. although hampered somewhat without his shirt, coat and tie, sextus managed to get turner and his belongings transferred peaceably to another room and the woman quieted down in bed with another sleeping pill. then turner was allowed to tell his story. "i had turned in early and was lying there on my back reading the paper when suddenly i got the most messy feeling all through me. it was like--oh, hell, i can't say it. anyhow, in just about a second, something went _thub!_--and there she was in bed with me--naked!" he added with a shiver. sextus grasped at a straw. "how many did you have to drink this evening, mr. turner?" the attorney squirmed uncomfortably. "well, quite a few, maybe, but not enough to--" sextus shrugged one shoulder and turned to leave. "understand, we don't blame you a bit, sir. you know how these middle-aged women can carry on when they get out on the town. you must have dozed off before she slipped in." "but my door was locked! i think," he added uncertainly. "we won't breathe a word of it, mr. turner. rest well!" * * * * * sextus padded silently back to his room in his stocking feet and took a long pull at the whiskey. funny thing, this. people often got into the wrong hotel beds, but rarely with such impalpable excuses. he sighed and picked up the letter from his predecessor again. it read: welcome to the phony-plaza. (that name again.) you will be the fifth manager in 30 days. if you need the job as much as i thought i did you will probably ignore my advice, but here goes, anyway: resign! bail out! skidoo! (the man was emphatic.) i can't tell you where they've got the 2600 rooms in this haunted ant-hill, but believe me, they are there, and you'll be sorry if you hang around long enough to prove it. _my_ predecessor left a garbled note about some _hyperspace_ system that the owner, dr. bradford, has figured out. actually, there are only 260 rooms, as you've probably surmised. but this bradford, who is a nuclear physicist, by the way, has installed some sort of field generator in each elevator shaft that gives entry to these rooms at _ten different locations in time_. room 500, for instance, in vector a is 10 years from vector b. so when you run to capacity with, say, two people to the room, you have 5200 guests in 260 rooms! they all live by the same calendar, but in their rooms they are actually centuries apart. how do you like those apples? it's all quite neat and economical, what with the cost per front foot of this beach area zoned for business, and you'll find a dandy profit on the books, but start worrying, fellow! things are beginning to happen. the maintenance engineer, who, incidentally, is quitting, too, says that the equipment in the shafts is wearing out, and the fields are pulsating or decaying or some damned thing. and we can't contact dr. bradford, who took the service manual with him. maybe you are more experienced in this hotel business than i am, but i couldn't stand the gaff. one more mess like i barely managed to clean up this week and someone's going to the pokey. it won't be me. good luck, if you insist on staying, but i warned you. (signed) thornton k. patterson p.s. the fire-marshall is on our necks because the windows are all sealed, but for god's sake, don't unseal them! * * * * * sextus tossed the fantastic communication aside in disgust, but his mind began to unreel a picture of the confusion he had witnessed down in the service quarters: bellboys and room-service waiters fighting for service elevators; chambermaids trundling their little carts on the dead run; the overworked laundry staff, laboring in a veritable sweatshop of steamy chaos, swamped in a billowing backlog of sheets and towels. it all pointed to a large hotel operation. if so, where were the rooms? refusing to argue further with himself, he got undressed. hyperspace or not, the people apparently were there, and it was his job to serve them. he got a bucket of ice from room-service, mixed an ice and whiskey highball and retreated into his private little world between crisp sheets and the pages of a twenty-five-cent mystery novel. arising early, he was girded for the summons from miss genevieve hafner in room h-408. he went to her room. fully dressed and in the daylight she was still a hollow-eyed mess. the only visible improvement was in the bleached bird's-nest, now a prim, rolled circle on her unlovely pate. "what amends," she demanded, "do you intend to make for my terrible experience last night? is that horrid creature in jail?" "experience? jail?" sextus asked innocent-eyed. he asked that she tell him about it. exasperated, she went over the details. when she finished he patted her hand and pointed to the sleeping pills. "you should see your doctor." "but my doctor _prescribed_ those pills," she whimpered, looking down shyly at the hand which sextus held gingerly. "they never made me dream--before." he bent and kissed the revolting hand. "you are much too lovely a lady to have escaped from such a predicament as you describe without suffering--shall we say, a more romantic--fate?" miss hafner blushed at the thought and wavered between outrage and ecstasy for a dangerous moment. with time-tested genius, sextus withdrew quietly and left her to her thoughts. he _must_ get in touch with dr. bradford, atom business or not. this place could blow sky-high any minute. he slipped the key into his own door and entered his suite. he took two brisk strides into his bedroom, tripped over a lady's overnight case and sprawled into his unmade bed. even as he landed he realized it had an occupant, a gorgeous, strangely familiar blonde creature, touselled and asleep hugging her pillow with a creamy arm. a crash from the bathroom brought his head bouncing off the silken coverlet even as the girl awakened with a scream and tangled them both with the bed clothes. gary gable charged from the bathroom, face dripping and a tuft of lather under each ear. "what in the goddam hell--" he leaped for sextus with his internationally famous shoulders knotted into bunches of muscular menace. "i'm the hotel manager," sextus blurted loudly. for once his self-assurance wavered under fire. even to himself his words explained nothing. meanwhile, gable tripped over one of sextus' heavy suitcases and joined the pair in bed. another male voice issued from the bathroom, and as they all thrashed about, sextus became aware that a second female had somehow appeared between gable and his brand new bride. they came up together, face to face, the beautiful, sleepy blonde and the very wide-awake, queenly brunette. now a pot-bellied little man in shorts and undershirt emerged from the bathroom, his mouth a gaping hole in a fully lathered face. sextus wriggled free, made for the door and off down the hall. to his horror, the automatic signal light on the vector "h" elevator was flickering and fading. the whole h-vector must be collapsing. he dashed for the stairwell and then reconsidered. he moved to the end of the hall which overlooked the low roof of the adjacent building. he tried the window and remembered that it was sealed. back in the alcove he seized one of the sand jars and headed back for the window. a growing tide of commotion swelled from behind almost every door now. grunts, screams and wrestling sounds came over the transoms. he dashed the sand jar through the window, chipped off the jagged edges with his heel and climbed out. it was a twenty-foot drop to security, and he made it without hesitation. what could a man hope to do with a mess like-spang! his feet struck, not with a crunch on gravelled tar, but into a springy fabric that sagged under his 180 pounds, tossed him six feet in the air, caught him on the rebound and then juggled him down with diminishing bounces. * * * * * they were waiting for him, as he regained his feet on the quivering surface of a spring-loaded, canvas trampoline. the bright, mid-morning sun blinded him for an instant, but their voices assailed his ears in a mighty roar of approval as he squinted under his hand and peered around him. "attaboy, sexy," a shrill female voice piped. the roof-top was jammed with a pressing throng of--nearly naked people. in the cleared semi-circle about him a cordon of male bodies-beautiful restrained the mob behind a rope from which a long streamer hung with letters reading: "welcome, sextus, to 2153 a. d." reaching over the edge of the canvas platform with outstretched hand was a single, willowy, sun-baked oldster in a purple loin-cloth. his hair and beard were a dazzling white, and his face was wreathed in a silly smile, the kind officials always wear when presenting the keys to the city. he shuffled his white kid sandals and spoke with an accent: "welcome to 2153, sextus rollo forsyte! california salutes you!" somewhere down on the street a raucous brass band broke into the _stars and stripes forever_ that quickly medlied into _california, here we come_! sextus shrank back against the wall and felt ancient bricks crumble into dust against his hands. the magnitude of his disaster crushed in upon shrinking soul, and as his nimble imagination grasped the stunning significance every molecule of his being vibrated with horror. _he had been warned not to open a window._ "you have fulfilled the legend," the old man sang joyously. "you are a famous man." how famous, sextus was forced to acknowledge as a television boom snaked over the heads of the crowd trailing a wisp of cable and cast its baleful, glassy eye full into his face. "two hundred years to the day, as my great-great-grandfather predicted. i am clark bradford, direct descendent of--" sextus stared wildly up at the open window. he bounced once experimentally. it was a fine trampoline, and he flipped a foot off the surface. next bounce he flexed his knees a little and gained another foot. now he doubled up purposefully. the one-man-delegate in purple frowned. "stop that. we are here to welcome you and start the celebration at the hollywood bowl and--stop that, i say!" now he sensed sextus' incredible intent. "officer, help out here, please!" a bulgy, bronzed fellow clad mainly in an immaculately white brassard left the rope barrier and joined bradford. the elder screamed, "you can't go back, forsyte! don't you understand? you disappeared two centuries ago when the vector field collapsed. you can't go back! you can't! this is your destiny!" sextus' heels soared five feet above the canvas and gained precious altitude with each spring, but it was a precarious business the higher he went. one slip and he'd glance off at a tangent and be captured by those reaching, grasping obscene hands in the crowd. the thought almost unseated his reason. the police officer asked bradford, "what would happen if he did go back?" then he added, "ain't he got a right to?" bradford shuffled nervously. "i don't quite know. we never considered such a--my god! stop, man, stop. you'll change the whole course of history! stop him!" the barelegged minion tried, but as he climbed up on the edge of the trampoline sextus bounced and kicked out with accuracy and determination. the policeman sprawled back clutching air, and the crowd roared. one more bounce and a half twist, now. sextus soared up, up, and his hands touched the sill. with the agility of desperation he clawed up and through the paneless window. "you don't know what you are doing," the old man screeched. "stay here and you'll be famous. if you go back it is to oblivion. oblivion! very, well, _go_ back! _go_ back, you--you nonentity!" "you bet," sextus panted to himself and tumbled onto the carpeted fourth floor hallway of the mahoney-plaza hotel. [illustration] instantly, another voice, but without accent, accosted him shrilly from down the hall. "you, there. you mister manager." sextus sighed mightily with relief. it was only miss genevieve hafner holding a pimply-faced, red-haired youth by the ear. true, gary gable and two hair-pulling, female starlets bore down right behind her, and rooms along both sides of the corridor were disgorging eddies of indignant displaced persons. but these were things he understood. these were just beefs. somewhat more involved than usual, but nothing much worse than a full-fledged convention at mid-night. he adjusted his mashed carnation, brushed the crumbles of old brick dust from his morning coat and moved into the fray. "now, now, miss hafner! _what_ are you up to _this_ time?" guide to hotel housekeeping by mary e. palmer 1908 copyrighted 1908, by mary e. palmer the tribune printing co. charleston. w. va. [illustration] credit to the hotel world. the greater part of the contents of this book was published, in instalments, in the hotel world, of chicago. a foreword. my chief purpose in writing this book was to place a few guide-posts along the route of hotel housekeepers to warn them against certain errors common to women engaged in the arduous and difficult occupation of keeping house for hotels. if anything that i have set forth herein shall make the work of hotel housekeepers easier, more inviting, or more efficient, thereby contributing to the satisfaction of proprietors and to the comfort of patrons, i shall feel amply repaid for writing this book. mary e. palmer. hotel ruffner, charleston, west va. march 1, 1908. the manager and the help. the average hotel manager is only too prone to complain of the incompetency and the inefficiency of hotel "help." it is true that it is difficult to secure skilled help, for there is no sort of institution that trains men and women for the different kinds of hotel work. each hotel must train its own help, or obtain them from other hotels. thus there is no uniform and generally accepted standard of excellence in the different departments of hotel-keeping. a good word should be said in behalf of the irish-american girls, who constitute a majority of the laundry help, waitresses, and chambermaids in american hotels to-day. with a high regard for honor and rectitude, handicapped by poverty, they find employment, at a very early age, in hotels, and perform menial duties in a manner that is greatly to their credit. the irish-american girls are not shiftless, remaining in one place for years until they either marry or leave to fill better positions, which is the privilege of every one living under the "stars and stripes." some improve their spare time in study, thereby fitting themselves to become stenographers and bookkeepers. some adopt the stage as a profession, one instance being that of clara morris, who takes delight in telling of the days when she washed silver in a hotel. _an ex-governor peeled potatoes._ ex-governor hoard, of wisconsin, boasts of the time when he peeled potatoes in a hotel. the success of hotel-keeping depends largely on the manager. he should possess patience, forbearance, and amiability. he should know that the best results are obtained from his help by kindness, and that good food and good beds mean better service. the manager should realize that the working force of a hotel is like the mechanism of a clock: it has to be wound occasionally and set going. no novice can operate this wonderful piece of mechanism; it requires a skilled mechanic. the proprietor of a hotel should be a good loser; for there are periods of the year when the employes outnumber the guests, and the balance-sheet shows a heavy loss. one of the most successful hotel men of the writer's acquaintance is mr. louis reibold, formerly of the bates house (now the claypool), indianapolis, ind. mr. reibold's fame rests in his liberal, kindly treatment of his help. he never called them "help," but always referred to them as "employes." reception, reading, and writing-rooms were furnished for their use, and he himself saw that good food was provided and that the tables were spread with clean, white table-cloths once a day. he remembered his employes at christmas, each one receiving a gold coin, some as much as $20. when a girl in his employ lost her arm in a mangle, he presented her with a house and lot, provided her with ample means to furnish the house and to keep her the remainder of her lifetime. mr. reibold is a multi-millionaire, and he has the admiration and love of every woman and man that ever worked for him. feeding and rooming the help. employes, such as housekeepers, clerks, cashiers, stenographers, stewards--though few stewards use the privilege--and bartenders, are permitted to take their meals in the main dining-room. other office-employes take their meals in the officers' dining-room, from the same bill of fare used in the main dining-room. chambermaids, bell-boys, and other "help," are served in the "helps' hall," from a separate bill of fare. their food is good, as a rule; when it is not, the fault usually lies with the chef in the kitchen. all proprietors want their help to have good food. the housekeeper can do much to make the help comfortable. she can see that their rooms are kept clean and sweet, and free from vermin. she can give them soft pillows and plenty of warm covering. it is her duty to add to their comfort in every way she can. in a majority of hotels, the help are roomed and fed equally as well as are the patrons. requirements of a housekeeper. every profession or trade is made up of two classes: the apprentice and the skilled workman. the young woman looking for a position as hotel housekeeper should not forget that careful training is fully as important and necessary in her chosen vocation as it is in medicine or cooking; that she must learn by slow and wearisome experience what it has taken years for the skilled housekeeper to acquire. the apprentice may stumble on the road to success and may even fall by the wayside. in order to succeed, she must give her time wholly to her occupation. she must be thankful for the successes that come to her and not fret over the failures, remembering that hotel housekeeping, like all other occupations, demands experience, patience, and perseverance, as well as skill, in its followers. the profession is overcrowded with novices to-day; they are the ones that have demoralized the profession--if the word, profession, may be applied to hotel housekeeping. the failure of many housekeepers is due to the lack of proper training; it is only the skilled housekeeper that wins lasting approval. a trained nurse must remain in a training school at least three years, possibly four, before she is given a certificate to care for the sick. the chef of the hotel kitchen, in all probability began his career as a scullion, serving at least ten years' apprenticeship in minor situations in the kitchen. the housekeeper must not be above gaining knowledge in the laundry and the linen-room. a woman that is ambitious to become a good housekeeper should first serve as a chambermaid. if she is wise, she will secure the good graces of the linen-woman by offering to help her mend the linen, hem the napkins, sort the linen, and mend the curtains. in this way, a clever chambermaid may learn many useful things that will help her to a better position. from the linen-room, it is only a step to the position of a housekeeper. when a housekeeper leaves on her vacation, or is called away to fill another place, or drops out on account of illness, the linen-woman may seize the opportunity of showing her executive ability. after she has worked faithfully in the linen-room for three years, there is not much danger that a linen-woman of ability will fail to find employment as a housekeeper. if she should have any trouble getting a situation, one way out of the difficulty is to offer her services one month on probation to a hotel man in need of a housekeeper; and, if she is granted a trial and mixes brains with her enthusiasm, she will receive a housekeeper's salary at the end of the month. just what a housekeeper's work should be is a vital question. we hear of housekeepers meddling in the steward's department and with the affairs of the office. this is, at least, no less wrong than the idea that the housekeeper owes servile obedience to all other heads of departments. the essential requirements of a housekeeper are the same, whether she is in a hotel with the capacity of a thousand guests or in a hotel of two hundred rooms. the young housekeeper, looking for a position in a first-class hotel, should read the following requirements, which were submitted to the writer by the manager of a first-class western hotel a few years ago: _a housekeeper's requirements._ must be morally correct. must have a dignified and respectable appearance. must have executive ability. must have a good disposition and try to get along with the help. must be a good listener and not a talker. must be quiet, giving orders in a firm but low tone. must be loyal to the management. must be courteous to guests. must not worry the management with small matters. must refrain from gossiping. neatness in dress is essential to the success of a hotel housekeeper. she should take great pains to be always well groomed, and neat in her attire. if she finds herself growing coarse or commonplace-looking, her fingernails in mourning, and her hair unacquainted with soap and water, she should at once set about to remedy the defects. it is her duty, as well as her privilege, to dress as well as she can, not by donning all the colors of the rainbow or by useless extravagance, but by modest and harmonizing shades and by appropriate apparel. it behooves the woman to make herself as good-looking as possible, for good looks pay. obliging manners are also a stock in trade. grit, grace, and good looks can accomplish wonders, especially the good looks. ignorance and ambition make an unprofitable combination. there are housekeepers filling positions to-day that have never been taught to do a single useful thing correctly; they can not darn the linens, they can not sew, they can not upholster a chair, they can not wait on the sick, nor can they settle the slightest dispute without sending for the manager. the housekeeper should know how these things are done, in order to impart her knowledge to others; for any housekeeper that has any respect for her calling considers herself an instructor. there is no special hour set for the housekeeper's appearance in the morning. it is safe to say that she will make a greater "impression" and last longer by rising at 6 o'clock. late rising is one of the rocks on which many a housekeeper has been wrecked. _cheerfulness and good manners._ every housekeeper should make the "good morning" her bright keynote for the day. she should not say, "hello, mollie," to a girl named mary. though the girl may be only a scrub-girl, she knows a breach of etiquette; and a girl that bears the beautiful name of mary does not want it changed to "mollie." a cheerful "good morning" should be the beginning of each day, by the housekeeper. it makes everybody feel pleasant, and the maids can work faster and easier when their hearts are full of pleasantness. the successful housekeeper does not win her laurels by merely perfecting herself in her work, but also by careful study of the lives of others in her charge, and how to promote their happiness. getting along with help requires tact, poise, and balance. the housekeeper should bestow praise where it is due. she may give a gentle pat on the back to some faithful employe, and yet keep her dignity. a hard task may be made lighter by it, and monotonous labor robbed of its weariness. the old and persistent notion that housekeepers are an irascible tribe--if it was ever true--is not true now. the question here arises--what qualities of mind and heart should a housekeeper possess to be successful? nobody has discovered a rule--to say nothing of a principle--whereby a housekeeper's success may be determined. it is reasonable to claim that the permanent success of any housekeeper lies in her skill and in the confidence and esteem of her employer. she has learned that skill is acquired by serving an apprenticeship, and that esteem and confidence are won by character. everybody who touches a sterling character comes at last to feel it, and the true hotel man has come to know that the housekeeper of skill and character is his friend. after the relation of friendship has been established between the manager and the housekeeper, a "go-between" has no place; to speak plainly, there is no legitimate function for a tattler. the young housekeeper should not become discouraged, excited, or worried, but learn to "manage." she should sit down quietly and think it over. she should have a system about her most ordinary duties, and never put off till to-morrow what may be done to-day. tomorrow may never come, and, if it does come, it will bring other duties equally as important. every field of labor has its drawbacks. the greater the work, the greater the hindrances and the obstacles seem to be. the housekeeper and the "help." it is a truism that there should be no hostilities between the heads of the different departments of a hotel. everything works more smoothly and satisfactorily when pleasant relationships exist between the different departments of any business. a housekeeper feels stronger if she thinks that she is of sufficient importance to her employer to have her views receive some consideration. she takes up her daily tasks with an added sense of responsibility, and with a desire to do still better work. no housekeeper is perfect. it cannot be wisely assumed that any housekeeper will possess all the requisite qualifications for successful housekeeping, nor can she develop them all, no matter how ambitious, industrious, and naturally fitted for the work she may be. but "knowledge is power," and she that has the most of it, coupled with the greatest ability to utilize it, enjoys advantages that will contribute largely to her success. _keeping a position._ a housekeeper studies not only to secure a good situation, but also to avoid losing it. "good enough" is not her motto; "the very best" are her constant watchwords. some one has said: "a housekeeper is born, not made." the "born housekeeper" is a spasmodic housekeeper. as a rule, she is not evenly balanced. a housekeeper with plain common sense, susceptible to instructions, willing to obey orders, is the housekeeper that leaves the old situation for one of better pay. there must be, of course, a foundation on which to build. the stones of that foundation should be self-control, self-confidence, education, neatness in dress, and cleanliness. none of these is a gift, but an accomplishment that can be developed more or less according to the individual. good manners are very essential. politeness alone will not bring about the desired results in any profession, but it has never been known to be a hindrance. manners that will be accepted without criticism in one woman, will be odious and objectionable in another. too much familiarity breeds contempt. an employer would better be approached with dignity and reserve. _the charm of neatness._ few housekeepers realize the charm of the neatly dressed woman. the hair should always be neatly arranged and not look as if it was about to fall on her shoulders. the binding of her skirt should not show ragged in places. these are little things, but they weigh heavily in the general results. the well-groomed woman knows that the neglect of these things is full of shame to womankind. in regard to "bumping up against" the bell-boys, clerks, stewards, and stenographers, the wise housekeeper is shrewd enough to "stand in." she "turns the other cheek," which may sometimes be a difficult task to perform. remember that no one on earth can ever succeed in life and hold a "grudge." the inability to forgive his enemies lost james g. blaine the white house. if a bell-boy is caught doing something detrimental to the success of the management, the housekeeper should write a note to the clerk, or the captain of the watch, and inform him of the bell-boy's misdeeds. this will be sufficient from the housekeeper. on assuming the duties of a new field, the housekeeper may remember merely a few important duties; for instance, she must carefully scrutinize the time-book and learn all the maids' names and stations. next learn the location of rooms and become familiarized with every piece of furniture in them. then, step by step, she should build up the general cleanliness of the house. this is by far the most important of all the requisites pertaining to hotel housekeeping. guarding against difficulties encountered with the employes and with the managers' wives is secondary. a housekeeper that can not take orders is not fit to give them; if the manager asks for the removal of an offensive employe, the housekeeper should immediately get rid of the objectionable person. if the housekeeper fails in deference to the manager's wishes, is not that good evidence that she is not a good soldier? she should be eager to maintain the dignity of her position--must maintain it in fact--and do as high service as possible for the management. yet she can not always carry out her own ideas. the manager has his ideas about matters, which right or wrong, must be respected. the housekeeper carries out the manager's orders. if the hotel fails to bring a profit or give satisfaction, the manager alone is held accountable. _about hiring help._ to dismiss a maid is a very easy matter; to obtain a substitute that will perform the duties assigned her in a manner that will prove more effectual, is not so easy. to fire or not to fire, that is the question whether 'tis easier on the impulse of the moment to suffer the terrors and exactions of the haughty maids, or take up arms against their impudence and with pen and ink end them. to lie, to sleep- worry no more, and by good management to dispatch the cares and thousand little details housekeepers are heir to--'tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. the employment-agency is the housekeeper's recruiting station. she gets most of her help from this place. the housekeeper should always consult the manager when other help is to be hired. everyone knows that old employes are always best, even if they do spoil the new ones. the housekeeper endeavors to keep the help as long as she can, using persuasion, kindness, and forbearance, striving to teach them the best and easiest way to do their work, bearing with their imperfections, overlooking a great deal that is actually repulsive, not expecting to find in the hard-working individual the graces of a marie antoinette, or the inherent qualities of a lady jane gray. the housekeeper should not only be scrupulously honest herself, but should insist that the maids be honest. it is true that almost irresistible temptations and opportunities to steal are constantly thrown in the way of the maids; and those that are steadfastly honest deserve great credit. if a maid is neat and clean in appearance and does her work well--these qualities cover a multitude of sins. from the standpoint of many housekeepers, too much curiosity and gossiping are the chiefest and quickest causes--next to the neglect of work--for a maid's dismissal. a housekeeper is usually disliked by the maids that do not want to do their work, just as a stepmother is hated by some stepchildren, regardless of her kindness and her consideration for their welfare. employes in any business prefer to take their orders from the person that pays them their money. for this, they are not to be blamed; but if the proprietor or the proprietor's wife wishes to retain the services of a good housekeeper, and be relieved of the trying ordeal of training the help, he or she will not encourage tattling from the housekeeper's inferiors. the hotel proprietor's wife. implicit confidence should exist between the housekeeper and the proprietor's wife. this does not mean that the proprietor's wife should take the housekeeper automobile riding. any proprietor's wife that enters into such a degree of intimacy with any of her husband's employes distinctly displays the hallmarks of plebeanism. the writer does not want to become an iconoclast, but she believes that all business should be conducted on a business basis. there must be an unwavering loyalty to the interests mutually represented, at all times and under all circumstances. the proprietor's wife that goes to the help's dining-room or to the laundry, presumably to press a skirt or a shirt-waist, but in reality to see what she can see and to hear what she can hear, is disloyal to the management. she will always have poured into her ears stories that will annoy her and keep her worried. there are maids in a hotel always ready to "keep the pot boiling." such a proprietor's wife not only encourages malicious slander and tattling, but she will soon be asking questions of the inferior help about the housekeeper's management. soon the inferiors will be giving the orders instead of the housekeeper, and the discipline will be spoiled. besides, the proprietor's wife will be told imaginary wrongs, and exaggerated stories concerning some maid employed in the hotel, which will necessitate the maid's discharge. whether the story is real or imaginary, the proprietor's wife is not benefited by the stories she has heard. she should ask herself: is this loyalty? isn't it unmistakably the earmark of commonality? no housekeeper will object to taking orders from the proprietor's wife. the progressive housekeeper is always polite to her employer's wife, though not to the extent of being deceitful. the housekeeper must bear in mind that what is of vital importance to the proprietor of a hotel is of equal importance to the proprietor's wife. the housekeeper tries to work in harmony with them both, which means success of the highest order. to do this, the housekeeper must retain her dignity, often under the most exasperating circumstances. the proprietor's wife is privileged to frequent any part of the hotel she may choose to, but how must a housekeeper feel to see her conversing in the most familiar tones with the waitresses and the chambermaids, and to know that she is listening to malicious slander of the lowest kind. a housekeeper can have no control over the employes where the discipline is thus ruined, or where there is so much unpleasantness arising from unwise interference over trifles, by the proprietor's wife, or from officious meddling by the families of the prominent stockholders. _tact can not be taught._ "bumping up against" the proprietor and proprietor's wife or family is one of the most perplexing problems that the housekeeper has to solve. the ability to combat with such a problem can not be imparted by teaching. it has to exist in the housekeeper herself, in the peculiar, individual bent of her nature. no amount of preaching and teaching can ever endow a housekeeper with the ever ready wit characteristic of the "irish tongue." the savory reply, "o, mrs. b., you are a dream of loveliness!" would be sweet to some ears while to others it would be a "harsh discord." it is impossible to teach which ear would or would not be the receptive one. any attempt on the part of the housekeeper to work up these qualities, "by rule" would only be a failure even the "golden rule" fails sometimes to bring about desired results. the better plan, perhaps, for the housekeeper to adopt is to live her own life, and not try to imitate others. if she tries to be great, she will be nothing; if she tries to be plain, simple, and good, she may be great. character in the hotel business. there is no royal road to success for the hotel clerk, steward, manager, or housekeeper. the hotel business is peculiar in many respects; it teaches conspicuously the great importance of character. there is no ingenious system that the housekeeper may adopt to insure her success. getting into trouble or keeping out of it is largely a matter of luck, influenced by the kind of help that she is able to secure. but, first and last, her success depends on her character--her own energy, industry, intelligence, and moral worth. room inspection. when inspecting rooms, the housekeeper will notice that the room is completed with the following necessaries: one bed, one foot blanket. one rocking chair and two straight chairs. one writing table and a scrap basket. one cuspidor. one dresser. one clothes tree or wardrobe. one ice water pitcher and two glasses on a tray. if there is no bathroom, or stationary hot and cold water, there must be a commode, a wash bowl and pitcher, soap dish and clean soap. one slop jar, one chamber. four face towels. if there is a bathroom, one bath mat and toilet paper in the holder. one small mirror. one cake of bath soap and two bath towels are needed. on the dresser in every guest room should be a box of safety matches and a candle. candles are so cheap, and candle holders may be purchased for a trifle, which will answer the purpose as well as silver. no one who has lived in hotels but knows how annoying it is to be left in total darkness for half an hour, on account of a burned out fuse, when they are dressing for the theatre and in a hurry to complete their toilet. the clerk in the office with the room rack in front of him has no conception of the rooms except that they are in perfect order. perfect order does not only mean that the bed is neatly made, the floor clean and all the furniture dusted; soap, towels, matches, candles and glasses in their places, but everything must be in perfect working order. let the housekeeper's inspection begin then with the door. the lock must be in order, and the key work properly. it is embarrassing to the clerk to have to listen of a morning to such complaints as "my door would not lock, and i was compelled to push the dresser in front of it to insure safety." but this "kick" is often heard in first-class houses. the transoms next should receive attention--see if they will open and close. next the electric lights; they must all be in order and burn brightly. the dresser drawers must move readily, and be perfectly clean. the windows must be carefully examined to see if they open and close easily, and they must have no broken cords. a housekeeper's intelligent attentions to these details will greatly aid the clerk in prompt service to the guests, and will insure to the hotel the service that will be its own best advertisement. gossip between employes. there are only two classes in a hotel among its employes; one class is quite perfect and pure as angels, while the others are black sheep and altogether unspeakable. there is no transition, no intermediate links, no shading of light or dark. a hotel employe is either good or bad, and this rigid rule applies not only to moral character, but intellectual excellence also is measured by the same standard. in a large hotel of, say 250 employes, everybody seems to know everybody and everything about everybody. everybody knows that he is watched, and gossip, both in the best and worst sense of the word, rules supreme. gossip is, in fact, public opinion, with all its good and all its bad features. still, the result is that no one can afford to lose caste, and everybody behaves as well as he can. the private life of hotel employes is almost blameless. the great evils of society do not exist; now and then a black sheep gets in, but his or her life soon becomes a burden, everybody knows what has happened and the employes, being on a whole so blameless, are all the more merciless on the sinners, whether their sins are great or small. what most impresses one in hotels is the loyalty among employes. no one tells them what to do or what to say, or what not to say, or what not to do, yet you will observe that one who professes to be your friend will not say unfriendly things behind your back. this condition is noticeable among those of inferior rank, as well as among managers, stewards, clerks and housekeepers. as a rule, one table in the main dining room is reserved for the officers, clerks, stewards, cashiers, bookkeepers, checkers, stenographers and housekeepers. most of them have been taught a few rules of life wisdom by their seniors. at any rate, few of them are seen with their elbows on the table. they are observant enough of social forms to eat pie with a fork, and their teaspoon is always in the saucer; they eat slowly and take time to triturate. there is always one "wit" to make one sorry when the meal is ended. many hotel employes possess intellectual powers to a great degree. many clerks are college graduates. the housekeeper is not, as some have said usually a member of the broken down aristocracy, some one who has seen better days, whose duty it is to walk through the halls with a "persimmon" countenance, in search of the evildoer; never was a statement more false. hotels employ a house detective to look after its morals. a housekeeper is more apt to be an assistant, who has been promoted to the very responsible position of housekeeper. _relationship between housekeeper and women patrons._ a simple acquaintance is the most desirable footing with all persons, however desiring. the unlicensed freedom that usually attends familiarity affords but too ample scope for the indulgence of selfish and mercenary motives on the part of the women patrons. it would be safe to say that the housekeeper owes to all women patrons the courtesy and consideration due one woman from another. it has been said that woman's inhumanity to woman makes countless millions mourn. but this condition is happily fading away; within the last decade women have been improving in manners and morals toward each other. the housekeeper should take the initiative, consider the "roof as an introduction" and assume a kindly interest in the welfare of the women guests. politeness is the sweetener of human society and gives a charm to everything said and done. but a housekeeper may be called on to sacrifice her duty to her employer. in this case she must not let any weak desire of pleasing guests make her recede one jot from any point that reason and prudence have bid her pursue. _birds of passage._ one of the most striking conditions in modern hotel life is that few hotels retain their heads of departments any great length of time, while the inferior working class remains in one hotel for many years, and often for a lifetime. this significant state becomes more marked from year to year, and the question arises: what has brought about such a changed condition? the traveling public surely is gratified to see a familiar face behind the desk, in the housekeeping department, and also in the dining-room. in days past, clerks, stewards, and housekeepers, were identified with the same hotel until a retirement from all active life would see them replaced by others. but of late they seem to have earned the title, "birds of passage." temperament creates the atmosphere of your surroundings, and if you would remain in a fixed place, you should cultivate the respect of all, and, if possible, their love, also. a nervous man or woman speaks in haste and uses a sharp tone of voice over mere trifles, which, to an ignorant mind, may have a tendency to create dislike, causing results that may prove distinct barriers to his or her success as a manager or housekeeper, whereas a placid man or woman could bring about the same result with gentler tones, thereby preventing useless friction and hatred. _directing and commanding._ heads of hotel departments should cultivate their talents for directing and commanding. politeness, which belongs to all persons of good breeding and is essential in the ordinary transactions of life, is so minutely cultivated by the heads of hotel departments as to be conspicuous in its absence; some are not even civil, which is the very least that one person can be to another. i do not mean to infer that an employe is to be forgiven if he gets intoxicated and is late to his work every morning, nor that a sneak, a thief, or an agitator should be excused. to handle help on the forgiving plan in such cases, employers would become sentimental reformers and the worst kind of failures. sentiment may be comforting, but it is silly when employed in business, under these conditions. those that desire may practice forgiveness, but when it costs time and money and brings gray hairs to those that are doing the forgiving, it is better to keep as near the line of sternness as possible. everyone employing labor should be very careful of his manner in expressing his disapproval of the actions of subordinates. a reprimand should never be made in anger. if a grave offense has been committed, reprimanding should be done with great coolness and reserve, if you would look to future events and their probable consequences. impertinent and forward people may be checked by cold reserve. often the faculties for transacting business and the talents for directing and reprimanding are considered by fond admirers to be the gift of nature, when, in reality, they are the outcome of self-control and education. chesterfield says: "if you are in authority and have a right to command, your commands delivered in _sauviter in modo_ will be willingly, cheerfully, and, consequently, well obeyed." _attention to details._ hotel housekeeping is a science. the crowning excellence, as all acknowledge, lies in giving strict attention to small things. successful hotel-keeping is an artistic achievement in which everything is in its right place, is of the proper grade, shade, quality, and cleanliness, harmonizing in every particular. details are repulsive to the lazy or the listless. let the housekeeper feel the greatness of her position and the importance of her duties, if she so desires to succeed. enthusiasm is an element that can least be spared--one that must accompany the housekeeper at every step. the question has arisen whether the housekeeper should learn without rules, by blundering experience, or should she take what the approved experience of others has found to be the best. no one doubts the answer. the true way is to submit to rules and regulations and methods of experienced and practical hotel housekeepers that have made their profession a life-long study. the progressive housekeeper. the ocean is an everchanging wonder of kaleidoscopic views and no eye ever wearies of its beauty. the earth arrays herself in such gorgeous costumes so pleasing to man's sight that few there are who want to leave her to try another. the child tires of the old ragdoll and cries for the "teddy bear." put a new dress on the old ragdoll and it will again become the favorite. if a housekeeper is not progressive, her employer will tire of her. the onward trick of nature is too much for the average housekeeper, and gladly would she anchor, but to do so means to sink. she must keep up with the times, she must travel the pace of progress. there is nothing new under the sun, but there is constant metamorphosis. time brings changes. competition is strong and housekeepers must be on the alert for any accomplishment that will aid in their calling. in america, life is a universal race for exalted positions. then get out of the rut and keep up the long list of illusions, of which a rapid succession of changes and moods and styles and ideas is the secret. you must keep busy. there is only one sin that you can commit; that sin is idleness. polish the old things and make them look like new. do not let your footsteps become so narrow that they will end in a turkey-track. keep up your practice of thoroughly cleaning rooms, overhauling furniture, and sending out a mattress now and then to have it repaired. take up a carpet and have it cleaned. give the radiators a coat of bronze. have the ceiling lights cleaned. paste up the wall-paper that is hanging from the wall. polish the brass on the stairs. put in an order for some new material of which to make dresser covers. _decorative dresser covers._ the writer has just completed some very pretty dresser covers for the parlor floor rooms, en suite. the work is fascinating, and the linen-room girls and parlor-maids can lend a hand at making them. any kind of linen material can be adapted that can be laundered with ease and success. plain white linen is a well-deserved favorite and makes thoroughly useful, as well as fashionable, dresser-covers. a cheaper material can be found in linen toweling--just as pretty and just as durable as the plain white linen. the dresser cover just covering the dresser and not allowed to hang down is the favorite mode just now. it can be simply hemmed; but a charming and more attractive pattern is with scalloped edges and elaborated ends. these scallops are made with a spool, medium size, no 50 being especially suitable. put the spool on the edge of the material and with a lead pencil, draw a crescent and then another, clear across the end. pad the scallops with common white darning-cotton, using the old fashioned chain-stitch. before putting the work in the embroidery-hoops, sew a strip of muslin, about six inches in width to the edge of the dresser cover. this will aid in getting the work placed in the hoops and will enable you to do smoother and more satisfactory work. embroider the scallops with linen embroidery floss, size "d," using the buttonhole stitch. an eyelet at the termination and just above each crescent will add materially to its effectiveness. rip off the muslin and launder before cutting out the scallops. this will prevent the ugly fringe seen on so many embroidered dresser-covers. the housekeeper's salary. too many housekeepers of the present day neglect the small things. they want to draw large salaries and let the house take care of itself, while they visit with the guests and gossip and have a good time. the clerks are kind and do not report to the manager the little complaints that come to the office every day; but the housekeeper's conscience should tell her that she is not earning her money. the housekeeper that is above her profession, is not interested in her work, and that is trying to get into some church society, had better not engage in hotel housekeeping, for her housekeeping duties will require her constant attention at the hotel. there will be some difficulties to settle at all times, which will require her presence. maids work better when they are conscious of a vigilant overseer. they take more pride in their work when they know that every nook and corner is being inspected by the housekeeper. especially is this true if the housekeeper is successful in commanding the respect of her subordinates. the housekeeper that lays the blame of some grave mistake on her assistants is not worthy of the name of housekeeper. had she been there, attending to her affairs, it would not have happened, for she would have prevented or stopped it. the housekeeper, by diligence, attendance to her duties, and by economies, figures greatly in the success of a hotel, and makes her own position. the position does not make her. then it is fairly reasonable to suppose that such a housekeeper should make her own salary; that she should command and receive her price; that she should be paid according to the amount she is really worth, and not the fixed scale that the hotel pays. if a housekeeper can show by her books, by her management, and by her economies, that she is worth more than her predecessor, she is entitled to more pay, and by all means should receive more pay. the average salary paid a housekeeper is not enough to properly clothe a housekeeper. after her laundry bills are paid, what has she left to lay up for the "rainy day," to say nothing of an old age, when parsimony and incompatibility of temper and "set ways" make her, in any place, an unwelcome personage. _the faithful, efficient housekeeper._ the housekeeper that sticks to her post and is always looking after her work is surely worth more to her employer than one that has worn the carpet threadbare in front of her mirror, or one that puts in a great portion of her time at the bargain-counter, or the theater, or with a novel in her hand. surely, the hard-working housekeeper, the one that makes her occupation a study and is always at her post, is worth more to her employer than the housekeeper that is trying to do society "stunts," to ring in with people of fashion, to "out-dress" them. but the majority of hotels pay much the same salaries to housekeepers, good, bad, and indifferent. the progressive housekeeper that thus looks after her employer's business every day, always at her post in the linen-room, is uncomplaining, shoulders the blame, and is not always knocking on his private-office door and entering complaints about this or that, is surely worth more than thirty dollars a month to any hotel man. if he does not think so, he should not blame the progressive, faithful, reliable housekeeper, if she promptly accepts a position with better pay. inspection and cleaning of rooms. the housekeeper, or her assistant, should go through every room twice a day. in the morning, the housekeeper should take the house-plan, inspect every room, and check up the rooms that have been occupied. if the bed in a room has been used, and if there is baggage, she should check this also, and should turn the report into the office by nine o'clock. then, in the afternoon, when the maids are supposed to have finished their work, the housekeeper should take her pencil and pad and thoroughly inspect every room and the maids' work. she may find a ragged sheet or pillow slip; if so, she should make a note of it. some room may be short of a towel, soap or matches; she should make a note of this also. around the gas-jets and in the corners, she may find "irish curtains" (cobwebs); in the commode, she may find a vessel that was forgotten; in a dresser drawer, a man may have left his cast-off hose, and suspenders. some maid may have swept the center of the room, while under the bed and under the dresser there may be dust of two weeks' standing; in another room, the housekeeper may find a bathtub forgotten--all of which she should write on the pad. this work will occupy two hours of her time in a two-hundred-room house. when the maids come on watch at six o'clock, each one should be given instructions to go back and finish her work. in some hotels, the maids do not go off duty of an afternoon, but continue working until six o'clock. in this case, the housekeeper should issue her instructions at once. how to clean a room. there are many ways to clean a room, but there is just one best way to clean it thoroughly. "dig out the corners" should be the watchword of every successful housekeeper. she would rather the maid would leave the dirt in a pile in the center of the room than fail to clean out the corners. if one word could be selected that means the most and needs the most emphasis in the science of housekeeping, that word would be "cleanliness." the first desideratum, therefore, of the chambermaid, is the scrub-pail and a piece of oilcloth--some maids use a newspaper--under it to protect the carpet. the first thing to do is to clean the small pieces of furniture. if the furniture is new, it should be only wiped with the dust-cloth. if it is old and marred, it should be washed with warm water and soap, and oiled with a good furniture-polish. it should then be set in the hall. the dresser drawers should be washed and the marble cleaned with sapolio; the mirrors should be polished, the windows washed, and the shutters dusted. the crockery should be cleaned and put in the hall. the bed should be covered with a dust-cover. the cobwebs should be swept down with a long-handled broom. the lace curtains should be shaken, and either taken down or pinned up. the closet should be swept out. the toilet-bowl should be scrubbed inside and out with the toilet-brush, and a disinfectant powder put in. the stationary wash-bowl should be scrubbed with sapolio, and the faucets polished, not forgetting the chain. the bathtub should also be scrubbed with sapolio, and the floor washed. the door should now be closed and the sweeping begun. a very good plan is to scatter wet paper over the floor to keep the dust down. the corners should be dug out and the dirt swept to the center of the room and taken up in the dust-pan. if the carpet is old, it should be sponged with warm water and soap, to which a little ammonia has been added. the carpet will look like new after this process. after the dust is well settled, all the wood work in the room should be washed; the bed and dresser should be washed and oiled, and all the furniture should be symmetrically arranged, and the windows closed on account of storms. one chambermaid can successfully look after eighteen or twenty rooms a day. not all of the rooms are occupied every night. the maid should take advantage of the dull days to clean her rooms thoroughly; she should clean one room every day. the importance of good beds. competition is great, and success will come to the best and cleanest hotel. the traveler loves to slip into a bed with perfectly laundered sheets that do not look as if the maids had sprinkled, folded, and pressed them between the mattress, as chambermaids ordinarily do in hotels where there is a scant supply of linen. sometimes the chambermaid will ask the laundryman for a pair of sheets to make up a sample-room, as the guest wants to receive a customer. the laundryman replies: "well, just as soon as the machinery starts again, you may have them." there has been a breakdown; the belt is off; or something has gone wrong, and they have sent for the engineer to fix it. then the housekeeper must go to some unoccupied room and strip the bed and use the linen for making up the bed in the sample-room, while the guest walks the floor and frets over the delay. much time is saved if the hotel is supplied with plenty of linen. sheets that cover only two-thirds of the mattress do not add to the cheerfulness and comfort of the guests. many well grounded complaints are entered about this. special laws have been enacted in some states, within the last year, regarding the length of sheets. occasionally a guest finds it expedient to make his bed over, if he would have any comfort. the maid has put the double fold of the blanket to the top; it is a warm night, yet he fears to throw the blanket off--he might take cold. so he concludes to make his own bed, putting the single fold to the top, that he may throw some of it back. how a bed is made. good bed-making is the one trait par excellence in all good chambermaid work. to make a bed artistically is one important feature, and to make it so that the guest may rest comfortably is another, and, finally, just how is the best way to make a bed is a question worthy of consideration. in our big country of america, the traveler from maine to california sees many styles of bed-making. in new orleans is seen the picturesque canopy of pure white mosquito-netting tucked in neatly all around. in kansas city is seen the snowy spreads plaited half way to the foot with numerous little folds. in new york is seen the pure linen hemstitched sheets, turned back with a single fold. to begin to make a bed, first, the mattress should be turned. the bottom sheet should then be tucked in carefully by raising the mattress with one hand and smoothing the sheet down with the other. the large hems should always be at the head, in order that no one may be compelled to lay his face where some one's feet have been. after the bottom sheet has been tucked in at the head, it should be tightly drawn and tucked in at the foot in the same way. sheets should be long enough to tuck in one foot at the head and one at the bottom. if it is a brass bed, the sheets should be left to hang down. after the bottom sheet is on perfectly, it is easy to make a pretty bed, and one in which the guest may rest well. the top sheet should be put on, and tucked in at the foot only. the blanket should be put on with the single fold at the head. if the guest should get too warm, he can throw half of the blanket to the foot and yet have sufficient covering. after the spread is put on, a single fold as large as your hand should be made, then another fold one foot in width should complete the folding, and the spread should be neatly tucked in. the pillows should now be smoothed evenly and placed up aright, and the bed is made. how to clean walls. to clean a painted canvas wall does not require so much skill as patience. a painted canvas wall is very easily cleaned. many housekeepers have them washed with ivory soap and water, and obtain good results. others add a little ammonia to the water, and still others use the powdered pumice. the cost of painted walls are great, and it is a great saving to any proprietor, if the housekeeper can successfully clean a painted wall without calling the decorators. perhaps the most practical and most economical way to do the work and obtain the best results is to wash the wall with water, in which has been dissolved a cake of sapolio. to proceed to clean the parlor walls: first, take out all the bric-a-brac and tapestry and furniture; then take up the carpet. have the carpenter erect a scaffolding for the houseman to stand on. have two pails of hot water, and in one let a cake of sapolio dissolve. keep the other pail of water for rinsing. have two large sponges, one for cleaning and the other for rinsing. souse the cleaning-sponge in the pail in which the sapolio has been dissolved, then squeeze the water out of the sponge. then begin on the ceiling or in one corner, cleaning only a small square at a time. after cleaning, rinse with the sponge from the clean pail, not making the sponge too dry. do not wipe the wall with a cloth, but leave moist, after which have ready a pail of starch, and with an ordinary paint or white-wash-brush, starch the square that you have cleaned, before it is thoroughly dry. the starching-process is very necessary. it will leave a gloss on the paint, and also preserves it the next time it is washed; for, in this case, it will be the starch that will be washed off instead of the paint. to make the starch take ordinary laundry starch and dissolve one cupful in one pint of cold water. into this pour boiling water until it is as thick as cream and let boil, stirring constantly. the following is an excellent preparation for cleaning wall-paper, and perhaps it might serve as well to clean walls hung with burlap: 2 pounds of rye flour. â½ pound of wheat flour. 1 handful of salt. mix well together with water and bake one hour in the oven. then peel and work back into a dough, adding â½ ounce of ammonia and â½ ounce of gasoline. this is not an expensive preparation and will clean papered or burlap walls very nicely. calcimined walls will have to be re-decorated. a good way to clean hardwood floors in halls where the carpet does not entirely cover the floor, is to take a can of linseed oil and a small woolen cloth and dip one end of the cloth in the oil, being careful not to spill the oil on the carpet, or touch the edge of the carpet while cleaning; this will remove the dust and dirt, after which the floor may be polished with ordinary floor-wax put on with a flannel cloth and polished with a brick, over which has been sewed a piece of brussels carpet. _how to scrub a floor._ what is prettier than a hardwood floor after it has been properly scrubbed? to scrub a floor and get satisfactory results is a science. to change the water frequently is one secret of success. "elbow grease" is another. mops are impossible, and this is another subject on which the housekeeper can wax eloquent. what is more disgusting than to see the baseboards of a room smeared, or the dirt shoved in the corners with an old dirty mop? before commencing to scrub, place every article of furniture on the table and then sweep. beginning in the rear of the door so as not to track over the clean part until it is perfectly dry, scrub with a brush a small section at a time; first wipe up with a damp rag and then with a dry one. the new york knitting mills, of albany, n. y., furnish remnants of cloth that are indispensable for scrubbing. enough of these remnants can be bought for $3 to last six months. a little ammonia in the water will help to whiten the floors. the modern skewers from the kitchen are very useful in getting into the corners of the window sills and into the corners of the stair steps. a weak solution of oxalic acid and boiling water will remove the very worst kind of ink-stains from the floor. pads for kneeling on are made of burlap, and one is given to each scrubber. the unnatural position that the scrubber assumes makes the work laborious; the scrubber may change her position frequently by getting clean water. how to get rid of vermin. the worst kind of house-pests, if you do not know how to get rid of them, but not the easiest to exterminate, are bedbugs. they do not confine themselves to any section of the country, though the international encyclopedia gives the belief "that up to shakespeare's time they were not known in england," and that "they came originally from india." in kansas, the bedbug is improperly called the chintz-bug, and is believed to dwell under the bark of the cotton-wood tree. there is no authentic truth for this belief. the spread of the bedbug is mainly due to its being carried from place to place in furniture and clothing. it has the power of resisting great cold and of fasting indefinitely. the eggs of the bedbug are very small, whitish, oval objects, laid in clusters in the crevices used by the bugs for concealment; they hatch in eight days. under favorable conditions and slovenly housekeeping, their multiplication is extremely rapid. the greatest trouble lies with the housekeeper who allows the bugs to increase unchecked until they are so numerous in the floors and walls that it is nearly impossible to kill them off. it is useless waste of time to try to exterminate with persian insect powder, or sulphur candles. these remedies have been recommended by the international encyclopedia, but have not demonstrated their worth when subjected to tests by careful experimental methods, by the author. _scientific way of extermination._ the only scientific and practical way to get rid of them is to clean thoroughly, religiously, and scrupulously the room and every article in it. bedbugs are exceedingly difficult to fight, owing both to their ability to withstand the action of many insecticides and owing also to the protection afforded them by the walls and the woodwork of the room. if the mattress is old, it should be burned. the bed should be taken apart, the slats and springs taken to the bathroom and scalded, and then treated with a mixture of corrosive sublimate and alcohol, liberally applied, after which a coat of varnish should be given to the entire bed--slats, springs and all. the carpet should be taken up and sent to the cleaners. the paper should be scraped from the walls and sent to the furnace and burned, and the walls should be left bare until the bugs are exterminated. the holes in the walls and woodwork and the cracks and crevices in the floor should be filled up with common yellow soap. this is better than to fill them with putty; it is more practical and is easier to handle. use the thumb or an old knife to put the soap into the holes; the workman should get the stepladder and go over the entire ceiling, getting the soap into every crack and crevice. after this is done, it will be impossible for the eggs to hatch or the bugs to get out. this is the most important part of the extermination of bugs. the floor should then be scrubbed, after which it should be well poisoned with the mixture of corrosive sublimate and alcohol. every piece of furniture in the room should be washed and poisoned, and given a coat of varnish. _treating the mattress._ if the mattress is too good to be thrown away, the following will be found a good method to destroy the vermin in it: dissolve two pounds of alum in one gallon of water; let it remain twenty-four hours until all the alum is dissolved. then, with a whisk-broom, apply while boiling hot. this is also a good way to rid the walls and ceiling of bugs. getting on the stepladder, the workman should apply the wash with the whisk-broom, never missing an inch of the entire ceiling and walls, keeping the liquid boiling hot while using. it should be poured in all the cracks of the floor, in the corners, over the doors and over the windows. the operation should be repeated every day for two weeks, after which the woodwork should be painted and the walls papered. a strict watch should be kept on all the help's rooms, and any signs of bugs should be promptly treated with the mixture of corrosive sublimate and alcohol. _cleanliness a necessity._ cleanliness is a prime factor in ridding rooms of vermin. in many of the hotels there is one woman appointed to look after the bugs, and she has no other duty. a good night's sleep is necessary to health and happiness. it can not be found in a room with vermin. the housekeeper should keep up the continual warfare against the standing army of bugs, and never allow the enemy to take possession. roaches, or water-bugs, are easily exterminated. hellebore sprinkled on the floor will soon kill them off. it is poison. they eat it at night and are killed. some people object to having poison around. in that case, powdered borax will prove an expedient eradicator. a good way to keep rats from a room is to saturate a rag with cayenne pepper and stuff it in the hole; no rat or mouse will touch the rag, not if it would open a communication with a depot of eatables. _a nauseating subject._ of all the obnoxious being that get into a hotel, the one whose feet smell to the heavens is the worst. every housekeeper in america--heaven bless them--if she has a normal and simple mind as fits her calling, finds smelling feet an intolerable nuisance. health requires at least one bath a day for the feet, and when they perspire freely they should be bathed twice a day. what must be said of the maid who, on entering a room, compels you to leave it on account of the sickening odor from her feet. in a case like this, the housekeeper must "take the bull by the horns," tell the maid that "her feet smell" and that "she must keep herself cleaner." the maid's feelings are not to be spared in the performance of this important duty. after washing the feet carefully twice a day for a week a cure will be effected. clean hosiery should be put on every day. a very good remedy for offensive feet is a few drops of muriatic acid in the water when bathing the feet before retiring to bed. the superiority of vacuum cleaning. this is an age of surprises and scientific researches. the up-to-date vacuum-cleaning machine is a huge debt to an ancient past. it is a big improvement over the methods employed in days gone by. as a preventive for moths, it has no equal. in hotels where this labor-saving device has not been installed, carpets must be carried to the roof to be cleaned, or sent to the regular carpet-cleaners, and soon converted into ravelings. carpets are very expensive, and, if you want your money's worth from them, you must preserve them from moths. in order to do this, they must be either vacuum-cleaned or taken to the roof every six months and given a beating. after the moths get a start in a carpet it is surprising to learn what vast inroads toward destruction they can make in a few weeks. moving the furniture and thoroughly sweeping and brushing the edges with turpentine are good preventives. but nothing will so effectually destroy them as does the vacuum-cleaning process. in order to secure detailed information regarding the workings of the vacuum-cleaning system for hotels, i wrote to a gentleman in milwaukee, who is probably the best informed man on that subject in the country. besides being in the vacuum-cleaning business, he is a hotel man himself and therefore knows how to meet the needs of the hotel housekeeper. i quote a part of his reply: _system explained by an expert._ "the vacuum-cleaning system in a hotel will pay for itself every year by reducing the cleaning force and by increasing the life of carpets, rugs, hangings, upholstery, and decorations, whether paper, fresco, or paint. "in hotels where this system is in use--and their number is increasing every month--carpets and rugs are cleaned on the floor. right here is a big saving. first, taking up and relaying carpets is expensive. there is nothing that wears them out quicker than this sort of handling and the beating and "tumbling." vacuum-cleaning not only saves this, but saves the daily wear and tear of grinding in the dirt and wearing off the nap with a broom. third, with the vacuum-system, valuable rooms are never put out of commission while the carpets and rugs are away being cleaned. "not only are the carpets and rugs kept cleaner by the vacuum-system, but everything else is cleaner because dust is kept down. the housekeeper of a certain hotel told the owner that since he put in the vacuum-system, the transoms had to be washed only one-fourth as often as before. now, the dust on those transoms came out of the air. it settled everywhere, but it showed plainly only on the transoms. with the vacuum-system, there is only one-fourth as much dust to settle on the walls and decorations, and even that little is quickly removed with the vacuum-wall-brush. dust on the walls is what causes the unpleasant, musty smell of many hotel rooms. keeping walls clean means less frequent redecorating. _purifies nearly everything._ "upholstered furniture is quickly and thoroughly cleaned by the vacuum-method. dust is removed not only from the surface, but also from the folds and creases and even the interior of the cushions. moths and their eggs are sucked out from their hiding places under the upholstery buttons or in the corners. "mattresses and pillows are kept clean and sweet by vacuum-treatment. passing the cleaning tool over the surface prevents dust from accumulating and sifting in. it sucks out the stale dusty air inside and draws in fresh air, thus preventing that unpleasant musty smell which hotel beds sometimes have. "by the vacuum-method, tapestries and hangings are kept fresh and bright without the trouble and expense of taking them down. one hotel manager told me his vacuum-system saved him $10 every time he cleaned the hangings in his dining-room, for it used to cost him that sum to have them re-draped. "by means of a special brush, wood and tile floors can be cleaned without the dust of dry sweeping, or the muddy aftermarks of sawdust. _vacuum always on tap._ "the most and recent important improvement in vacuum-cleaning consists in having the vacuum or 'suction power' always 'on tap' on every floor. at convenient points in the corridors, nickel-plated taps are placed. to these, the housemen or maids can quickly attach the rubber hose connected with the cleaning-tools. opening a valve turns on the suction or vacuum. then, as fast as the tool is moved over the surface to be cleaned, dust and dirt are sucked through the hose into the pipes and away to an air-tight dust-tank in the basement. the 'on tap' vacuum is always ready for use. no need to telephone or send word to the engineer to start that pump or to stop it when the work is done. "although the vacuum, or suction, is kept on tap all the time, practically no power is consumed except when the cleaning is going on. even then the amount of power used--whether it be steam or electricity--is automatically proportioned to the number and the size of the cleaning tools in use. whenever you lay down the sweeper to move a chair, just so much less power is consumed while the tool is idle. if one sweeper is in use, only one-tenth as much power is needed as when ten sweepers are working. the little upholstery tuft-cleaner consumes only one-ninth as much power as the carpet-sweeper. this means a great saving of power and is a great improvement over the old vacuum-methods, by which it was impossible to keep the vacuum on tap and by which, once the apparatus was started, full power was consumed, no matter how many sweepers were at work." the linen-room and the linen-woman. the linen-woman has in her care all the beautiful and expensive linen in the hotel; if she is careless in counting it when sending it to the different departments, careless in counting it after it has been returned, there will be a deficit in the "stock-report" at the end of the month. the linen-room is a position of trust. the linen-woman should be as accurate in counting her employer's napkins and table-cloths as the cashier is in counting his employer's dollars. the following set of rules and essential requirements are suggested for the management of the linen-woman: 1. she must be prompt to open the linen-room at 6:30 a.m. 2. must not leave the linen-room without notifying the housekeeper. 3. must sort the linen. 4. must see that no damaged article of linen is sent out to the guest-rooms. 5. must mend all the linen. 6. must keep track of the linen. 7. must keep the linen-room books. 8. must mark the new linen before sending it out. the linen-room is the housekeeper's pride. what is more pleasing to a housekeeper than to look into a well-kept linen-room. this room is the housekeeper's "stock-exchange," the room where all her business transactions take place. it is also her home. she has her geraniums in the window and her desk in one corner. she has her sewing-machine, and telephone, and a bright rug or two on the spotless floor. the linen-room is the place where the housekeeper is found or her whereabouts made known. the room should be thoroughly cleaned every saturday, and swept and dusted every day. it requires skill and labor to keep a well regulated linen-room looking neat and pretty. linen-shelves are scrubbed, not papered. all heavy articles, such as spreads, blankets, pillows, and table-felts should be kept on the top shelf. the water-glasses, ice-water pitchers, extra slop jars, washbowls and pitchers, should also be kept on the top shelves, and covered with a dust-cover. the other shelves should be scrubbed, and the sheets, slips, face-towels, and bath-towels used for the guest-rooms, put on a shelf by themselves. the helps' linen should be put on another shelf. the table-linen should be placed by itself, and so on--a place for everything and everything in its place. _how linen is mended._ the table-cloths should be mended first before they are sent to the laundry. the best way to mend table-linen is first to fill the holes with darning-cotton, just as you would if you were darning a stocking; then loosen the presser-foot of your sewing-machine and darn it down neatly with the machine. if the hole is very large--say as large as your hand--the better way is to cover the hole with darning-net before filling it in with the darning-cotton; then it may be finished on the machine. when the table-cloths are too bad to mend, the large ones can be cut down into small ones and the small ones into tray-covers. old napkins can be sewed together and used for cleaning-cloths. table-linen is very expensive and the careful housekeeper will easily save her salary above that of a careless one by properly taking care of the linen. _how coffee bags are made._ the coffee-bags should be made from the stewards' dictation. no two stewards will have them made the same. bath-towels, when damaged, may be made into wash-cloths, and used in the public baths. the cases for hot-water bags are made of white flannel. a supply of soap, matches, toilet-paper, and sanitary powder, should be kept in the linen-room, where it is convenient for the maids. the progressive housekeeper will not allow the stock of linen to grow too small. she will see that it is replenished each month. the linen-room should be opened at 6:30 a.m. and closed at 10:00 p.m. if it is a commercial hotel, the linen should be portioned among the maids, in the morning. the linen issued in the morning should be charged to each girl on the slate. the maids should count the soiled linen on their floor, pin the count to the bundle, and bring it to the linen-room, where the linen-woman again should count it and give each maid credit on the slate. the linen-woman should deduct the clean linen issued in the morning from the soiled linen returned, and, if the linen-room owes the maid, she should be given her linen at once. after that, the maid should get only one piece of clean linen for one of soiled. if the maid brings in no soiled linen, she should not get any clean. in this way, the linen-woman will be able to keep track of the linen. she will be able to tell the manager where every piece of linen is at any time of the day. the dining-room linen should be issued in the same way. the linen-woman should be able to tell by her books how many napkins are in the dining-room, how many are in the laundry, and the number that are on the shelf in the linen-room. it may not be an innovation, but a blackboard in the linen-room will be of great assistance to the housekeeper in copying the changes that are sent up from time to time during the day. the board may be freshly ruled every day, with as many columns as there are maids, and the maid's name, or number, should be written above her column. as the changes are sent up on a pad by the clerks, the linen-woman should copy them on the board, putting each maid's changes under her name. the maids should take the chalk and draw a straight line through their changes, indicating that the rooms have received proper attention. as there are few hotels that have not had some trouble about reporting changes, it would be a splendid idea for the clerk to insist on the housekeeper or the linen-woman signing for the changes. the fact that the clerk can produce his duplicate, showing the time to the very minute he sent the change, is not proof that the change was received in the linen-room. the bell-boy may be a new boy, and may have taken the change-slip to some other part of the house. but if the housekeeper, or the linen-woman, signs the pad on which the changes have been sent up, and the pad is returned to the office, the housekeeper or the linen-woman will have to furnish some other excuse for the room being out of order, than that she did not get the change. the housekeeper should see that an accurate account is taken every month of all the linen, and correctly entered on the linen-room stock-book. this account should show the new linen purchased during the month. the following form is suggested for the stock-book for the linen-room: inventory of linen-room for month ending january 1, 1908. ================+============+=====+=====+====+======++========= |total no. | plus| | | || jan. 1, 1908. |last count | new |grand|worn| || |dec. 1, 1907|stock|total|out |stolen||net total ----------------+------------+-----+-----+----+------++-------- sheets | 800 | 50 | 850 | 25 | || 825 slips | | | | | || spreads | | | | | || face-towels | | | | | || bath-towels | | | | | || table-cloths | | | | | || napkins | | | | | || side-towels | | | | | || tray-towels | | | | | || tops | | | | | || kitchen-towels | | | | | || glass-towels | | | | | || roller-towels | | | | | || bar-towels | | | | | || wash-room towels| | | | | || ----------------+------------+-----+-----+----+------++--------paradise, indeed, to the housekeeper, is the hotel that has its reserve-linen closet, where, in case of accident in the laundry, she may find linen to put the rooms in order. on the other hand, how very discouraging it is where there is only one set of linen for the beds and the maids must wait until the linen is back from the laundry before they can put the rooms in order. in such hotels, the housekeeper spends much of her time running to and from the laundry. when a new linen-woman is installed in the linen-room, the housekeeper should write out all the details of the duties required of her, regardless of any previous experience she may claim to have had. care of table-linen. a table-cloth should be long enough to hang over the table, at least eighteen inches on all sides. pattern cloths are prettier than the piece-linen. they are more expensive, but it pays to buy the best for hotel use. linen, to have sufficient body to wear well, should have a certain weight to the square inch. table-linen should weigh at least four and one-half ounces to the square yard. all pattern-cloths have the napkins to match. the napkins and table-cloths should have a tiny, narrow hem. they are best hemmed by hand, but this can not be thought of for hotels. it takes the same amount of money to purchase the unbleached linen as it does to buy the bleached. the irish bleached linen is of a more snowy whiteness than that of germany. this is owing to the climate of ireland, which is particularly adapted by sunshine and rain for natural bleaching. _table-linen most important._ the table-linen is more important than the bed-linen, and should receive the first consideration in the laundry. it should be carefully counted and sorted by the linen-woman at night, after dinner, and should be ready for the laundryman who must rise very early in the morning in order to have the table-linen ready for the laundry-maids that come on duty at seven o'clock. a table-cloth should be folded lengthwise twice, then doubled, putting both ends together, then folded, and it will be ready for the shelf. napkins should be put through the mangle three times and left without folding, so the linen-woman can easily sort them. _removing stains._ fruit-stains in linen may be removed by pouring boiling water through the stained spot. lemon juice and salt will remove iron-rust. tea, coffee, chocolate, and fruit-stains should be removed as soon as possible by pouring boiling water over them. after fruit-stains have been washed a few times in soapsuds, they become as firmly fixed in the linen as though they were dyed there, and can only be removed by a bleaching process. a good bleach can be made by taking one pint of boiling water to one teaspoonful of oxalic acid and one teaspoonful of ammonia. one teacupful of ammonia to a wash will keep the table-linen white. the care of the table-linen is a very important feature of the housekeeper's work. in many hotels, the housekeeper is required to purchase the linen. fashion changes in table-linen as in other things. a careful study of facts and figures has proved that, in proportion to the population, the united states of america consumes more linen than any other country in the world. it is not, however, a leader in the production of flax. russia takes the lead in this industry. the united states grows flax for the seed and not for the fibre; hence very little weaving is done in this country. _kinds of linen._ linen has a variety of names, as holland, damask, et cetera. damask linen was first made in damascus--the oldest city in the world--and was figured in fruit and flowers. a long time ago linen made in scotland was sent to germany to be bleached; hence the name holland. the old-time way of bleaching was long and expensive, sometimes taking an entire summer. after it was bleached by a natural process of open air, dew, and sunshine, it was then treated with an alkaline, and then buttermilk. it was left lying on the grass for a month, and sprinkled frequently with water and sometimes sour milk. at the present time, linen can be bleached in two weeks. the cost of bleaching is much less and linen fabric is one-half cheaper than formerly. the chemicals used in the modern process of bleaching greatly injures the fibre, and linen is not so durable as it was under the old-fashioned way of bleaching. _how to test linen._ the housekeeper in selecting linen at the counter may test the linen by ravelling out some of the threads. the threads that form the woof as well as the warp should be strong, and long thread linen. never buy linen that is stiff and glossy, as it will be thin after it is laundered. linen should be substantial, but pliant when crushed in the hand. never buy a table-cloth that is part linen and part cotton, as the shrinkage of linen and cotton fibre varies greatly, which causes the threads to break, and the table-cloth will soon be full of holes. laundry work. "order is heaven's first law," sang the poet, and to keep order in a hotel seems not such an herculean task. system makes work easy, and the superintendent of the laundry must insist on the work being systematically performed. soap and water are the most important materials used in the laundry work. to do good work with little or no damage to the linen, soft water and good soap are absolutely necessary. in many parts of the united states, the water is permanently hard, and is a perplexing question to laundry workers. the first thing to do is to soften the water. it can not be made soft by boiling, and must be treated with chemicals which must be used before the soap is added. when soap is used in hard water before it has been softened, the soap unites with the minerals in the water, and clings to the linen like a greasy scum. borax is the best softening agent for hard water. to soften water with borax, use one tablespoonful to each gallon of water. a tablespoonful of ammonia and one tablespoonful of turpentine to each washing will keep clothes white. hard water may be softened with potash or sal soda, which is much cheaper than borax and ammonia, but potash and sal soda are both corrosive and very injurious to the linen. great care must be used in softening water with these alkalines. if they are not thoroughly dissolved before using in the washer, little particles are apt to escape the solvent action of the water and stick to the linen and form brown spots which soon become holes. _good soap a necessity._ soap is the next cleaning agent to be considered. you can not have pretty, white linen without good soap. a good soft soap for use in hotel laundries can be made from the refuse fat from the kitchen. this soap will effect the cleaning of the hotel bed and table-linen, but for bundle-washing, flannels, and prints, a milder soap is generally used. a very good soap for washing flannels and prints may be made from the pieces of soap that are collected from the rooms. how linen is laundered and to be able to give a scientific reason for each step are the very first things a housekeeper should learn. no housekeeper is worthy of the title if she is unskilled in laundry tactics. yet how few housekeepers there are that could give even a recipe for making bleach, to say nothing of the most effective way to use it so as to cause the least injury to the fabric? few housekeepers know little or anything of the benefits of the scientific researches that have been made to render laundering easy. the linen must be carefully sorted and counted in the linen-room by the linen-woman. in hotels where the houseman gathers the linen from the different floors and carries it direct to the laundry, the laundryman has been known to dump it in the washer without sorting it. this is the source of many a lost pillow, blanket, nightshirt, and even pocketbooks and jewelry. guests often put their valuables under the pillow or in the pillowslip and forget them. these valuables sometimes escape the chambermaid's eyes in her haste to strip the beds. sometimes a new waiter in the dining-room will use a napkin to wipe his tray; these greatly soiled napkins should be rinsed out before they are put in the washer. _why the hotel laundry work is discolored._ is it any wonder that the sheets and table-linen soon get that brown color? all the soft water in the kingdom will not bring about the desired results if the linen is not carefully sorted. the napkins should be put in one pile, those that are badly soiled with mustard or gravy in another pile, and the table-cloths in another. napkins and table-cloths that are stained with tea, coffee, chocolate, or fruit, should be laid aside and boiling water should be poured through the stains before they come in contact with soap, as the soap will help to set the stains permanently. the laundryman should rise early and have the first washing from the extractor before the laundrygirls make their appearance, which is usually at seven o 'clock. the table-linen should receive the first attention. it is the least soiled, the most expensive, and it may be needed before the bed-linen. the napkins and table-cloths should not remain long after they are shaken out. they will have a finer gloss if they are mangled immediately after being taken from the extractor. one reason that linen gets that dirty brown color is because it has not been properly rinsed before adding the blueing. the soap should be thoroughly rinsed from the linen before the blueing is put in the washer. how many hotel laundries send the linen to the linen-room damp and steaming and smelling of soap? is it any wonder that the linen is soon full of holes and worn out? two tablespoonfuls of kerosene in a washing will greatly aid in cleansing, though more soap must be used in this case. in many laundries, there is not sufficient help. there should be at least two girls employed to shake out and two at the mangles, in a 200-room house. where there is bundle-washing it will require even more help than this. the kitchen-linen should be washed by hand on the board and not put in the washer. the housekeeper should be allowed plenty of help to properly do the work. _bleaching linens._ when clothes have become yellow by the use of impure water or any other cause, the snowy whiteness must be restored by a bleaching process. chloride of lime and oxalic acid are powerful agents, and, if not quickly removed from the fabric, they will corrode and do much injury to the linen. turpentine has some power as a bleacher as also has borax. blueing will aid in keeping the clothes white, but do not use too much. there are a variety of blueings to be had. the indigo blue is the best. starch will greatly aid in keeping clothes clean. it is made mostly from rice, wheat, corn, or potatoes. only a little starch should be used with delicate fabrics. they should be no stiffer than when they are new. the starch should be completely dissolved in cold water before adding the boiling water. stir the starch constantly while the boiling water is being poured in. a few things may be put in to give a gloss, and to make the iron run smooth; among them are paraffine, lard, kerosene, and gum arabic. _how to iron._ before commencing to iron, have ready a bowl of water and a cloth for smoothing wrinkles and rubbing away any soot or spots that may get on the garment. have a piece of paraffine tied in a cloth to rub over the iron, and a knife for scraping any starch from the iron that may stick to it in the process of ironing. put much weight on the iron and do not raise it from the garment but move it quickly over the surface. when a wrinkle is made, dampen it again with a wet cloth and smooth again with the iron. always iron in a good light so that scorching may be avoided. a garment should be ironed quickly; otherwise it will dry out and much time will be wasted in going over it with the damp cloth and changing the irons. in ironing a white duck skirt, stretch it in shape quickly while it is damp and iron it into shape, else it will be long here and short there. when ironing a ruffled skirt, always iron the bottom ruffle first and turn it back while ironing the others. iron around hooks and eyes and not over them. never iron a crease in a garment unless it is necessary. a crease will mar the effect of the garment and also cause the threads to break sooner, thereby making holes. _recipe for making bleach._ an inexpensive recipe for making a good bleach to be used every day will be found in the following: fill a clean barrel half full of boiling water and put into it ten pounds of chloride of lime and stir until well dissolved. dissolve ten pounds of caustic soda in boiling water and stir in the barrel. fill the barrel with boiling water and stir. let it settle and skim the little white particles from the surface, as these are what rot the clothes. use one gallon of the bleach in a washing. although laundering is one of the last kinds of work to receive the benefits of scientific research, much effort has recently been made to present easy and effective ways of laundering. the "how" and "why" has been learned. it is no difficulty for the housekeeper to hire a laundryman and to install him in his work with the words: "this is the laundry; you will meet with many difficulties in your line, but you must work out your own salvation." _how curtains are washed and mended._ take down the lace curtains that you are going to wash and shake them well so as to get all of the dust from them. put them in cold water to soak. then wash by hand in warm suds, to which has been added one teaspoonful of ammonia. do not rub them, squeeze dry and rinse through two waters. do not blue them. if they are of an ecru shade, put a little coffee in the water and they will look like new. starch and stretch loosely on the curtain frames while they are wet. the holes can be drawn together while on the bars so they will never be noticed after they are dry, and it is a far better way to mend curtains than darning them on the machine after they have dried. cream-colored curtains may be washed in the same way. colored madras and silk curtains can be cleansed in gasoline. great care must be taken, as gasoline is explosive. the curtains should be taken to the bathroom, and the door should be bolted and kept bolted until the curtains are cleaned and the gasoline is washed down the sewer. the curtains are then taken to the roof and aired for half a day. embroidered and lace-trimmed pieces should be taken from the line while only half dry and immediately ironed, to secure the best result. to raise the embroidery, iron on the wrong side over several layers of flannel covered with a sheet of old linen. never iron lace with the point of the iron, if you would have it look like new. pull and pat it into place, picking out the loops with a hairpin, or with a pointless darning-needle or bodkin. dampen it with a wet cloth and press with the reverse iron, using its "heel" only. when ironing circular centerpieces and table-cloths, see that the iron moves with the straight grain of the cloth. if this method is followed, the circular edge will take its true line. guard against ironing on the bias or on a curve, lest the linen stretch hopelessly out of shape. never fold a piece of this character after ironing it. the housekeeper's rules. if the management does not provide the housekeeper with rules, she is safe in formulating the following: 1. maids must report for duty at 7:00 a.m. 2. maids must lock all doors when leaving rooms. 3. no maid is allowed to transfer chairs or furniture from one room to another by order of the guests, unless they have an order from the office. 4. maids must report at once any articles which are misplaced or taken from the rooms. 5. keep all soiled linen in closets. 6. maids must not leave any article of soiled linen lying in the halls. 7. maids must not leave their brooms, feather dusters, dust-cloths, or sweepers, in the halls at any time during the day. 8. any article found in the rooms must be brought to the linen-room, with the number of the room and date when found. 9. all keys found left in rooms and doors must be sent to the office. 10. when a tray of dishes is left in a room, the maid must ring for a bell-boy and have him notify the headwaiter or report it to the housekeeper who will telephone the headwaiter. 11. all ink, paper, and pens left in the rooms must be put in the wire ink and stationery-receiver. 12. the watch-girls must report at 6 p.m. and remain until 10 p.m. or later, if required. 13. all torn blankets and spreads must be brought to the linen-room for repairs. 14. maids must not receive men friends in their rooms. 15. the housekeeper will relieve the linen-woman while she goes to her meals. _sunday._ 1. maids must report at 8 a.m. and remain until 1 p.m. 2. watch-girls must report for duty at 1 p.m. and remain until 9 p.m. all of these rules can not be, at all times, strictly enforced by the housekeeper. she will make such modifications as are made necessary by circumstances. but rules she must have, and she must insist on their being observed. the parlor maid. excepting the linen-room position, that of parlor maid is the most desirable situation that the hotel housekeeper can offer a girl. the wages are usually better than those of a chambermaid, and her work is not near so laborious. at all times, the parlor-maid is neatly dressed, suave, serene, and courteous. a quiet and unobtrusive manner is absolutely essential. she needs to take many steps during the day, and thus youth and a slender figure are the first qualities in one who wishes to make a success of the position. she meets people of wealth and refinement and the ultra fastidious, hence her position is a responsible one and requires a dignified appearance and demeanor. she must have self-respect and must claim the respect of others. none of the moralities must be omitted nor must she forget the daily bath, clean underwear, and clean hosiery every day. the morning is the time for the parlor-maid to do the cleaning, and she should wear about her work a washable dress of percale or dimity, with a white apron. in the afternoon and evening, this should be exchanged for a black skirt, white waist, and white apron. _where work is diversified._ she is expected to render quite diversified services. her duties vary with the mode of life of those by whom she is employed. she will scarcely be called on to do all the work that is herein enumerated; but the success of any hotel employe is largely due to the number of things he or she is able to do well. a parlor-maid may raise her occupation to a level with that of millinery or dress-making. there is room at the top of the ladder for the expert parlor-maid just the same as there is for any other person in any other calling. in the small hotels, the parlor-maid usually cares for the proprietor's private apartments. in addition to these, a suite next to the parlor may be given her to keep in order. she can easily look after these rooms where she has only one parlor. the cleaning of the ladies' toilet-room and reception-hall and the ladies' entrance-stairs usually falls to the parlor-maid. she must look after the writing-rooms, do the high dusting, clean the tiles, clean the mirrors, polish the brass trays, clean the cuspidors, wash the lace curtains, and sweep and dust. in washing windows and mirrors, she should use warm water to which a little ammonia has been added. she should not use soap, as the grease in the soap makes the polishing difficult. wipe with a dry cotton cloth and polish with a chamois skin. _keeping parlor in order._ as the parlor must always be in readiness for the reception of guests, it is thoroughly cleaned early in the morning. once a week is often enough for a thorough cleaning. monday is the best day for it. the furniture is moved into the hallway or into one corner of the parlor, the parlor is swept and dusted and every article replaced before breakfast. on week days, the corners are dug out with a whisk-broom and the dirt taken up with the sweeper. the parlor is dusted frequently and the cuspidors washed at least four times a day. she should wash the cuspidors inside and out, using soap and water; then wipe with a dry cloth. leave a little clean water in the cuspidors, as this will make the vessels easier to clean next time. _cleaning brass trays._ if the brass trays under the cuspidors are very badly stained, the stains may be easily removed with a solution of vinegar and salt, to which has been added a little flour. have the mixture boiling hot; rub the tray with the mixture with a flannel cloth, then wash the tray with hot water and wipe dry with a cloth. after this, it may be polished with a good mineral paste or some of the special preparations made for the purpose, using a flannel cloth for polishing. the high dusting is done with a long handled broom. tie a bag made of cotton flannel over the broom and brush the walls downward. brush the dust off the cornice and over the doors and windows. then, using a clean cheesecloth duster, go over the doors, window sills, mantles, and furniture, changing the soiled dust-cloth frequently for a clean one. the housekeeper must see that the parlor-maid is supplied with plenty of clean dust-cloths. _the maid's many duties._ if the fireplace is finished with tile, the parlor-maid should wash these with soap and water. she should polish the brass and replace it. the curtains and silk draperies should be taken down and hung in the open air and brushed with a whisk-broom. the rugs should be rolled up and the houseman should take them to a flat roof where they should be laid flat and swept. they should not be whipped or beaten, as "whipping" will ruin an expensive rug. when sweeping the stairs of the ladies' entrance, the parlor-maid should use the whisk-broom and dust-pan. the ladies' toilet-room requires some care to keep it always neat and clean. after sweeping the floor and dusting the doors, the bowls should be washed inside and out with the toilet-brush and a disinfectant put in. the stationary wash-basins should be scrubbed with sapolio and the faucets polished. there should be kept always on hand clean towels and soap, a comb and brush, a box of face-powder--the english prepared chalk is the best for toilet-rooms. the public baths on the parlor floor come under the parlor-maid's charge. she should keep the tubs and the floor clean, and see that soap and towels are supplied. the writing rooms should be cleaned before breakfast. the sweeping should be done the first thing in the morning. the desks should be supplied with fresh pen points, paper and ink once a day. the waste paper baskets should be emptied as often as is necessary, and the cuspidors should be cleaned at least four times a day. _keeps assembly-room in order._ it is usually the parlor maid's duty to take care of the casino, more familiarly called the assembly-hall. the casino floor requires very careful cleaning. no scrubbing or sweeping with ordinary brooms is permissible on a polished hardwood floor. it should be carefully swept with a bristle broom and the dust taken up on the dust-pan. the floor should then be dusted with a broom, over which has been tied the cotton-flannel bag made for the purpose. if there are any spots on the floor, they will have to be washed up, but this will take off the polish; therefore, it must be restored by the weighted brush or weighted box with brussels carpet tacked on the bottom of it. the original polish is restored by pulling the box back and forth over the floor. a housekeeper will make a sad mistake if she attempts to scrub the ballroom floor. _waxing the ballroom floor._ in most every hotel, it is left to the housekeeper to wax the ballroom floor before the opening of the "hop." the wax is sprinkled over the floor. in very large hotels in large cities where there are three or four public parlors, and where three or four parlor-maids are employed, their work is confined to the parlors. the parlor-maid waits on the ladies, helps them on and off with their wraps, and caters to their comfort both physically and mentally; keeps the parlor clean, and does many little acts which go to make a great big hotel seem like home. _the card and wine-rooms._ no drinks are served in the public parlors, public halls, or cosy-corners. the wine-rooms are usually kept in order by the parlor-maid. the bar-porter should come for the bottles and remove the dishes. the parlor-maid should sweep and dust the wine rooms and wipe the tables, if they are polished wood. if they are ordinary dining-room tables, she should put clean table-cloths on them twice a day. the wine-rooms are usually named for the cities: chicago, new york, binghamton, cincinnati, st. louis, denver, and new orleans. the card-rooms are kept in order by the parlor-maid. there is seldom much furniture in a card-room, only chairs and tables. sweeping and dusting once a day and a clean cover for the table is all that is required. to make a muslin cover for a poker-table, take a piece of muslin and cut it round to fit the table, allowing six inches to hang down. run a casing on the edge of it, with a bias piece two inches wide. run in the casing, a drawing-string of common wrapping-twine. the drawing-string must be as long as the muslin is around so it will not have to be removed when laundered. after it is laundered, put it on the table and pull the drawing-string, and tie under the table. in small hotels where the parlor-maid is called on to perform all of these manifold duties, she is assisted by the houseman. about chambermaids. some person that does not know anything about the life of a chambermaid will tell you that the "chambermaid has no protection, no morality, and is without the influence of a fixed place or home atmosphere;" finally, that "chamber-work is the most degrading occupation a girl can engage in!" if a girl is not capable of a higher calling, why should not she make beds in a hotel when there is such a crying need from the hotel managers for conscientious and painstaking work? it is not every girl that providence has blessed with a prima donna's voice. not every girl can be admitted on the vaudeville stage. not all have had kind and wealthy parents to send them through college and fit them for the higher attainments. _chambermaid can take care of self._ the proprietor is ever ready to protect the maids from undue familiarity from the male patrons of the hotel. this is seldom necessary. the average maid meets an incivility with a cold disdain that puts to rout a second attempt. men that wreck women's lives are found outside of hotels. _religion a factor._ it is an undisputed fact that the irish-american catholic girls make the best chambermaids. the comfort found in the catholic religion compensates for the loss of home ties. she is without any danger signal save her own conscience, yet there does not exist on the face of the earth a more moral class of girls than the irish-american catholic chambermaids in the hotels of the united states. she goes at her work determined to use her experience as a stepping-stone to something higher. she encounters many pitfalls. she makes a few mistakes, but during her stay in yankeeland she has learned president roosevelt's maxim: "the man who never makes any mistakes is the man who never does anything." she is consoled by it, and from her pitfalls learns a lesson that enables her to avoid making the same mistakes in the future. _not a bad day's program._ at the grand union hotel in new york city, and in hotels in other cities in new york state, the writer has learned from observation that the social side of the chambermaid's life is a pleasant one. she begins the day at 7:15 and quits at 4:00, except the night she is on watch. she is given a ten o'clock lunch; she has one hour for dinner, and at 2:30 she is given fifteen minutes for a cup of tea. the night she is on watch, she is served with a good dinner of chicken and all the good things the hotel affords. she has every third sunday off and may follow her own will. she has time to cultivate acquaintances, and attend to her religious duties. _christmas time._ there is kindness and courtesy existing among the maids. when christmas day draws near, the festivities are looked forward to with eager anticipation. mysterious-looking bundles are coming in and going out. friends are remembered. the father and mother, brother and sister over the water are not forgotten; and likewise the maids are not forgotten by their employer. the dining-hall is wreathed in holly, the table is loaded with all the season's delicacies. trade is dull in the hotel, and the time is given over to enjoyment. _chambermaids at their best._ there are evening parties in the "help's hall." the weekly "tips" or any "stray coins" are invested in sugar and butter, and "fondant" is made that would melt in your mouth. then there is the "taffy-pull," the cups of tea, and the "fortunes told," over the cups. the jokes go round, the merry laughter resounds and gets so loud that the housekeeper, who has retired, rises, and hastens to put a stop to the noise. arriving on the scene, she has not the heart to reprove them. herein she tastes an old joy of girlhood. it is christmas. she slips back to her own room and into bed again. the airs of "killarney" and "the wearing of the green" die away, and the house is quiet. miscellaneous subjects. the housekeeper should furnish the houseman with a synopsis of his duties every morning. in addition to this, he has, of course, his regular duties--sweeping halls, dusting, cleaning cuspidors, washing windows, hanging curtains, moving furniture, laying carpets, and cleaning lights. sweeping roofs and keeping gutters clean fall to his share also. fortunate indeed is the housekeeper that can have a houseman for each floor. a skull cap and an over-all suit would be appropriate apparel for the houseman. * * * * * any defective plumbing in bathrooms should be promptly reported by the housekeeper. sometimes a guest will justly complain that the faucet in the bathtub is out of order, and the water trickling all night keeps him awake. a tray under the ice-water pitcher will save the table or dresser. * * * * * the soul of the housekeeper faints within her when a guest complains that he has been given a room reserved for "plain drunks." he calls attention to the fact that the carpet is patched in thirteen places, and at least as many patches of paper are in evidence on the wall. * * * * * the sweepers require special care. the maids should bring them to the linen room once a month where they are oiled. never empty the sweeper by pulling the pan down, as this breaks the spring, causing the pan to drop lower than the brush, and the sweeper fails to pick up the dirt. a bissell sweeper in the hands of a skillful maid will last three years. _season for repotting house-plants._ september is the season for repotting house-plants. as flowers are such important factors of civilization speaking to us of nature's god, it is surprising that more plants are not seen in hotels, and that more proprietors do not adopt this ingenious plan of beautifying their dining-rooms and corridors, using palms instead of those cheap artificial roses which are so conspicuous in third-rate hotels. the stately palm lends an air of refinement that nothing else can give. the greatest obstacle to the growth of house-plants is dust. the palms, azaleas, and rubber plants may be sponged occasionally to keep them clean and healthy. other plants may be taken to the bathroom and given a shower-bath. in the summer time, two or three times a week is often enough for watering the house-plants. in winter, once a week is sufficient. why hotel employees fail to rise. the reasons why some people never rise above commonplace positions should be made clear to all that seek employment or better conditions. in every field, there are those that never take the initiative, and they make up the great majority. they are apparently afraid of doing too much work, or of making themselves generally useful, or of doing some bit of work that has not been assigned them, for which they might not be paid, forgetting that the world's greatest prizes are generally bestowed on the individual who does the right thing without being told. if we wait to be told our duties, we cease to be moral agents and are mere machines, and, as such, stationary in place and pay. if you would succeed, cultivate self-confidence, which is one of the foundation stones of success. rest assured your employer knows the difference between "bluff" and the real thing. "nerve" will not win in the long run. it may accomplish temporary advantage, but there must be something back of "nerve." practice self-control. if you can not control yourself, you can not control others. when the commander riding in front of his army takes to the woods in the face of the enemy, he can only expect his troops to follow his example. anger is an unbecoming mood. in serenity, lies power. keep busy. improve each moment. do not be afraid of too much work. the office-boy that sits around watching the clock, as if he might be waiting for his automobile to take him home, will never own the hotel. the superintendent that has not enough patience to instruct properly a beginner may lose valuable assistants and can not hope to achieve a great enterprise. do not become discouraged and resign your position because it is not up to your ideal. it may be better to bear with the ills you have than fly to others you know not of. suggestions in case of fire. it is hard to tell a housekeeper what to do or what not to do in case of fire. no two hotels are alike, and no two fires occur in the same way. circumstances are to be considered first. much depends on the location and the progress of the fire, and whether it is night or day. it is an old maxim "that fire is a good servant but a hard master." shakespeare wrote: "a little fire is quickly trodden out, which, being suffered, rivers cannot quench." it is bad policy to delay sending in the alarm to the fire department. many persons put off this important duty until it is too late. they reason that it might alarm the guests and cause a panic and that they will be drowned out. thus they battle with the flames with the incomplete fire apparatus belonging to the hotel, refusing the petition to turn in an alarm to the fire department until the fire has gained such headway that it is impossible for even the skilled firemen to put it out. thereby jeopardizing the lives of the hotel guests and also the lives of the firemen. no general in command of an army, no hero in battle deserves more praise than do these courageous men who hourly risk their lives to save lives and the property of others. minutes count for something in a fire. the fire department can quickly and quietly put out a small fire, and the guests of the hotel may never know that a fire has occurred until it is all over. panics usually follow when the people are face to face with the flames, and not at the sight of the fire department in front of the hotel. to a sensible mind, the fire engine and firemen should bring a feeling of safety. a feeling that if the hotel is on fire, the fire will soon be extinguished. keep cool; don't run, and don't talk or give orders in an excited tone. should a fire occur in a single room, close the door of that room to prevent the flames from spreading, and go to the nearest fire hose rack, and attach the hose to the plug and take the nozzle end to the door of the room in which the fire is started, then go back and turn on the water. if the water is turned on before the hose has been carried it will make the hose too heavy for one person to carry, especially if you have to climb a stairway or go any great distance; a fire hose when full of water is very heavy. the housekeeper should never desert the hotel in case of fire. she has in her possession keys to all doors. she is familiar with the location of windows and fire escapes, and the location of the fire extinguishers and axes. she knows the position of all stairways, particularly the top landing and scuttle to the roof. she knows where all fire proof doors are located, where the water pails are kept and she can render the firemen great service in directing them to a more advantageous position. all doors should be unlocked so that the firemen can have free access without breaking them in and causing delay. the doors, however, should be kept closed to prevent the fire spreading. the rapidity with which a building is consumed by flames is due to the wind and the draughts from stairways, open doors and windows and elevator shafts. the walls of elevator shafts and all vertical openings should be built of non-combustible material, such as brick and mortar and all elevators should be equipped with automatic traps. in case of a fire on the first floor, the automatic trap would fall when a certain degree of heat was reached and thus prevent the fire from reaching the second floor, and the progress of the fire would be delayed. all fire hose should be tested every six months. a leak may have caused the hose to become worthless. all hose should be attached to the fire plug at all times and the little wrench for turning on the water should be tied to the rack where the hose is kept. all these essentials should be examined and carefully scrutinized by every housekeeper and chambermaid. a fire can make great progress while some inexperienced person is fumbling with and trying to attach the hose and turn on the water. there should be a red light in the hall in front of the fire escape window; a red light can be seen better than a white one. the view of the fire escape window should never be obstructed by any kind of a curtain. all hotels should have a stand pipe, it will reduce the rate of insurance one-third. although few people know how to escape down a rope fire-escape, every room in the hotel should be equipped with one. all fire departments should have a life net; dropping into a life-net is not so hazardous as sliding down a rope when one is ignorant of the proper way to do it. the life nets are made of woven rope with springs, and are 10 feet in diameter. the firemen hold this net and persons dropping into it can be saved. the kirker bender spiral tube fire-escape is the best and safest. in one minute 200 persons can slide through the kirker bender, to absolute safety. it is a very expensive fire escape, but expense should not be considered when building fire-escapes. there should be a fire-alarm box in every hall. should a fire occur, on a floor where there is no fire-alarm box, a messenger would have to be dispatched to the office before the fire company could be notified. some hotels have no fire-box at all. the fire-box being located a block away from the hotel. fire-boxes can be put in hotels with very little expense. it is an old saying--"an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure." this is especially true in the case of fire prevention. if the following precautions are taken, fires from accident or spontaneous combustion seldom occur. _fire prevention._ keep your hotel clean and never allow rubbish, such as paper, rags, cobwebs, old clothing and boxes to accumulate in closets and unused rooms. don't allow coal oil lamps to be used by women patrons for the purpose of heating curling irons. never put up gas brackets so they can be swung against door casings or immediately under curtains. never keep matches in any but metal or earthen safes. never keep old woolen rags that have been used in oiling and cleaning furniture, or waxing floors, unless in a tin can with a tin lid. _origin of fires._ fires are the results of accidents, of spontaneous combustion, and of design. if they have been accidental, the cause can generally be discovered, and it will be found, that they might have been prevented. carelessness and negligence are the cause of over two-thirds of all fires. electrical fires are caused from electric light wires lying against wood or iron, or coming in contact with water. a stream of water thrown on a heavily charged electric light wire will give a shock and may even kill the fireman holding the nozzle. this is one reason why the electric lights are cut off when a fire is raging and thus leaving people to grope their way out through darkness. all hotels should have hall-ways lighted by gas, and especially should a gas light with a red globe be placed in front of all fire escape windows. should a fire occur at night the housekeeper should give orders to have all doors unlocked and the gas lighted in the halls. the evolution of the housekeeper. the greatest wonder to my mind is that more women that must of necessity earn their livelihood, do not adopt the profession of hotel housekeeping. what nicer or more profitable way can a woman earn her living. standing at my window of a stormy morning, i see many women going early through the wind and snow, sometimes rain, to their work, and i can not help comparing my daily tasks to theirs. many of these women stand all day behind the counters of some large dry-goods store, where they are designated only as no. 1, no. 2, and so on. some of the women are going to work in silk mills, where the looms keep up a deafening roar, and where, at their noon hour, they must eat a cold lunch. these women get a small salary, on an average $8.00 a week, and out of this they must pay their room, board and laundry bills. i could not refrain from contrasting the hotel housekeeper's position with that of other women-workers in cities. the housekeeper has a good, warm room, clean bed, hot and cold bath, and the best eating that the hotel affords. she may command the respect of all other employes in the house, and may make many life-long friends. my advice to any young woman seeking a situation is to start right at chamber-work, to keep her wits sharp, and her head on her shoulders. to be sure, there are many temptations, all of which the average girl should be able to resist. but a chambermaid with a modest and reticent disposition may never meet with any pitfalls, at least, no more than would be encountered in a dry-goods store or factory. from chambermaid, she may get promoted to the linen-room, where she will be shielded and protected from interlopers, and will have plenty of leisure to sew or to mend for her own benefit. she can save money, for she will have better pay in the linen-room. she will also have better food, and will learn something of the executive management of the hotel. naturally, she will see more of the proprietor or the manager, and will learn his ideas and principles, which knowledge may be useful to her in later years. time brings about many changes, and hotels change proprietors, as well as housekeepers and managers. often, when a new manager makes his appearance, he will bring his housekeeper or linen-room woman with him; in this case, the linen-room woman may have to secure another situation. now is her chance to take a step higher on the ladder, by obtaining a position as housekeeper. index. assembly hall, 87 attention to details, 34 birds of passage, 32-33 character in the hotel business, 26 cleaning rooms, 41-44 card and wine rooms, 88 cleaning brass, 85 chambermaids, 90 evolution of the housekeeper, 104-105 fires, suggestions in case of, 98 fire prevention, 102 fires, origin of, 103 gossip between employes, 29-30 housekeeper and the help, 17-22 housekeeper's salary, 38-40 housekeeper, progressive, 35-37 housekeeper's rules, 81 housekeeper, relationship between guests, 31 housekeeper, requirements of, 11-20 housekeeper, and co-operation, 17-22 how to make beds, 47-48 how to clean walls, 49-51 how to scrub a floor, 51-52 how to get rid of vermin, 53-57 linen room, linen woman, 63-68 linen, table, care of, 69-70 linen, removing stains, 70 linen, best kind, 71 linen, how to test, 72 laundry, making bleach, 73-80 miscellaneous subjects, 94 parlor maid, 83-90 proprietor's wife, 23-25 room inspection, 21-28 vacuum cleaning system, 58-62 waxing ballroom floor, 88 +-------------------------------------------------+ | transcriber's note: | | | | inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the | | original document have been preserved. | | | | typographical errors corrected in the text: | | | | page 8 succees changed to success | | page 9 riebold changed to reibold | | page 12 linen-en-room changed to linen-room | | page 14 housekeeperes changed to housekeepers | | page 22 ordel changed to ordeal | | page 23 plebianism changed to plebeanism | | page 24 benefitted changed to benefited | | page 31 sweetner changed to sweetener | | page 33 admireres changed to admirers | | page 39 avereage changed to average | | page 40 theadbare changed to threadbare | | page 44 symmetricaly changed to symmetrically | | page 49 woll changed to wall | | page 49 obmtain changed to obtain | | page 58 clening changed to cleaning | | page 59 sytem changed to system | | page 60 accumulationg changed to accumulating | | page 63 line changed to linen | | page 65 ow changed to how | | page 67 line changed to linen | | page 70 procees changed to process | | page 71 presen changed to present | | page 75 line changed to linen | | page 75 pilow changed to pillow | | page 85 cupidors changed to cuspidors | | page 87 cosino changed to casino | | page 88 balroom changed to ballroom | | page 89 binghampton changed to binghamton | | page 96 occasionaly changed to occasionally | | page 99 headwas changed to headway | | page 100 prevtn changed to prevent | | page 102 an a floor changed to on a floor | | page 103 carlessness changed to carelessness | +-------------------------------------------------+ available by internet archive (http://www.archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 31189-h.htm or 31189-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/31189/31189-h/31189-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/31189/31189-h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see http://www.archive.org/details/monsterotherstor00cranuoft the monster and other stories by stephen crane [illustration: "'if you ain't afraid, go do it then'"] illustrated new york and london harper & brothers publishers 1899 copyright, 1899, by harper & brothers. all rights reserved. [illustration: "'henry johnson! rats!'"] contents the monster the blue hotel his new mittens illustrations "'if you ain't afraid, go do it then'" "no one would have suspected him of ever having washed a buggy" "'henry johnson! rats!'" "they bowed and smiled until a late hour" "the band played a waltz" "'what district?'" in the laboratory "they did not care much for john shipley" "'if i get six dollehs for bo'ding hennery johnson, i uhns it'" "the door swung portentously open" mrs. farragut "'it's about what nobody talks of--much,' said twelve" little horace "yelling like hawks at the white balls flew" "'i've got to go home'" "when he raised his voice to deny the charge" "'aw, come on!'" "a pair of very wet mittens" "brought a plate of food" "horace stared with sombre eyes at the plate of food" "some sort of bloody-handed person" "people, bowed forward" "eight cents' worth of something" "his head hung low" "'mam-ma! mam-ma! oh, mam-ma!'" the monster i little jim was, for the time, engine number 36, and he was making the run between syracuse and rochester. he was fourteen minutes behind time, and the throttle was wide open. in consequence, when he swung around the curve at the flower-bed, a wheel of his cart destroyed a peony. number 36 slowed down at once and looked guiltily at his father, who was mowing the lawn. the doctor had his back to this accident, and he continued to pace slowly to and fro, pushing the mower. jim dropped the tongue of the cart. he looked at his father and at the broken flower. finally he went to the peony and tried to stand it on its pins, resuscitated, but the spine of it was hurt, and it would only hang limply from his hand. jim could do no reparation. he looked again towards his father. he went on to the lawn, very slowly, and kicking wretchedly at the turf. presently his father came along with the whirring machine, while the sweet, new grass blades spun from the knives. in a low voice, jim said, "pa!" the doctor was shaving this lawn as if it were a priest's chin. all during the season he had worked at it in the coolness and peace of the evenings after supper. even in the shadow of the cherry-trees the grass was strong and healthy. jim raised his voice a trifle. "pa!" the doctor paused, and with the howl of the machine no longer occupying the sense, one could hear the robins in the cherry-trees arranging their affairs. jim's hands were behind his back, and sometimes his fingers clasped and unclasped. again he said, "pa!" the child's fresh and rosy lip was lowered. the doctor stared down at his son, thrusting his head forward and frowning attentively. "what is it, jimmie?" "pa!" repeated the child at length. then he raised his finger and pointed at the flowerbed. "there!" "what?" said the doctor, frowning more. "what is it, jim?" after a period of silence, during which the child may have undergone a severe mental tumult, he raised his finger and repeated his former word--"there!" the father had respected this silence with perfect courtesy. afterwards his glance carefully followed the direction indicated by the child's finger, but he could see nothing which explained to him. "i don't understand what you mean, jimmie," he said. it seemed that the importance of the whole thing had taken away the boy's vocabulary, he could only reiterate, "there!" the doctor mused upon the situation, but he could make nothing of it. at last he said, "come, show me." together they crossed the lawn towards the flower-bed. at some yards from the broken peony jimmie began to lag. "there!" the word came almost breathlessly. "where?" said the doctor. jimmie kicked at the grass. "there!" he replied. the doctor was obliged to go forward alone. after some trouble he found the subject of the incident, the broken flower. turning then, he saw the child lurking at the rear and scanning his countenance. the father reflected. after a time he said, "jimmie, come here." with an infinite modesty of demeanor the child came forward. "jimmie, how did this happen?" the child answered, "now--i was playin' train--and--now--i runned over it." "you were doing what?" "i was playin' train." the father reflected again. "well, jimmie," he said, slowly, "i guess you had better not play train any more to-day. do you think you had better?" "no, sir," said jimmie. during the delivery of the judgment the child had not faced his father, and afterwards he went away, with his head lowered, shuffling his feet. ii it was apparent from jimmie's manner that he felt some kind of desire to efface himself. he went down to the stable. henry johnson, the negro who cared for the doctor's horses, was sponging the buggy. he grinned fraternally when he saw jimmie coming. these two were pals. in regard to almost everything in life they seemed to have minds precisely alike. of course there were points of emphatic divergence. for instance, it was plain from henry's talk that he was a very handsome negro, and he was known to be a light, a weight, and an eminence in the suburb of the town, where lived the larger number of the negroes, and obviously this glory was over jimmie's horizon; but he vaguely appreciated it and paid deference to henry for it mainly because henry appreciated it and deferred to himself. however, on all points of conduct as related to the doctor, who was the moon, they were in complete but unexpressed understanding. whenever jimmie became the victim of an eclipse he went to the stable to solace himself with henry's crimes. henry, with the elasticity of his race, could usually provide a sin to place himself on a footing with the disgraced one. perhaps he would remember that he had forgotten to put the hitching-strap in the back of the buggy on some recent occasion, and had been reprimanded by the doctor. then these two would commune subtly and without words concerning their moon, holding themselves sympathetically as people who had committed similar treasons. on the other hand, henry would sometimes choose to absolutely repudiate this idea, and when jimmie appeared in his shame would bully him most virtuously, preaching with assurance the precepts of the doctor's creed, and pointing out to jimmie all his abominations. jimmie did not discover that this was odious in his comrade. he accepted it and lived in its shadow with humility, merely trying to conciliate the saintly henry with acts of deference. won by this attitude, henry would sometimes allow the child to enjoy the felicity of squeezing the sponge over a buggy-wheel, even when jimmie was still gory from unspeakable deeds. whenever henry dwelt for a time in sackcloth, jimmie did not patronize him at all. this was a justice of his age, his condition. he did not know. besides, henry could drive a horse, and jimmie had a full sense of this sublimity. henry personally conducted the moon during the splendid journeys through the country roads, where farms spread on all sides, with sheep, cows, and other marvels abounding. "hello, jim!" said henry, poising his sponge. water was dripping from the buggy. sometimes the horses in the stalls stamped thunderingly on the pine floor. there was an atmosphere of hay and of harness. for a minute jimmie refused to take an interest in anything. he was very downcast. he could not even feel the wonders of wagon washing. henry, while at his work, narrowly observed him. "your pop done wallop yer, didn't he?" he said at last. "no," said jimmie, defensively; "he didn't." after this casual remark henry continued his labor, with a scowl of occupation. presently he said: "i done tol' yer many's th' time not to go a-foolin' an' a-projjeckin' with them flowers. yer pop don' like it nohow." as a matter of fact, henry had never mentioned flowers to the boy. jimmie preserved a gloomy silence, so henry began to use seductive wiles in this affair of washing a wagon. it was not until he began to spin a wheel on the tree, and the sprinkling water flew everywhere, that the boy was visibly moved. he had been seated on the sill of the carriage-house door, but at the beginning of this ceremony he arose and circled towards the buggy, with an interest that slowly consumed the remembrance of a late disgrace. johnson could then display all the dignity of a man whose duty it was to protect jimmie from a splashing. "look out, boy! look out! you done gwi' spile yer pants. i raikon your mommer don't 'low this foolishness, she know it. i ain't gwi' have you round yere spilin' yer pants, an' have mis' trescott light on me pressen'ly. 'deed i ain't." he spoke with an air of great irritation, but he was not annoyed at all. this tone was merely a part of his importance. in reality he was always delighted to have the child there to witness the business of the stable. for one thing, jimmie was invariably overcome with reverence when he was told how beautifully a harness was polished or a horse groomed. henry explained each detail of this kind with unction, procuring great joy from the child's admiration. iii after johnson had taken his supper in the kitchen, he went to his loft in the carriage house and dressed himself with much care. no belle of a court circle could bestow more mind on a toilet than did johnson. on second thought, he was more like a priest arraying himself for some parade of the church. as he emerged from his room and sauntered down the carriage-drive, no one would have suspected him of ever having washed a buggy. [illustration: "no one would have suspected him of ever having washed a buggy"] it was not altogether a matter of the lavender trousers, nor yet the straw hat with its bright silk band. the change was somewhere, far in the interior of henry. but there was no cake-walk hyperbole in it. he was simply a quiet, well-bred gentleman of position, wealth, and other necessary achievements out for an evening stroll, and he had never washed a wagon in his life. in the morning, when in his working-clothes, he had met a friend--"hello, pete!" "hello, henry!" now, in his effulgence, he encountered this same friend. his bow was not at all haughty. if it expressed anything, it expressed consummate generosity--"good-evenin', misteh washington." pete, who was very dirty, being at work in a potato-patch, responded in a mixture of abasement and appreciation--"good-evenin', misteh johnsing." the shimmering blue of the electric arc lamps was strong in the main street of the town. at numerous points it was conquered by the orange glare of the outnumbering gaslights in the windows of shops. through this radiant lane moved a crowd, which culminated in a throng before the post-office, awaiting the distribution of the evening mails. occasionally there came into it a shrill electric street-car, the motor singing like a cageful of grasshoppers, and possessing a great gong that clanged forth both warnings and simple noise. at the little theatre, which was a varnish and red plush miniature of one of the famous new york theatres, a company of strollers was to play "east lynne." the young men of the town were mainly gathered at the corners, in distinctive groups, which expressed various shades and lines of chumship, and had little to do with any social gradations. there they discussed everything with critical insight, passing the whole town in review as it swarmed in the street. when the gongs of the electric cars ceased for a moment to harry the ears, there could be heard the sound of the feet of the leisurely crowd on the bluestone pavement, and it was like the peaceful evening lashing at the shore of a lake. at the foot of the hill, where two lines of maples sentinelled the way, an electric lamp glowed high among the embowering branches, and made most wonderful shadow-etchings on the road below it. when johnson appeared amid the throng a member of one of the profane groups at a corner instantly telegraphed news of this extraordinary arrival to his companions. they hailed him. "hello, henry! going to walk for a cake to-night?" "ain't he smooth?" "why, you've got that cake right in your pocket, henry!" "throw out your chest a little more." henry was not ruffled in any way by these quiet admonitions and compliments. in reply he laughed a supremely good-natured, chuckling laugh, which nevertheless expressed an underground complacency of superior metal. young griscom, the lawyer, was just emerging from reifsnyder's barber shop, rubbing his chin contentedly. on the steps he dropped his hand and looked with wide eyes into the crowd. suddenly he bolted back into the shop. "wow!" he cried to the parliament; "you ought to see the coon that's coming!" reifsnyder and his assistant instantly poised their razors high and turned towards the window. two belathered heads reared from the chairs. the electric shine in the street caused an effect like water to them who looked through the glass from the yellow glamour of reifsnyder's shop. in fact, the people without resembled the inhabitants of a great aquarium that here had a square pane in it. presently into this frame swam the graceful form of henry johnson. "chee!" said reifsnyder. he and his assistant with one accord threw their obligations to the winds, and leaving their lathered victims helpless, advanced to the window. "ain't he a taisy?" said reifsnyder, marvelling. but the man in the first chair, with a grievance in his mind, had found a weapon. "why, that's only henry johnson, you blamed idiots! come on now, reif, and shave me. what do you think i am--a mummy?" reifsnyder turned, in a great excitement. "i bait you any money that vas not henry johnson! henry johnson! rats!" the scorn put into this last word made it an explosion. "that man was a pullman-car porter or someding. how could that be henry johnson?" he demanded, turbulently. "you vas crazy." the man in the first chair faced the barber in a storm of indignation. "didn't i give him those lavender trousers?" he roared. and young griscom, who had remained attentively at the window, said: "yes, i guess that was henry. it looked like him." "oh, vell," said reifsnyder, returning to his business, "if you think so! oh, vell!" he implied that he was submitting for the sake of amiability. finally the man in the second chair, mumbling from a mouth made timid by adjacent lather, said: "that was henry johnson all right. why, he always dresses like that when he wants to make a front! he's the biggest dude in town--anybody knows that." "chinger!" said reifsnyder. [illustration: "'henry johnson! rats!'"] henry was not at all oblivious of the wake of wondering ejaculation that streamed out behind him. on other occasions he had reaped this same joy, and he always had an eye for the demonstration. with a face beaming with happiness he turned away from the scene of his victories into a narrow side street, where the electric light still hung high, but only to exhibit a row of tumble-down houses leaning together like paralytics. the saffron miss bella farragut, in a calico frock, had been crouched on the front stoop, gossiping at long range, but she espied her approaching caller at a distance. she dashed around the corner of the house, galloping like a horse. henry saw it all, but he preserved the polite demeanor of a guest when a waiter spills claret down his cuff. in this awkward situation he was simply perfect. the duty of receiving mr. johnson fell upon mrs. farragut, because bella, in another room, was scrambling wildly into her best gown. the fat old woman met him with a great ivory smile, sweeping back with the door, and bowing low. "walk in, misteh johnson, walk in. how is you dis ebenin', misteh johnson--how is you?" henry's face showed like a reflector as he bowed and bowed, bending almost from his head to his ankles, "good-evenin', mis' fa'gut; good-evenin'. how is you dis evenin'? is all you' folks well, mis' fa'gut?" after a great deal of kowtow, they were planted in two chairs opposite each other in the living-room. here they exchanged the most tremendous civilities, until miss bella swept into the room, when there was more kowtow on all sides, and a smiling show of teeth that was like an illumination. the cooking-stove was of course in this drawing-room, and on the fire was some kind of a long-winded stew. mrs. farragut was obliged to arise and attend to it from time to time. also young sim came in and went to bed on his pallet in the corner. but to all these domesticities the three maintained an absolute dumbness. they bowed and smiled and ignored and imitated until a late hour, and if they had been the occupants of the most gorgeous salon in the world they could not have been more like three monkeys. after henry had gone, bella, who encouraged herself in the appropriation of phrases, said, "oh, ma, isn't he divine?" [illustration: "they bowed and smiled until a late hour"] iv a saturday evening was a sign always for a larger crowd to parade the thoroughfare. in summer the band played until ten o'clock in the little park. most of the young men of the town affected to be superior to this band, even to despise it; but in the still and fragrant evenings they invariably turned out in force, because the girls were sure to attend this concert, strolling slowly over the grass, linked closely in pairs, or preferably in threes, in the curious public dependence upon one another which was their inheritance. there was no particular social aspect to this gathering, save that group regarded group with interest, but mainly in silence. perhaps one girl would nudge another girl and suddenly say, "look! there goes gertie hodgson and her sister!" and they would appear to regard this as an event of importance. on a particular evening a rather large company of young men were gathered on the sidewalk that edged the park. they remained thus beyond the borders of the festivities because of their dignity, which would not exactly allow them to appear in anything which was so much fun for the younger lads. these latter were careering madly through the crowd, precipitating minor accidents from time to time, but usually fleeing like mist swept by the wind before retribution could lay hands upon them. the band played a waltz which involved a gift of prominence to the bass horn, and one of the young men on the sidewalk said that the music reminded him of the new engines on the hill pumping water into the reservoir. a similarity of this kind was not inconceivable, but the young man did not say it because he disliked the band's playing. he said it because it was fashionable to say that manner of thing concerning the band. however, over in the stand, billie harris, who played the snare-drum, was always surrounded by a throng of boys, who adored his every whack. after the mails from new york and rochester had been finally distributed, the crowd from the post-office added to the mass already in the park. the wind waved the leaves of the maples, and, high in the air, the blue-burning globes of the arc lamps caused the wonderful traceries of leaf shadows on the ground. when the light fell upon the upturned face of a girl, it caused it to glow with a wonderful pallor. a policeman came suddenly from the darkness and chased a gang of obstreperous little boys. they hooted him from a distance. the leader of the band had some of the mannerisms of the great musicians, and during a period of silence the crowd smiled when they saw him raise his hand to his brow, stroke it sentimentally, and glance upward with a look of poetic anguish. in the shivering light, which gave to the park an effect like a great vaulted hall, the throng swarmed, with a gentle murmur of dresses switching the turf, and with a steady hum of voices. [illustration: "the band played a waltz"] suddenly, without preliminary bars, there arose from afar the great hoarse roar of a factory whistle. it raised and swelled to a sinister note, and then it sang on the night wind one long call that held the crowd in the park immovable, speechless. the band-master had been about to vehemently let fall his hand to start the band on a thundering career through a popular march, but, smitten by this giant voice from the night, his hand dropped slowly to his knee, and, his mouth agape, he looked at his men in silence. the cry died away to a wail and then to stillness. it released the muscles of the company of young men on the sidewalk, who had been like statues, posed eagerly, lithely, their ears turned. and then they wheeled upon each other simultaneously, and, in a single explosion, they shouted, "one!" again the sound swelled in the night and roared its long ominous cry, and as it died away the crowd of young men wheeled upon each other and, in chorus, yelled, "two!" there was a moment of breathless waiting. then they bawled, "second district!" in a flash the company of indolent and cynical young men had vanished like a snowball disrupted by dynamite. v jake rogers was the first man to reach the home of tuscarora hose company number six. he had wrenched his key from his pocket as he tore down the street, and he jumped at the spring-lock like a demon. as the doors flew back before his hands he leaped and kicked the wedges from a pair of wheels, loosened a tongue from its clasp, and in the glare of the electric light which the town placed before each of its hose-houses the next comers beheld the spectacle of jake rogers bent like hickory in the manfulness of his pulling, and the heavy cart was moving slowly towards the doors. four men joined him at the time, and as they swung with the cart out into the street, dark figures sped towards them from the ponderous shadows back of the electric lamps. some set up the inevitable question, "what district?" "second," was replied to them in a compact howl. tuscarora hose company number six swept on a perilous wheel into niagara avenue, and as the men, attached to the cart by the rope which had been paid out from the windlass under the tongue, pulled madly in their fervor and abandon, the gong under the axle clanged incitingly. and sometimes the same cry was heard, "what district?" "second." [illustration: "what district"] on a grade johnnie thorpe fell, and exercising a singular muscular ability, rolled out in time from the track of the on-coming wheel, and arose, dishevelled and aggrieved, casting a look of mournful disenchantment upon the black crowd that poured after the machine. the cart seemed to be the apex of a dark wave that was whirling as if it had been a broken dam. back of the lad were stretches of lawn, and in that direction front-doors were banged by men who hoarsely shouted out into the clamorous avenue, "what district?" at one of these houses a woman came to the door bearing a lamp, shielding her face from its rays with her hands. across the cropped grass the avenue represented to her a kind of black torrent, upon which, nevertheless, fled numerous miraculous figures upon bicycles. she did not know that the towering light at the corner was continuing its nightly whine. suddenly a little boy somersaulted around the corner of the house as if he had been projected down a flight of stairs by a catapultian boot. he halted himself in front of the house by dint of a rather extraordinary evolution with his legs. "oh, ma," he gasped, "can i go? can i, ma?" she straightened with the coldness of the exterior mother-judgment, although the hand that held the lamp trembled slightly. "no, willie; you had better come to bed." instantly he began to buck and fume like a mustang. "oh, ma," he cried, contorting himself--"oh, ma, can't i go? please, ma, can't i go? can't i go, ma?" "it's half-past nine now, willie." he ended by wailing out a compromise: "well, just down to the corner, ma? just down to the corner?" from the avenue came the sound of rushing men who wildly shouted. somebody had grappled the bell-rope in the methodist church, and now over the town rang this solemn and terrible voice, speaking from the clouds. moved from its peaceful business, this bell gained a new spirit in the portentous night, and it swung the heart to and fro, up and down, with each peal of it. "just down to the corner, ma?" "willie, it's half-past nine now." [illustration: "they did not care much for john shipley"] vi the outlines of the house of dr. trescott had faded quietly into the evening, hiding a shape such as we call queen anne against the pall of the blackened sky. the neighborhood was at this time so quiet, and seemed so devoid of obstructions, that hannigan's dog thought it a good opportunity to prowl in forbidden precincts, and so came and pawed trescott's lawn, growling, and considering himself a formidable beast. later, peter washington strolled past the house and whistled, but there was no dim light shining from henry's loft, and presently peter went his way. the rays from the street, creeping in silvery waves over the grass, caused the row of shrubs along the drive to throw a clear, bold shade. a wisp of smoke came from one of the windows at the end of the house and drifted quietly into the branches of a cherry-tree. its companions followed it in slowly increasing numbers, and finally there was a current controlled by invisible banks which poured into the fruit-laden boughs of the cherry-tree. it was no more to be noted than if a troop of dim and silent gray monkeys had been climbing a grapevine into the clouds. after a moment the window brightened as if the four panes of it had been stained with blood, and a quick ear might have been led to imagine the fire-imps calling and calling, clan joining clan, gathering to the colors. from the street, however, the house maintained its dark quiet, insisting to a passer-by that it was the safe dwelling of people who chose to retire early to tranquil dreams. no one could have heard this low droning of the gathering clans. suddenly the panes of the red window tinkled and crashed to the ground, and at other windows there suddenly reared other flames, like bloody spectres at the apertures of a haunted house. this outbreak had been well planned, as if by professional revolutionists. a man's voice suddenly shouted: "fire! fire! fire!" hannigan had flung his pipe frenziedly from him because his lungs demanded room. he tumbled down from his perch, swung over the fence, and ran shouting towards the front-door of the trescotts'. then he hammered on the door, using his fists as if they were mallets. mrs. trescott instantly came to one of the windows on the second floor. afterwards she knew she had been about to say, "the doctor is not at home, but if you will leave your name, i will let him know as soon as he comes." hannigan's bawling was for a minute incoherent, but she understood that it was not about croup. "what?" she said, raising the window swiftly. "your house is on fire! you're all ablaze! move quick if--" his cries were resounding, in the street as if it were a cave of echoes. many feet pattered swiftly on the stones. there was one man who ran with an almost fabulous speed. he wore lavender trousers. a straw hat with a bright silk band was held half crumpled in his hand. as henry reached the front-door, hannigan had just broken the lock with a kick. a thick cloud of smoke poured over them, and henry, ducking his head, rushed into it. from hannigan's clamor he knew only one thing, but it turned him blue with horror. in the hall a lick of flame had found the cord that supported "signing the declaration." the engraving slumped suddenly down at one end, and then dropped to the floor, where it burst with the sound of a bomb. the fire was already roaring like a winter wind among the pines. at the head of the stairs mrs. trescott was waving her arms as if they were two reeds. "jimmie! save jimmie!" she screamed in henry's face. he plunged past her and disappeared, taking the long-familiar routes among these upper chambers, where he had once held office as a sort of second assistant house-maid. hannigan had followed him up the stairs, and grappled the arm of the maniacal woman there. his face was black with rage. "you must come down," he bellowed. she would only scream at him in reply: "jimmie! jimmie! save jimmie!" but he dragged her forth while she babbled at him. as they swung out into the open air a man ran across the lawn, and seizing a shutter, pulled it from its hinges and flung it far out upon the grass. then he frantically attacked the other shutters one by one. it was a kind of temporary insanity. "here, you," howled hannigan, "hold mrs. trescott--and stop--" the news had been telegraphed by a twist of the wrist of a neighbor who had gone to the fire-box at the corner, and the time when hannigan and his charge struggled out of the house was the time when the whistle roared its hoarse night call, smiting the crowd in the park, causing the leader of the band, who was about to order the first triumphal clang of a military march, to let his hand drop slowly to his knees. vii henry pawed awkwardly through the smoke in the upper halls. he had attempted to guide himself by the walls, but they were too hot. the paper was crimpling, and he expected at any moment to have a flame burst from under his hands. "jimmie!" he did not call very loud, as if in fear that the humming flames below would overhear him. "jimmie! oh, jimmie!" stumbling and panting, he speedily reached the entrance to jimmie's room and flung open the door. the little chamber had no smoke in it at all. it was faintly illuminated by a beautiful rosy light reflected circuitously from the flames that were consuming the house. the boy had apparently just been aroused by the noise. he sat in his bed, his lips apart, his eyes wide, while upon his little white-robed figure played caressingly the light from the fire. as the door flew open he had before him this apparition of his pal, a terror-stricken negro, all tousled and with wool scorching, who leaped upon him and bore him up in a blanket as if the whole affair were a case of kidnapping by a dreadful robber chief. without waiting to go through the usual short but complete process of wrinkling up his face, jimmie let out a gorgeous bawl, which resembled the expression of a calf's deepest terror. as johnson, bearing him, reeled into the smoke of the hall, he flung his arms about his neck and buried his face in the blanket. he called twice in muffled tones: "mam-ma! mam-ma!" when johnson came to the top of the stairs with his burden, he took a quick step backward. through the smoke that rolled to him he could see that the lower hall was all ablaze. he cried out then in a howl that resembled jimmie's former achievement. his legs gained a frightful faculty of bending sideways. swinging about precariously on these reedy legs, he made his way back slowly, back along the upper hall. from the way of him then, he had given up almost all idea of escaping from the burning house, and with it the desire. he was submitting, submitting because of his fathers, bending his mind in a most perfect slavery to this conflagration. he now clutched jimmie as unconsciously as when, running toward the house, he had clutched the hat with the bright silk band. suddenly he remembered a little private staircase which led from a bedroom to an apartment which the doctor had fitted up as a laboratory and work-house, where he used some of his leisure, and also hours when he might have been sleeping, in devoting himself to experiments which came in the way of his study and interest. when johnson recalled this stairway the submission to the blaze departed instantly. he had been perfectly familiar with it, but his confusion had destroyed the memory of it. in his sudden momentary apathy there had been little that resembled fear, but now, as a way of safety came to him, the old frantic terror caught him. he was no longer creature to the flames, and he was afraid of the battle with them. it was a singular and swift set of alternations in which he feared twice without submission, and submitted once without fear. "jimmie!" he wailed, as he staggered on his way. he wished this little inanimate body at his breast to participate in his tremblings. but the child had lain limp and still during these headlong charges and countercharges, and no sign came from him. johnson passed through two rooms and came to the head of the stairs. as he opened the door great billows of smoke poured out, but gripping jimmie closer, he plunged down through them. all manner of odors assailed him during this flight. they seemed to be alive with envy, hatred, and malice. at the entrance to the laboratory he confronted a strange spectacle. the room was like a garden in the region where might be burning flowers. flames of violet, crimson, green, blue, orange, and purple were blooming everywhere. there was one blaze that was precisely the hue of a delicate coral. in another place was a mass that lay merely in phosphorescent inaction like a pile of emeralds. but all these marvels were to be seen dimly through clouds of heaving, turning, deadly smoke. johnson halted for a moment on the threshold. he cried out again in the negro wail that had in it the sadness of the swamps. then he rushed across the room. an orange-colored flame leaped like a panther at the lavender trousers. this animal bit deeply into johnson. there was an explosion at one side, and suddenly before him there reared a delicate, trembling sapphire shape like a fairy lady. with a quiet smile she blocked his path and doomed him and jimmie. johnson shrieked, and then ducked in the manner of his race in fights. he aimed to pass under the left guard of the sapphire lady. but she was swifter than eagles, and her talons caught in him as he plunged past her. bowing his head as if his neck had been struck, johnson lurched forward, twisting this way and that way. he fell on his back. the still form in the blanket flung from his arms, rolled to the edge of the floor and beneath the window. johnson had fallen with his head at the base of an old-fashioned desk. there was a row of jars upon the top of this desk. for the most part, they were silent amid this rioting, but there was one which seemed to hold a scintillant and writhing serpent. suddenly the glass splintered, and a ruby-red snakelike thing poured its thick length out upon the top of the old desk. it coiled and hesitated, and then began to swim a languorous way down the mahogany slant. at the angle it waved its sizzling molten head to and fro over the closed eyes of the man beneath it. then, in a moment, with a mystic impulse, it moved again, and the red snake flowed directly down into johnson's upturned face. afterwards the trail of this creature seemed to reek, and amid flames and low explosions drops like red-hot jewels pattered softly down it at leisurely intervals. [illustration: "in the laboratory"] viii suddenly all roads led to dr. trescott's. the whole town flowed towards one point. chippeway hose company number one toiled desperately up bridge street hill even as the tuscaroras came in an impetuous sweep down niagara avenue. meanwhile the machine of the hook-and-ladder experts from across the creek was spinning on its way. the chief of the fire department had been playing poker in the rear room of whiteley's cigar-store, but at the first breath of the alarm he sprang through the door like a man escaping with the kitty. in whilomville, on these occasions, there was always a number of people who instantly turned their attention to the bells in the churches and school-houses. the bells not only emphasized the alarm, but it was the habit to send these sounds rolling across the sky in a stirring brazen uproar until the flames were practically vanquished. there was also a kind of rivalry as to which bell should be made to produce the greatest din. even the valley church, four miles away among the farms, had heard the voices of its brethren, and immediately added a quaint little yelp. dr. trescott had been driving homeward, slowly smoking a cigar, and feeling glad that this last case was now in complete obedience to him, like a wild animal that he had subdued, when he heard the long whistle, and chirped to his horse under the unlicensed but perfectly distinct impression that a fire had broken out in oakhurst, a new and rather high-flying suburb of the town which was at least two miles from his own home. but in the second blast and in the ensuing silence he read the designation of his own district. he was then only a few blocks from his house. he took out the whip and laid it lightly on the mare. surprised and frightened at this extraordinary action, she leaped forward, and as the reins straightened like steel bands, the doctor leaned backward a trifle. when the mare whirled him up to the closed gate he was wondering whose house could be afire. the man who had rung the signal-box yelled something at him, but he already knew. he left the mare to her will. in front of his door was a maniacal woman in a wrapper. "ned!" she screamed at sight of him. "jimmie! save jimmie!" trescott had grown hard and chill. "where?" he said. "where?" mrs. trescott's voice began to bubble. "up--up--up--" she pointed at the second-story windows. hannigan was already shouting: "don't go in that way! you can't go in that way!" trescott ran around the corner of the house and disappeared from them. he knew from the view he had taken of the main hall that it would be impossible to ascend from there. his hopes were fastened now to the stairway which led from the laboratory. the door which opened from this room out upon the lawn was fastened with a bolt and lock, but he kicked close to the lock and then close to the bolt. the door with a loud crash flew back. the doctor recoiled from the roll of smoke, and then bending low, he stepped into the garden of burning flowers. on the floor his stinging eyes could make out a form in a smouldering blanket near the window. then, as he carried his son towards the door, he saw that the whole lawn seemed now alive with men and boys, the leaders in the great charge that the whole town was making. they seized him and his burden, and overpowered him in wet blankets and water. but hannigan was howling: "johnson is in there yet! henry johnson is in there yet! he went in after the kid! johnson is in there yet!" these cries penetrated to the sleepy senses of trescott, and he struggled with his captors, swearing, unknown to him and to them, all the deep blasphemies of his medical-student days. he rose to his feet and went again towards the door of the laboratory. they endeavored to restrain him, although they were much affrighted at him. but a young man who was a brakeman on the railway, and lived in one of the rear streets near the trescotts, had gone into the laboratory and brought forth a thing which he laid on the grass. ix there were hoarse commands from in front of the house. "turn on your water, five!" "let 'er go, one!" the gathering crowd swayed this way and that way. the flames, towering high, cast a wild red light on their faces. there came the clangor of a gong from along some adjacent street. the crowd exclaimed at it. "here comes number three!" "that's three a-comin'!" a panting and irregular mob dashed into view, dragging a hose-cart. a cry of exultation arose from the little boys. "here's three!" the lads welcomed never-die hose company number three as if it was composed of a chariot dragged by a band of gods. the perspiring citizens flung themselves into the fray. the boys danced in impish joy at the displays of prowess. they acclaimed the approach of number two. they welcomed number four with cheers. they were so deeply moved by this whole affair that they bitterly guyed the late appearance of the hook and ladder company, whose heavy apparatus had almost stalled them on the bridge street hill. the lads hated and feared a fire, of course. they did not particularly want to have anybody's house burn, but still it was fine to see the gathering of the companies, and amid a great noise to watch their heroes perform all manner of prodigies. they were divided into parties over the worth of different companies, and supported their creeds with no small violence. for instance, in that part of the little city where number four had its home it would be most daring for a boy to contend the superiority of any other company. likewise, in another quarter, where a strange boy was asked which fire company was the best in whilomville, he was expected to answer "number one." feuds, which the boys forgot and remembered according to chance or the importance of some recent event, existed all through the town. they did not care much for john shipley, the chief of the department. it was true that he went to a fire with the speed of a falling angel, but when there he invariably lapsed into a certain still mood, which was almost a preoccupation, moving leisurely around the burning structure and surveying it, putting meanwhile at a cigar. this quiet man, who even when life was in danger seldom raised his voice, was not much to their fancy. now old sykes huntington, when he was chief, used to bellow continually like a bull and gesticulate in a sort of delirium. he was much finer as a spectacle than this shipley, who viewed a fire with the same steadiness that he viewed a raise in a large jack-pot. the greater number of the boys could never understand why the members of these companies persisted in re-electing shipley, although they often pretended to understand it, because "my father says" was a very formidable phrase in argument, and the fathers seemed almost unanimous in advocating shipley. at this time there was considerable discussion as to which company had gotten the first stream of water on the fire. most of the boys claimed that number five owned that distinction, but there was a determined minority who contended for number one. boys who were the blood adherents of other companies were obliged to choose between the two on this occasion, and the talk waxed warm. but a great rumor went among the crowds. it was told with hushed voices. afterwards a reverent silence fell even upon the boys. jimmie trescott and henry johnson had been burned to death, and dr. trescott himself had been most savagely hurt. the crowd did not even feel the police pushing at them. they raised their eyes, shining now with awe, towards the high flames. the man who had information was at his best. in low tones he described the whole affair. "that was the kid's room--in the corner there. he had measles or somethin', and this coon--johnson--was a-settin' up with 'im, and johnson got sleepy or somethin' and upset the lamp, and the doctor he was down in his office, and he came running up, and they all got burned together till they dragged 'em out." another man, always preserved for the deliverance of the final judgment, was saying: "oh, they'll die sure. burned to flinders. no chance. hull lot of 'em. anybody can see." the crowd concentrated its gaze still more closely upon these flags of fire which waved joyfully against the black sky. the bells of the town were clashing unceasingly. a little procession moved across the lawn and towards the street. there were three cots, borne by twelve of the firemen. the police moved sternly, but it needed no effort of theirs to open a lane for this slow cortege. the men who bore the cots were well known to the crowd, but in this solemn parade during the ringing of the bells and the shouting, and with the red glare upon the sky, they seemed utterly foreign, and whilomville paid them a deep respect. each man in this stretcher party had gained a reflected majesty. they were footmen to death, and the crowd made subtle obeisance to this august dignity derived from three prospective graves. one woman turned away with a shriek at sight of the covered body on the first stretcher, and people faced her suddenly in silent and mournful indignation. otherwise there was barely a sound as these twelve important men with measured tread carried their burdens through the throng. the little boys no longer discussed the merits of the different fire companies. for the greater part they had been routed. only the more courageous viewed closely the three figures veiled in yellow blankets. x old judge denning hagenthorpe, who lived nearly opposite the trescotts, had thrown his door wide open to receive the afflicted family. when it was publicly learned that the doctor and his son and the negro were still alive, it required a specially detailed policeman to prevent people from scaling the front porch and interviewing these sorely wounded. one old lady appeared with a miraculous poultice, and she quoted most damning scripture to the officer when he said that she could not pass him. throughout the night some lads old enough to be given privileges or to compel them from their mothers remained vigilantly upon the kerb in anticipation of a death or some such event. the reporter of the morning tribune rode thither on his bicycle every hour until three o'clock. six of the ten doctors in whilomville attended at judge hagenthorpe's house. almost at once they were able to know that trescott's burns were not vitally important. the child would possibly be scarred badly, but his life was undoubtedly safe. as for the negro henry johnson, he could not live. his body was frightfully seared, but more than that, he now had no face. his face had simply been burned away. trescott was always asking news of the two other patients. in the morning he seemed fresh and strong, so they told him that johnson was doomed. they then saw him stir on the bed, and sprang quickly to see if the bandages needed readjusting. in the sudden glance he threw from one to another he impressed them as being both leonine and impracticable. the morning paper announced the death of henry johnson. it contained a long interview with edward j. hannigan, in which the latter described in full the performance of johnson at the fire. there was also an editorial built from all the best words in the vocabulary of the staff. the town halted in its accustomed road of thought, and turned a reverent attention to the memory of this hostler. in the breasts of many people was the regret that they had not known enough to give him a hand and a lift when he was alive, and they judged themselves stupid and ungenerous for this failure. the name of henry johnson became suddenly the title of a saint to the little boys. the one who thought of it first could, by quoting it in an argument, at once overthrow his antagonist, whether it applied to the subject or whether it did not. "nigger, nigger, never die. black face and shiny eye." boys who had called this odious couplet in the rear of johnson's march buried the fact at the bottom of their hearts. later in the day miss bella farragut, of no. 7 watermelon alley, announced that she had been engaged to marry mr. henry johnson. xi the old judge had a cane with an ivory head. he could never think at his best until he was leaning slightly on this stick and smoothing the white top with slow movements of his hands. it was also to him a kind of narcotic. if by any chance he mislaid it, he grew at once very irritable, and was likely to speak sharply to his sister, whose mental incapacity he had patiently endured for thirty years in the old mansion on ontario street. she was not at all aware of her brother's opinion of her endowments, and so it might be said that the judge had successfully dissembled for more than a quarter of a century, only risking the truth at the times when his cane was lost. on a particular day the judge sat in his armchair on the porch. the sunshine sprinkled through the lilac-bushes and poured great coins on the boards. the sparrows disputed in the trees that lined the pavements. the judge mused deeply, while his hands gently caressed the ivory head of his cane. finally he arose and entered the house, his brow still furrowed in a thoughtful frown. his stick thumped solemnly in regular beats. on the second floor he entered a room where dr. trescott was working about the bedside of henry johnson. the bandages on the negro's head allowed only one thing to appear, an eye, which unwinkingly stared at the judge. the later spoke to trescott on the condition of the patient. afterward he evidently had something further to say, but he seemed to be kept from it by the scrutiny of the unwinking eye, at which he furtively glanced from time to time. when jimmie trescott was sufficiently recovered, his mother had taken him to pay a visit to his grandparents in connecticut. the doctor had remained to take care of his patients, but as a matter of truth he spent most of his time at judge hagenthorpe's house, where lay henry johnson. here he slept and ate almost every meal in the long nights and days of his vigil. at dinner, and away from the magic of the unwinking eye, the judge said, suddenly, "trescott, do you think it is--" as trescott paused expectantly, the judge fingered his knife. he said, thoughtfully, "no one wants to advance such ideas, but somehow i think that that poor fellow ought to die." there was in trescott's face at once a look of recognition, as if in this tangent of the judge he saw an old problem. he merely sighed and answered, "who knows?" the words were spoken in a deep tone that gave them an elusive kind of significance. the judge retreated to the cold manner of the bench. "perhaps we may not talk with propriety of this kind of action, but i am induced to say that you are performing a questionable charity in preserving this negro's life. as near as i can understand, he will hereafter be a monster, a perfect monster, and probably with an affected brain. no man can observe you as i have observed you and not know that it was a matter of conscience with you, but i am afraid, my friend, that it is one of the blunders of virtue." the judge had delivered his views with his habitual oratory. the last three words he spoke with a particular emphasis, as if the phrase was his discovery. the doctor made a weary gesture. "he saved my boy's life." "yes," said the judge, swiftly--"yes, i know!" "and what am i to do?" said trescott, his eyes suddenly lighting like an outburst from smouldering peat. "what am i to do? he gave himself for--for jimmie. what am i to do for him?" the judge abased himself completely before these words. he lowered his eyes for a moment. he picked at his cucumbers. presently he braced himself straightly in his chair. "he will be your creation, you understand. he is purely your creation. nature has very evidently given him up. he is dead. you are restoring him to life. you are making him, and he will be a monster, and with no mind. "he will be what you like, judge," cried trescott, in sudden, polite fury. "he will be anything, but, by god! he saved my boy." the judge interrupted in a voice trembling with emotion: "trescott! trescott! don't i know?" trescott had subsided to a sullen mood. "yes, you know," he answered, acidly; "but you don't know all about your own boy being saved from death." this was a perfectly childish allusion to the judge's bachelorhood. trescott knew that the remark was infantile, but he seemed to take desperate delight in it. but it passed the judge completely. it was not his spot. "i am puzzled," said he, in profound thought. "i don't know what to say." trescott had become repentant. "don't think i don't appreciate what you say, judge. but--" "of course!" responded the judge, quickly. "of course." "it--" began trescott. "of course," said the judge. in silence they resumed their dinner. "well," said the judge, ultimately, "it is hard for a man to know what to do." "it is," said the doctor, fervidly. there was another silence. it was broken by the judge: "look here, trescott; i don't want you to think--" "no, certainly not," answered the doctor, earnestly. "well, i don't want you to think i would say anything to--it was only that i thought that i might be able to suggest to you that--perhaps--the affair was a little dubious." with an appearance of suddenly disclosing his real mental perturbation, the doctor said: "well, what would you do? would you kill him?" he asked, abruptly and sternly. "trescott, you fool," said the old man, gently. "oh, well, i know, judge, but then--" he turned red, and spoke with new violence: "say, he saved my boy--do you see? he saved my boy." "you bet he did," cried the judge, with enthusiasm. "you bet he did." and they remained for a time gazing at each other, their faces illuminated with memories of a certain deed. after another silence, the judge said, "it is hard for a man to know what to do." xii late one evening trescott, returning from a professional call, paused his buggy at the hagenthorpe gate. he tied the mare to the old tin-covered post, and entered the house. ultimately he appeared with a companion--a man who walked slowly and carefully, as if he were learning. he was wrapped to the heels in an old-fashioned ulster. they entered the buggy and drove away. after a silence only broken by the swift and musical humming of the wheels on the smooth road, trescott spoke. "henry," he said, "i've got you a home here with old alek williams. you will have everything you want to eat and a good place to sleep, and i hope you will get along there all right. i will pay all your expenses, and come to see you as often as i can. if you don't get along, i want you to let me know as soon as possible, and then we will do what we can to make it better." the dark figure at the doctor's side answered with a cheerful laugh. "these buggy wheels don' look like i washed 'em yesterday, docteh," he said. trescott hesitated for a moment, and then went on insistently, "i am taking you to alek williams, henry, and i--" the figure chuckled again. "no, 'deed! no, seh! alek williams don' know a hoss! 'deed he don't. he don' know a hoss from a pig." the laugh that followed was like the rattle of pebbles. trescott turned and looked sternly and coldly at the dim form in the gloom from the buggy-top. "henry," he said, "i didn't say anything about horses. i was saying--" "hoss? hoss?" said the quavering voice from these near shadows. "hoss? 'deed i don' know all erbout a boss! 'deed i don't." there was a satirical chuckle. at the end of three miles the mare slackened and the doctor leaned forward, peering, while holding tight reins. the wheels of the buggy bumped often over out-cropping bowlders. a window shone forth, a simple square of topaz on a great black hill-side. four dogs charged the buggy with ferocity, and when it did not promptly retreat, they circled courageously around the flanks, baying. a door opened near the window in the hill-side, and a man came and stood on a beach of yellow light. "yah! yah! you roveh! you susie! come yah! come yah this minit!" trescott called across the dark sea of grass, "hello, alek!" "hello!" "come down here and show me where to drive." the man plunged from the beach into the surf, and trescott could then only trace his course by the fervid and polite ejaculations of a host who was somewhere approaching. presently williams took the mare by the head, and uttering cries of welcome and scolding the swarming dogs, led the equipage towards the lights. when they halted at the door and trescott was climbing out, williams cried, "will she stand, docteh?" "she'll stand all right, but you better hold her for a minute. now, henry." the doctor turned and held both arms to the dark figure. it crawled to him painfully like a man going down a ladder. williams took the mare away to be tied to a little tree, and when he returned he found them awaiting him in the gloom beyond the rays from the door. he burst out then like a siphon pressed by a nervous thumb. "hennery! hennery, ma ol' frien'. well, if i ain' glade. if i ain' glade!" trescott had taken the silent shape by the arm and led it forward into the full revelation of the light. "well, now, alek, you can take henry and put him to bed, and in the morning i will--" near the end of this sentence old williams had come front to front with johnson. he gasped for a second, and then yelled the yell of a man stabbed in the heart. for a fraction of a moment trescott seemed to be looking for epithets. then he roared: "you old black chump! you old black--shut up! shut up! do you hear?" williams obeyed instantly in the matter of his screams, but he continued in a lowered voice: "ma lode amassy! who'd ever think? ma lode amassy!" trescott spoke again in the manner of a commander of a battalion. "alek!" the old negro again surrendered, but to himself he repeated in a whisper, "ma lode!" he was aghast and trembling. as these three points of widening shadows approached the golden doorway a hale old negress appeared there, bowing. "good-evenin', docteh! good-evenin'! come in! come in!" she had evidently just retired from a tempestuous struggle to place the room in order, but she was now bowing rapidly. she made the effort of a person swimming. "don't trouble yourself, mary," said trescott, entering. "i've brought henry for you to take care of, and all you've got to do is to carry out what i tell you." learning that he was not followed, he faced the door, and said, "come in, henry." johnson entered. "whee!" shrieked mrs. williams. she almost achieved a back somersault. six young members of the tribe of williams made a simultaneous plunge for a position behind the stove, and formed a wailing heap. xiii "you know very well that you and your family lived usually on less than three dollars a week, and now that dr. trescott pays you five dollars a week for johnson's board, you live like millionaires. you haven't done a stroke of work since johnson began to board with you--everybody knows that--and so what are you kicking about?" the judge sat in his chair on the porch, fondling his cane, and gazing down at old williams, who stood under the lilac-bushes. "yes, i know, jedge," said the negro, wagging his head in a puzzled manner. "tain't like as if i didn't 'preciate what the docteh done, but--but--well, yeh see, jedge," he added, gaining a new impetus, "it's--it's hard wuk. this ol' man nev' did wuk so hard. lode, no." "don't talk such nonsense, alek," spoke the judge, sharply. "you have never really worked in your life--anyhow, enough to support a family of sparrows, and now when you are in a more prosperous condition than ever before, you come around talking like an old fool." the negro began to scratch his head. "yeh see, jedge," he said at last, "my ol' 'ooman she cain't 'ceive no lady callahs, nohow." "hang lady callers'" said the judge, irascibly. "if you have flour in the barrel and meat in the pot, your wife can get along without receiving lady callers, can't she?" "but they won't come ainyhow, jedge," replied williams, with an air of still deeper stupefaction. "noner ma wife's frien's ner noner ma frien's 'll come near ma res'dence." "well, let them stay home if they are such silly people." the old negro seemed to be seeking a way to elude this argument, but evidently finding none, he was about to shuffle meekly off. he halted, however. "jedge," said he, "ma ol' 'ooman's near driv' abstracted." "your old woman is an idiot," responded the judge. williams came very close and peered solemnly through a branch of lilac. "judge," he whispered, "the chillens." "what about them?" dropping his voice to funereal depths, williams said, "they--they cain't eat." "can't eat!" scoffed the judge, loudly. "can't eat! you must think i am as big an old fool as you are. can't eat--the little rascals! what's to prevent them from eating?" in answer, williams said, with mournful emphasis, "hennery." moved with a kind of satisfaction at his tragic use of the name, he remained staring at the judge for a sign of its effect. the judge made a gesture of irritation. "come, now, you old scoundrel, don't beat around the bush any more. what are you up to? what do you want? speak out like a man, and don't give me any more of this tiresome rigamarole." "i ain't er-beatin' round 'bout nuffin, jedge," replied williams, indignantly. "no, seh; i say whatter got to say right out. 'deed i do." "well, say it, then." "jedge," began the negro, taking off his hat and switching his knee with it, "lode knows i'd do jes 'bout as much fer five dollehs er week as ainy cul'd man, but--but this yere business is awful, jedge. i raikon 'ain't been no sleep in--in my house sence docteh done fetch 'im." "well, what do you propose to do about it?" williams lifted his eyes from the ground and gazed off through the trees. "raikon i got good appetite, an' sleep jes like er dog, but he--he's done broke me all up. 'tain't no good, nohow. i wake up in the night; i hear 'im, mebbe, er-whimperin' an' er-whimperin', an' i sneak an' i sneak until i try th' do' to see if he locked in. an' he keep me er-puzzlin' an' er-quakin' all night long. don't know how'll do in th' winter. can't let 'im out where th' chillen is. he'll done freeze where he is now." williams spoke these sentences as if he were talking to himself. after a silence of deep reflection he continued: "folks go round sayin' he ain't hennery johnson at all. they say he's er devil!" "what?" cried the judge. "yesseh," repeated williams, in tones of injury, as if his veracity had been challenged. "yesseh. i'm er-tellin' it to yeh straight, jedge. plenty cul'd people folks up my way say it is a devil." "well, you don't think so yourself, do you?" "no. 'tain't no devil. it's hennery johnson." "well, then, what is the matter with you? you don't care what a lot of foolish people say. go on 'tending to your business, and pay no attention to such idle nonsense." "'tis nonsense, jedge; but he _looks_ like er devil." "what do you care what he looks like?" demanded the judge. "ma rent is two dollehs and er half er month," said williams, slowly. "it might just as well be ten thousand dollars a month," responded the judge. "you never pay it, anyhow." "then, anoth' thing," continued williams, in his reflective tone. "if he was all right in his haid i could stan' it; but, jedge, he's crazier 'n er loon. then when he looks like er devil, an' done skears all ma frien's away, an' ma chillens cain't eat, an' ma ole 'ooman jes raisin' cain all the time, an' ma rent two dollehs an' er half er month, an' him not right in his haid, it seems like five dollehs er week--" the judge's stick came down sharply and suddenly upon the floor of the porch. "there," he said, "i thought that was what you were driving at." williams began swinging his head from side to side in the strange racial mannerism. "now hol' on a minnet, jedge," he said, defensively. "'tain't like as if i didn't 'preciate what the docteh done. 'tain't that. docteh trescott is er kind man, an' 'tain't like as if i didn't 'preciate what he done; but--but--" "but what? you are getting painful, alek. now tell me this: did you ever have five dollars a week regularly before in your life?" williams at once drew himself up with great dignity, but in the pause after that question he drooped gradually to another attitude. in the end he answered, heroically: "no, jedge, i 'ain't. an' 'tain't like as if i was er-sayin' five dollehs wasn't er lot er money for a man like me. but, jedge, what er man oughter git fer this kinder wuk is er salary. yesseh, jedge," he repeated, with a great impressive gesture; "fer this kinder wuk er man oughter git er salary." he laid a terrible emphasis upon the final word. the judge laughed. "i know dr. trescott's mind concerning this affair, alek; and if you are dissatisfied with your boarder, he is quite ready to move him to some other place; so, if you care to leave word with me that you are tired of the arrangement and wish it changed, he will come and take johnson away." williams scratched his head again in deep perplexity. "five dollehs is er big price fer bo'd, but 'tain't no big price fer the bo'd of er crazy man," he said, finally. "what do you think you ought to get?" asked the judge. "well," answered alek, in the manner of one deep in a balancing of the scales, "he looks like er devil, an' done skears e'rybody, an' ma chillens cain't eat, an' i cain't sleep, an' he ain't right in his haid, an'--" "you told me all those things." after scratching his wool, and beating his knee with his hat, and gazing off through the trees and down at the ground, williams said, as he kicked nervously at the gravel, "well, jedge, i think it is wuth--" he stuttered. "worth what?" "six dollehs," answered williams, in a desperate outburst. the judge lay back in his great arm-chair and went through all the motions of a man laughing heartily, but he made no sound save a slight cough. williams had been watching him with apprehension. "well," said the judge, "do you call six dollars a salary?" "no, seh," promptly responded williams. "'tain't a salary. no, 'deed! 'tain't a salary." he looked with some anger upon the man who questioned his intelligence in this way. "well, supposing your children can't eat?" "i--" "and supposing he looks like a devil? and supposing all those things continue? would you be satisfied with six dollars a week?" recollections seemed to throng in williams's mind at these interrogations, and he answered dubiously. "of co'se a man who ain't right in his haid, an' looks like er devil--but six dollehs--" after these two attempts at a sentence williams suddenly appeared as an orator, with a great shiny palm waving in the air. "i tell yeh, jedge, six dollehs is six dollehs, but if i git six dollehs for bo'ding hennery johnson, i uhns it! i uhns it!" "i don't doubt that you earn six dollars for every week's work you do," said the judge. "well, if i bo'd hennery johnson fer six dollehs er week, i uhns it! i uhns it!" cried williams, wildly. [illustration: "'if i get six dollehs for bo'ding hennery johnson, i uhns it'"] xiv reifsnyder's assistant had gone to his supper, and the owner of the shop was trying to placate four men who wished to be shaved at once. reifsnyder was very garrulous--a fact which made him rather remarkable among barbers, who, as a class, are austerely speechless, having been taught silence by the hammering reiteration of a tradition. it is the customers who talk in the ordinary event. as reifsnyder waved his razor down the cheek of a man in the chair, he turned often to cool the impatience of the others with pleasant talk, which they did not particularly heed. "oh, he should have let him die," said bainbridge, a railway engineer, finally replying to one of the barber's orations. "shut up, reif, and go on with your business!" instead, reifsnyder paused shaving entirely, and turned to front the speaker. "let him die?" he demanded. "how vas that? how can you let a man die?" "by letting him die, you chump," said the engineer. the others laughed a little, and reifsnyder turned at once to his work, sullenly, as a man overwhelmed by the derision of numbers. "how vas that?" he grumbled later. "how can you let a man die when he vas done so much for you?" "'when he vas done so much for you?'" repeated bainbridge. "you better shave some people. how vas that? maybe this ain't a barber shop?" a man hitherto silent now said, "if i had been the doctor, i would have done the same thing." "of course," said reifsnyder. "any man vould do it. any man that vas not like you, you--old--flint-hearted--fish." he had sought the final words with painful care, and he delivered the collection triumphantly at bainbridge. the engineer laughed. the man in the chair now lifted himself higher, while reifsnyder began an elaborate ceremony of anointing and combing his hair. now free to join comfortably in the talk, the man said: "they say he is the most terrible thing in the world. young johnnie bernard--that drives the grocery wagon--saw him up at alek williams's shanty, and he says he couldn't eat anything for two days." "chee!" said reifsnyder. "well, what makes him so terrible?" asked another. "because he hasn't got any face," replied the barber and the engineer in duct. "hasn't got any face!" repeated the man. "how can he do without any face?" "he has no face in the front of his head. in the place where his face ought to grow." bainbridge sang these lines pathetically as he arose and hung his hat on a hook. the man in the chair was about to abdicate in his favor. "get a gait on you now," he said to reifsnyder. "i go out at 7.31." as the barber foamed the lather on the cheeks of the engineer he seemed to be thinking heavily. then suddenly he burst out. "how would you like to be with no face?" he cried to the assemblage. "oh, if i had to have a face like yours--" answered one customer. bainbridge's voice came from a sea of lather. "you're kicking because if losing faces became popular, you'd have to go out of business." "i don't think it will become so much popular," said reifsnyder. "not if it's got to be taken off in the way his was taken off," said another man. "i'd rather keep mine, if you don't mind." "i guess so!" cried the barber. "just think!" the shaving of bainbridge had arrived at a time of comparative liberty for him. "i wonder what the doctor says to himself?" he observed. "he may be sorry he made him live." "it was the only thing he could do," replied a man. the others seemed to agree with him. "supposing you were in his place," said one, "and johnson had saved your kid. what would you do?" "certainly!" "of course! you would do anything on earth for him. you'd take all the trouble in the world for him. and spend your last dollar on him. well, then?" "i wonder how it feels to be without any face?" said reifsnyder, musingly. the man who had previously spoken, feeling that he had expressed himself well, repeated the whole thing. "you would do anything on earth for him. you'd take all the trouble in the world for him. and spend your last dollar on him. well, then?" "no, but look," said reifsnyder; "supposing you don't got a face!" xv as soon as williams was hidden from the view of the old judge he began to gesture and talk to himself. an elation had evidently penetrated to his vitals, and caused him to dilate as if he had been filled with gas. he snapped his fingers in the air, and whistled fragments of triumphal music. at times, in his progress towards his shanty, he indulged in a shuffling movement that was really a dance. it was to be learned from the intermediate monologue that he had emerged from his trials laurelled and proud. he was the unconquerable alexander williams. nothing could exceed the bold self-reliance of his manner. his kingly stride, his heroic song, the derisive flourish of his hands--all betokened a man who had successfully defied the world. on his way he saw zeke paterson coming to town. they hailed each other at a distance of fifty yards. "how do, broth' paterson?" "how do, broth' williams?" they were both deacons. "is you' folks well, broth' paterson?" "middlin', middlin'. how's you' folks, broth' williams?" neither of them had slowed his pace in the smallest degree. they had simply begun this talk when a considerable space separated them, continued it as they passed, and added polite questions as they drifted steadily apart. williams's mind seemed to be a balloon. he had been so inflated that he had not noticed that paterson had definitely shied into the dry ditch as they came to the point of ordinary contact. afterwards, as he went a lonely way, he burst out again in song and pantomimic celebration of his estate. his feet moved in prancing steps. when he came in sight of his cabin, the fields were bathed in a blue dusk, and the light in the window was pale. cavorting and gesticulating, he gazed joyfully for some moments upon this light. then suddenly another idea seemed to attack his mind, and he stopped, with an air of being suddenly dampened. in the end he approached his home as if it were the fortress of an enemy. some dogs disputed his advance for a loud moment, and then discovering their lord, slunk away embarrassed. his reproaches were addressed to them in muffled tones. arriving at the door, he pushed it open with the timidity of a new thief. he thrust his head cautiously sideways, and his eyes met the eyes of his wife, who sat by the table, the lamp-light defining a half of her face. '"sh!" he said, uselessly. his glance travelled swiftly to the inner door which shielded the one bed-chamber. the pickaninnies, strewn upon the floor of the living-room, were softly snoring. after a hearty meal they had promptly dispersed themselves about the place and gone to sleep. "'sh!" said williams again to his motionless and silent wife. he had allowed only his head to appear. his wife, with one hand upon the edge of the table and the other at her knee, was regarding him with wide eyes and parted lips as if he were a spectre. she looked to be one who was living in terror, and even the familiar face at the door had thrilled her because it had come suddenly. williams broke the tense silence. "is he all right?" he whispered, waving his eyes towards the inner door. following his glance timorously, his wife nodded, and in a low tone answered: "i raikon he's done gone t' sleep." williams then slunk noiselessly across his threshold. he lifted a chair, and with infinite care placed it so that it faced the dreaded inner door. his wife moved slightly, so as to also squarely face it. a silence came upon them in which they seemed to be waiting for a calamity, pealing and deadly. williams finally coughed behind his hand. his wife started, and looked upon him in alarm. "pears like he done gwine keep quiet ternight," he breathed. they continually pointed their speech and their looks at the inner door, paying it the homage due to a corpse or a phantom. another long stillness followed this sentence. their eyes shone white and wide. a wagon rattled down the distant road. from their chairs they looked at the window, and the effect of the light in the cabin was a presentation of an intensely black and solemn night. the old woman adopted the attitude used always in church at funerals. at times she seemed to be upon the point of breaking out in prayer. "he mighty quiet ter-night," whispered williams. "was he good ter-day?" for answer his wife raised her eyes to the ceiling in the supplication of job. williams moved restlessly. finally he tiptoed to the door. he knelt slowly and without a sound, and placed his ear near the key-hole. hearing a noise behind him, he turned quickly. his wife was staring at him aghast. she stood in front of the stove, and her arms were spread out in the natural movement to protect all her sleeping ducklings. but williams arose without having touched the door. "i raikon he er-sleep," he said, fingering his wool. he debated with himself for some time. during this interval his wife remained, a great fat statue of a mother shielding her children. it was plain that his mind was swept suddenly by a wave of temerity. with a sounding step he moved towards the door. his fingers were almost upon the knob when he swiftly ducked and dodged away, clapping his hands to the back of his head. it was as if the portal had threatened him. there was a little tumult near the stove, where mrs. williams's desperate retreat had involved her feet with the prostrate children. after the panic williams bore traces of a feeling of shame. he returned to the charge. he firmly grasped the knob with his left hand, and with his other hand turned the key in the lock. he pushed the door, and as it swung portentously open he sprang nimbly to one side like the fearful slave liberating the lion. near the stove a group had formed, the terror stricken mother, with her arms stretched, and the aroused children clinging frenziedly to her skirts. the light streamed after the swinging door, and disclosed a room six feet one way and six feet the other way. it was small enough to enable the radiance to lay it plain. williams peered warily around the corner made by the door-post. suddenly he advanced, retired, and advanced again with a howl. his palsied family had expected him to spring backward, and at his howl they heaped themselves wondrously. but williams simply stood in the little room emitting his howls before an open window. "he's gone! he's gone! he's gone!" his eye and his hand had speedily proved the fact. he had even thrown open a little cupboard. presently he came flying out. he grabbed his hat, and hurled the outer door back upon its hinges. then he tumbled headlong into the night. he was yelling: "docteh trescott! docteh trescott!" he ran wildly through the fields, and galloped in the direction of town. he continued to call to trescott, as if the latter was within easy hearing. it was as if trescott was poised in the contemplative sky over the running negro, and could heed this reaching voice--"docteh trescott!" in the cabin, mrs. williams, supported by relays from the battalion of children, stood quaking watch until the truth of daylight came as a reinforcement and made the arrogant, strutting, swashbuckler children, and a mother who proclaimed her illimitable courage. [illustration: "the door swung portentously open"] xvi theresa page was giving a party. it was the outcome of a long series of arguments addressed to her mother, which had been overheard in part by her father. he had at last said five words, "oh, let her have it." the mother had then gladly capitulated. theresa had written nineteen invitations, and distributed them at recess to her schoolmates. later her mother had composed five large cakes, and still later a vast amount of lemonade. so the nine little girls and the ten little boys sat quite primly in the dining-room, while theresa and her mother plied them with cake and lemonade, and also with ice-cream. this primness sat now quite strangely upon them. it was owing to the presence of mrs. page. previously in the parlor alone with their games they had overturned a chair; the boys had let more or less of their hoodlum spirit shine forth. but when circumstances could be possibly magnified to warrant it, the girls made the boys victims of an insufferable pride, snubbing them mercilessly. so in the dining-room they resembled a class at sunday-school, if it were not for the subterranean smiles, gestures, rebuffs, and poutings which stamped the affair as a children's party. two little girls of this subdued gathering were planted in a settle with their backs to the broad window. they were beaming lovingly upon each other with an effect of scorning the boys. hearing a noise behind her at the window, one little girl turned to face it. instantly she screamed and sprang away, covering her face with her hands. "what was it? what was it?" cried every one in a roar. some slight movement of the eyes of the weeping and shuddering child informed the company that she had been frightened by an appearance at the window. at once they all faced the imperturbable window, and for a moment there was a silence. an astute lad made an immediate census of the other lads. the prank of slipping out and looming spectrally at a window was too venerable. but the little boys were all present and astonished. as they recovered their minds they uttered warlike cries, and through a side door sallied rapidly out against the terror. they vied with each other in daring. none wished particularly to encounter a dragon in the darkness of the garden, but there could be no faltering when the fair ones in the dining-room were present. calling to each other in stern voices, they went dragooning over the lawn, attacking the shadows with ferocity, but still with the caution of reasonable beings. they found, however, nothing new to the peace of the night. of course there was a lad who told a great lie. he described a grim figure, bending low and slinking off along the fence. he gave a number of details, rendering his lie more splendid by a repetition of certain forms which he recalled from romances. for instance, he insisted that he had heard the creature emit a hollow laugh. inside the house the little girl who had raised the alarm was still shuddering and weeping. with the utmost difficulty was she brought to a state approximating calmness by mrs. page. then she wanted to go home at once. page entered the house at this time. he had exiled himself until he concluded that this children's party was finished and gone. he was obliged to escort the little girl home because she screamed again when they opened the door and she saw the night. she was not coherent even to her mother. was it a man? she didn't know. it was simply a thing, a dreadful thing. xvii in watermelon alley the farraguts were spending their evening as usual on the little rickety porch. sometimes they howled gossip to other people on other rickety porches. the thin wail of a baby arose from a near house. a man had a terrific altercation with his wife, to which the alley paid no attention at all. there appeared suddenly before the farraguts a monster making a low and sweeping bow. there was an instant's pause, and then occurred something that resembled the effect of an upheaval of the earth's surface. the old woman hurled herself backward with a dreadful cry. young sim had been perched gracefully on a railing. at sight of the monster he simply fell over it to the ground. he made no sound, his eyes stuck out, his nerveless hands tried to grapple the rail to prevent a tumble, and then he vanished. bella, blubbering, and with her hair suddenly and mysteriously dishevelled, was crawling on her hands and knees fearsomely up the steps. standing before this wreck of a family gathering, the monster continued to bow. it even raised a deprecatory claw. "doh' make no botheration 'bout me, miss fa'gut," it said, politely. "no, 'deed. i jes drap in ter ax if yer well this evenin', miss fa'gut. don' make no botheration. no, 'deed. i gwine ax you to go to er daince with me, miss fa'gut. i ax you if i can have the magnifercent gratitude of you' company on that 'casion, miss fa'gut." the girl cast a miserable glance behind her. she was still crawling away. on the ground beside the porch young sim raised a strange bleat, which expressed both his fright and his lack of wind. presently the monster, with a fashionable amble, ascended the steps after the girl. she grovelled in a corner of the room as the creature took a chair. it seated itself very elegantly on the edge. it held an old cap in both hands. "don' make no botheration, miss fa'gut. don' make no botherations. no, 'deed. i jes drap in ter ax you if you won' do me the proud of acceptin' ma humble invitation to er daince, miss fa'gut." she shielded her eyes with her arms and tried to crawl past it, but the genial monster blocked the way. "i jes drap in ter ax you 'bout er daince, miss fa'gut. i ax you if i kin have the magnifercent gratitude of you' company on that 'casion, miss fa'gut." in a last outbreak of despair, the girl, shuddering and wailing, threw herself face downward on the floor, while the monster sat on the edge of the chair gabbling courteous invitations, and holding the old hat daintily to his stomach. at the back of the house, mrs. farragut, who was of enormous weight, and who for eight years had done little more than sit in an armchair and describe her various ailments, had with speed and agility scaled a high board fence. [illustration: "mrs. farragut"] xviii the black mass in the middle of trescott's property was hardly allowed to cool before the builders were at work on another house. it had sprung upward at a fabulous rate. it was like a magical composition born of the ashes. the doctor's office was the first part to be completed, and he had already moved in his new books and instruments and medicines. trescott sat before his desk when the chief of police arrived. "well, we found him," said the latter. "did you?" cried the doctor. "where?" "shambling around the streets at daylight this morning. i'll be blamed if i can figure on where he passed the night." "where is he now?" "oh, we jugged him. i didn't know what else to do with him. that's what i want you to tell me. of course we can't keep him. no charge could be made, you know." "i'll come down and get him." the official grinned retrospectively. "must say he had a fine career while he was out. first thing he did was to break up a children's party at page's. then he went to watermelon alley. whoo! he stampeded the whole outfit. men, women, and children running pell-mell, and yelling. they say one old woman broke her leg, or something, shinning over a fence. then he went right out on the main street, and an irish girl threw a fit, and there was a sort of a riot. he began to run, and a big crowd chased him, firing rocks. but he gave them the slip somehow down there by the foundry and in the railroad yard. we looked for him all night, but couldn't find him." "was he hurt any? did anybody hit him with a stone?" "guess there isn't much of him to hurt any more, is there? guess he's been hurt up to the limit. no. they never touched him. of course nobody really wanted to hit him, but you know how a crowd gets. it's like--it's like--" "yes, i know." for a moment the chief of the police looked reflectively at the floor. then he spoke hesitatingly. "you know jake winter's little girl was the one that he scared at the party. she is pretty sick, they say." "is she? why, they didn't call me. i always attend the winter family." "no? didn't they?" asked the chief, slowly. "well--you know--winter is--well, winter has gone clean crazy over this business. he wanted--he wanted to have you arrested." "have me arrested? the idiot! what in the name of wonder could he have me arrested for?" "of course. he is a fool. i told him to keep his trap shut. but then you know how he'll go all over town yapping about the thing. i thought i'd better tip you." "oh, he is of no consequence; but then, of course, i'm obliged to you, sam." "that's all right. well, you'll be down tonight and take him out, eh? you'll get a good welcome from the jailer. he don't like his job for a cent. he says you can have your man whenever you want him. he's got no use for him." "but what is this business of winter's about having me arrested?" "oh, it's a lot of chin about your having no right to allow this--this--this man to be at large. but i told him to tend to his own business. only i thought i'd better let you know. and i might as well say right now, doctor, that there is a good deal of talk about this thing. if i were you, i'd come to the jail pretty late at night, because there is likely to be a crowd around the door, and i'd bring a--er--mask, or some kind of a veil, anyhow." xix martha goodwin was single, and well along into the thin years. she lived with her married sister in whilomville. she performed nearly all the house-work in exchange for the privilege of existence. every one tacitly recognized her labor as a form of penance for the early end of her betrothed, who had died of small-pox, which he had not caught from her. but despite the strenuous and unceasing workaday of her life, she was a woman of great mind. she had adamantine opinions upon the situation in armenia, the condition of women in china, the flirtation between mrs. minster of niagara avenue and young griscom, the conflict in the bible class of the baptist sunday-school, the duty of the united states towards the cuban insurgents, and many other colossal matters. her fullest experience of violence was gained on an occasion when she had seen a hound clubbed, but in the plan which she had made for the reform of the world she advocated drastic measures. for instance, she contended that all the turks should be pushed into the sea and drowned, and that mrs. minster and young griscom should be hanged side by side on twin gallows. in fact, this woman of peace, who had seen only peace, argued constantly for a creed of illimitable ferocity. she was invulnerable on these questions, because eventually she overrode all opponents with a sniff. this sniff was an active force. it was to her antagonists like a bang over the head, and none was known to recover from this expression of exalted contempt. it left them windless and conquered. they never again came forward as candidates for suppression. and martha walked her kitchen with a stern brow, an invincible being like napoleon. nevertheless her acquaintances, from the pain of their defeats, had been long in secret revolt. it was in no wise a conspiracy, because they did not care to state their open rebellion, but nevertheless it was understood that any woman who could not coincide with one of martha's contentions was entitled to the support of others in the small circle. it amounted to an arrangement by which all were required to disbelieve any theory for which martha fought. this, however, did not prevent them from speaking of her mind with profound respect. two people bore the brunt of her ability. her sister kate was visibly afraid of her, while carrie dungen sailed across from her kitchen to sit respectfully at martha's feet and learn the business of the world. to be sure, afterwards, under another sun, she always laughed at martha and pretended to deride her ideas, but in the presence of the sovereign she always remained silent or admiring. kate, the sister, was of no consequence at all. her principal delusion was that she did all the work in the up-stairs rooms of the house, while martha did it down-stairs. the truth was seen only by the husband, who treated martha with a kindness that was half banter, half deference. martha herself had no suspicion that she was the only pillar of the domestic edifice. the situation was without definitions. martha made definitions, but she devoted them entirely to the armenians and griscom and the chinese and other subjects. her dreams, which in early days had been of love of meadows and the shade of trees, of the face of a man, were now involved otherwise, and they were companioned in the kitchen curiously, cuba, the hot-water kettle, armenia, the washing of the dishes, and the whole thing being jumbled. in regard to social misdemeanors, she who was simply the mausoleum of a dead passion was probably the most savage critic in town. this unknown woman, hidden in a kitchen as in a well, was sure to have a considerable effect of the one kind or the other in the life of the town. every time it moved a yard, she had personally contributed an inch. she could hammer so stoutly upon the door of a proposition that it would break from its hinges and fall upon her, but at any rate it moved. she was an engine, and the fact that she did not know that she was an engine contributed largely to the effect. one reason that she was formidable was that she did not even imagine that she was formidable. she remained a weak, innocent, and pig-headed creature, who alone would defy the universe if she thought the universe merited this proceeding. one day carrie dungen came across from her kitchen with speed. she had a great deal of grist. "oh," she cried, "henry johnson got away from where they was keeping him, and came to town last night, and scared everybody almost to death." martha was shining a dish-pan, polishing madly. no reasonable person could see cause for this operation, because the pan already glistened like silver. "well!" she ejaculated. she imparted to the word a deep meaning. "this, my prophecy, has come to pass." it was a habit. the overplus of information was choking carrie. before she could go on she was obliged to struggle for a moment. "and, oh, little sadie winter is awful sick, and they say jake winter was around this morning trying to get doctor trescott arrested. and poor old mrs. farragut sprained her ankle in trying to climb a fence. and there's a crowd around the jail all the time. they put henry in jail because they didn't know what else to do with him, i guess. they say he is perfectly terrible." martha finally released the dish-pan and confronted the headlong speaker. "well!" she said again, poising a great brown rag. kate had heard the excited new-comer, and drifted down from the novel in her room. she was a shivery little woman. her shoulder-blades seemed to be two panes of ice, for she was constantly shrugging and shrugging. "serves him right if he was to lose all his patients," she said suddenly, in blood-thirsty tones. she snipped her words out as if her lips were scissors. "well, he's likely to," shouted carrie dungen. "don't a lot of people say that they won't have him any more? if you're sick and nervous, doctor trescott would scare the life out of you, wouldn't he? he would me. i'd keep thinking." martha, stalking to and fro, sometimes surveyed the two other women with a contemplative frown. xx after the return from connecticut, little jimmie was at first much afraid of the monster who lived in the room over the carriage-house. he could not identify it in any way. gradually, however, his fear dwindled under the influence of a weird fascination. he sidled into closer and closer relations with it. one time the monster was seated on a box behind the stable basking in the rays of the afternoon sun. a heavy crepe veil was swathed about its head. little jimmie and many companions came around the corner of the stable. they were all in what was popularly known as the baby class, and consequently escaped from school a half-hour before the other children. they halted abruptly at sight of the figure on the box. jimmie waved his hand with the air of a proprietor. "there he is," he said. "o-o-o!" murmured all the little boys--"o-o-o!" they shrank back, and grouped according to courage or experience, as at the sound the monster slowly turned its head. jimmie had remained in the van alone. "don't be afraid! i won't let him hurt you," he said, delighted. "huh!" they replied, contemptuously. "we ain't afraid." jimmie seemed to reap all the joys of the owner and exhibitor of one of the world's marvels, while his audience remained at a distance--awed and entranced, fearful and envious. one of them addressed jimmie gloomily. "bet you dassent walk right up to him." he was an older boy than jimmie, and habitually oppressed him to a small degree. this new social elevation of the smaller lad probably seemed revolutionary to him. "huh!" said jimmie, with deep scorn. "dassent i? dassent i, hey? dassent i?" the group was immensely excited. it turned its eyes upon the boy that jimmie addressed. "no, you dassent," he said, stolidly, facing a moral defeat. he could see that jimmie was resolved. "no, you dassent," he repeated, doggedly. "ho?" cried jimmie. "you just watch!--you just watch!" amid a silence he turned and marched towards the monster. but possibly the palpable wariness of his companions had an effect upon him that weighed more than his previous experience, for suddenly, when near to the monster, he halted dubiously. but his playmates immediately uttered a derisive shout, and it seemed to force him forward. he went to the monster and laid his hand delicately on its shoulder. "hello, henry," he said, in a voice that trembled a trifle. the monster was crooning a weird line of negro melody that was scarcely more than a thread of sound, and it paid no heed to the boy. jimmie: strutted back to his companions. they acclaimed him and hooted his opponent. amid this clamor the larger boy with difficulty preserved a dignified attitude. "i dassent, dassent i?" said jimmie to him. "now, you're so smart, let's see you do it!" this challenge brought forth renewed taunts from the others. the larger boy puffed out his checks. "well, i ain't afraid," he explained, sullenly. he had made a mistake in diplomacy, and now his small enemies were tumbling his prestige all about his ears. they crowed like roosters and bleated like lambs, and made many other noises which were supposed to bury him in ridicule and dishonor. "well, i ain't afraid," he continued to explain through the din. jimmie, the hero of the mob, was pitiless. "you ain't afraid, hey?" he sneered. "if you ain't afraid, go do it, then." "well, i would if i wanted to," the other retorted. his eyes wore an expression of profound misery, but he preserved steadily other portions of a pot-valiant air. he suddenly faced one of his persecutors. "if you're so smart, why don't you go do it?" this persecutor sank promptly through the group to the rear. the incident gave the badgered one a breathing-spell, and for a moment even turned the derision in another direction. he took advantage of his interval. "i'll do it if anybody else will," he announced, swaggering to and fro. candidates for the adventure did not come forward. to defend themselves from this counter-charge, the other boys again set up their crowing and bleating. for a while they would hear nothing from him. each time he opened his lips their chorus of noises made oratory impossible. but at last he was able to repeat that he would volunteer to dare as much in the affair as any other boy. "well, you go first," they shouted. but jimmie intervened to once more lead the populace against the large boy. "you're mighty brave, ain't you?" he said to him. "you dared me to do it, and i did--didn't i? now who's afraid?" the others cheered this view loudly, and they instantly resumed the baiting of the large boy. he shamefacedly scratched his left shin with his right foot. "well, i ain't afraid." he cast an eye at the monster. "well, i ain't afraid." with a glare of hatred at his squalling tormentors, he finally announced a grim intention. "well, i'll do it, then, since you're so fresh. now!" the mob subsided as with a formidable countenance he turned towards the impassive figure on the box. the advance was also a regular progression from high daring to craven hesitation. at last, when some yards from the monster, the lad came to a full halt, as if he had encountered a stone wall. the observant little boys in the distance promptly hooted. stung again by these cries, the lad sneaked two yards forward. he was crouched like a young cat ready for a backward spring. the crowd at the rear, beginning to respect this display, uttered some encouraging cries. suddenly the lad gathered himself together, made a white and desperate rush forward, touched the monster's shoulder with a far-outstretched finger, and sped away, while his laughter rang out wild, shrill, and exultant. the crowd of boys reverenced him at once, and began to throng into his camp, and look at him, and be his admirers. jimmie was discomfited for a moment, but he and the larger boy, without agreement or word of any kind, seemed to recognize a truce, and they swiftly combined and began to parade before the others. "why, it's just as easy as nothing," puffed the larger boy. "ain't it, jim?" "course," blew jimmie. "why, it's as e-e-easy." they were people of another class. if they had been decorated for courage on twelve battle-fields, they could not have made the other boys more ashamed of the situation. meanwhile they condescended to explain the emotions of the excursion, expressing unqualified contempt for any one who could hang back. "why, it ain't nothin'. he won't do nothin' to you," they told the others, in tones of exasperation. one of the very smallest boys in the party showed signs of a wistful desire to distinguish himself, and they turned their attention to him, pushing at his shoulders while he swung away from them, and hesitated dreamily. he was eventually induced to make furtive expedition, but it was only for a few yards. then he paused, motionless, gazing with open mouth. the vociferous entreaties of jimmie and the large boy had no power over him. mrs. hannigan had come out on her back porch with a pail of water. from this coign she had a view of the secluded portion of the trescott grounds that was behind the stable. she perceived the group of boys, and the monster on the box. she shaded her eyes with her hand to benefit her vision. she screeched then as if she was being murdered. "eddie! eddie! you come home this minute!" her son querulously demanded, "aw, what for?" "you come home this minute. do you hear?" the other boys seemed to think this visitation upon one of their number required them to preserve for a time the hang-dog air of a collection of culprits, and they remained in guilty silence until the little hannigan, wrathfully protesting, was pushed through the door of his home. mrs. hannigan cast a piercing glance over the group, stared with a bitter face at the trescott house, as if this new and handsome edifice was insulting her, and then followed her son. there was wavering in the party. an inroad by one mother always caused them to carefully sweep the horizon to see if there were more coming. "this is my yard," said jimmie, proudly. "we don't have to go home." the monster on the box had turned its black crepe countenance towards the sky, and was waving its arms in time to a religious chant. "look at him now," cried a little boy. they turned, and were transfixed by the solemnity and mystery of the indefinable gestures. the wail of the melody was mournful and slow. they drew back. it seemed to spellbind them with the power of a funeral. they were so absorbed that they did not hear the doctor's buggy drive up to the stable. trescott got out, tied his horse, and approached the group. jimmie saw him first, and at his look of dismay the others wheeled. "what's all this, jimmie?" asked trescott, in surprise. the lad advanced to the front of his companions, halted, and said nothing. trescott's face gloomed slightly as he scanned the scene. "what were you doing, jimmie?" "we was playin'," answered jimmie, huskily. "playing at what?" "just playin'." trescott looked gravely at the other boys, and asked them to please go home. they proceeded to the street much in the manner of frustrated and revealed assassins. the crime of trespass on another boy's place was still a crime when they had only accepted the other boy's cordial invitation, and they were used to being sent out of all manner of gardens upon the sudden appearance of a father or a mother. jimmie had wretchedly watched the departure of his companions. it involved the loss of his position as a lad who controlled the privileges of his father's grounds, but then he knew that in the beginning he had no right to ask so many boys to be his guests. once on the sidewalk, however, they speedily forgot their shame as trespassers, and the large boy launched forth in a description of his success in the late trial of courage. as they went rapidly up the street, the little boy who had made the furtive expedition cried out confidently from the rear, "yes, and i went almost up to him, didn't i, willie?" the large boy crushed him in a few words. "huh!" he scoffed. "you only went a little way. i went clear up to him." the pace of the other boys was so manly that the tiny thing had to trot, and he remained at the rear, getting entangled in their legs in his attempts to reach the front rank and become of some importance, dodging this way and that way, and always piping out his little claim to glory. xxi "by-the-way, grace," said trescott, looking into the dining-room from his office door, "i wish you would send jimmie to me before school-time." when jimmie came, he advanced so quietly that trescott did not at first note him. "oh," he said, wheeling from a cabinet, "here you are, young man." "yes, sir." trescott dropped into his chair and tapped the desk with a thoughtful finger. "jimmie, what were you doing in the back garden yesterday--you and the other boys--to henry?" "we weren't doing anything, pa." trescott looked sternly into the raised eyes of his son. "are you sure you were not annoying him in any way? now what were you doing, exactly?" "why, we--why, we--now--willie dalzel said i dassent go right up to him, and i did; and then he did; and then--the other boys were 'fraid; and then--you comed." trescott groaned deeply. his countenance was so clouded in sorrow that the lad, bewildered by the mystery of it, burst suddenly forth in dismal lamentations. "there, there. don't cry, jim," said trescott, going round the desk. "only--" he sat in a great leather reading-chair, and took the boy on his knee. "only i want to explain to you--" after jimmie had gone to school, and as trescott was about to start on his round of morning calls, a message arrived from doctor moser. it set forth that the latter's sister was dying in the old homestead, twenty miles away up the valley, and asked trescott to care for his patients for the day at least. there was also in the envelope a little history of each case and of what had already been done. trescott replied to the messenger that he would gladly assent to the arrangement. he noted that the first name on moser's list was winter, but this did not seem to strike him as an important fact. when its turn came, he rang the winter bell. "good-morning, mrs. winter," he said, cheerfully, as the door was opened. "doctor moser has been obliged to leave town to-day, and he has asked me to come in his stead. how is the little girl this morning?" mrs. winter had regarded him in stony surprise. at last she said: "come in! i'll see my husband." she bolted into the house. trescott entered the hall, and turned to the left into the sitting-room. presently winter shuffled through the door. his eyes flashed towards trescott. he did not betray any desire to advance far into the room. "what do you want?" he said. "what do i want? what do i want?" repeated trescott, lifting his head suddenly. he had heard an utterly new challenge in the night of the jungle. "yes, that's what i want to know," snapped winter. "what do you want?" trescott was silent for a moment. he consulted moser's memoranda. "i see that your little girl's case is a trifle serious," he remarked. "i would advise you to call a physician soon. i will leave you a copy of dr. moser's record to give to any one you may call." he paused to transcribe the record on a page of his note-book. tearing out the leaf, he extended it to winter as he moved towards the door. the latter shrunk against the wall. his head was hanging as he reached for the paper. this caused him to grasp air, and so trescott simply let the paper flutter to the feet of the other man. "good-morning," said trescott from the hall. this placid retreat seemed to suddenly arouse winter to ferocity. it was as if he had then recalled all the truths which he had formulated to hurl at trescott. so he followed him into the hall, and down the hall to the door, and through the door to the porch, barking in fiery rage from a respectful distance. as trescott imperturbably turned the mare's head down the road, winter stood on the porch, still yelping. he was like a little dog. xxii "have you heard the news?" cried carrie dungen as she sped towards martha's kitchen. "have you heard the news?" her eyes were shining with delight. "no," answered martha's sister kate, bending forward eagerly. "what was it? what was it?" carrie appeared triumphantly in the open door. "oh, there's been an awful scene between doctor trescott and jake winter. i never thought that jake winter had any pluck at all, but this morning he told the doctor just what he thought of him." "well, what did he think of him?" asked martha. "oh, he called him everything. mrs. howarth heard it through her front blinds. it was terrible, she says. it's all over town now. everybody knows it." "didn't the doctor answer back?" "no! mrs. howarth--she says he never said a word. he just walked down to his buggy and got in, and drove off as co-o-o-l. but jake gave him jinks, by all accounts." "but what did he say?" cried kate, shrill and excited. she was evidently at some kind of a feast. "oh, he told him that sadie had never been well since that night henry johnson frightened her at theresa page's party, and he held him responsible, and how dared he cross his threshold--and--and--and--" "and what?" said martha. "did he swear at him?" said kate, in fearsome glee. "no--not much. he did swear at him a little, but not more than a man does anyhow when he is real mad, mrs. howarth says." "o-oh!" breathed kate. "and did he call him any names?" martha, at her work, had been for a time in deep thought. she now interrupted the others. "it don't seem as if sadie winter had been sick since that time henry johnson got loose. she's been to school almost the whole time since then, hasn't she?" they combined upon her in immediate indignation. "school? school? i should say not. don't think for a moment. school!" martha wheeled from the sink. she held an iron spoon, and it seemed as if she was going to attack them. "sadie winter has passed here many a morning since then carrying her schoolbag. where was she going? to a wedding?" the others, long accustomed to a mental tyranny, speedily surrendered. "did she?" stammered kate. "i never saw her." carrie dungen made a weak gesture. "if i had been doctor trescott," exclaimed martha, loudly, "i'd have knocked that miserable jake winter's head off." kate and carrie, exchanging glances, made an alliance in the air. "i don't see why you say that, martha," replied carrie, with considerable boldness, gaining support and sympathy from kate's smile. "i don't see how anybody can be blamed for getting angry when their little girl gets almost scared to death and gets sick from it, and all that. besides, everybody says--" "oh, i don't care what everybody says," said martha. "well, you can't go against the whole town," answered carrie, in sudden sharp defiance. "no, martha, you can't go against the whole town," piped kate, following her leader rapidly. "'the whole town,'" cried martha. "i'd like to know what you call 'the whole town.' do you call these silly people who are scared of henry johnson 'the whole town'?" "why, martha," said carrie, in a reasoning tone, "you talk as if you wouldn't be scared of him!" "no more would i," retorted martha. "o-oh, martha, how you talk!" said kate. "why, the idea! everybody's afraid of him." carrie was grinning. "you've never seen him, have you?" she asked, seductively. "no," admitted martha. "well, then, how do you know that you wouldn't be scared?" martha confronted her. "have you ever seen him? no? well, then, how do you know you _would_ be scared?" the allied forces broke out in chorus: "but, martha, everybody says so. everybody says so." "everybody says what?" "everybody that's seen him say they were frightened almost to death. tisn't only women, but it's men too. it's awful." martha wagged her head solemnly. "i'd try not to be afraid of him." "but supposing you could not help it?" said kate. "yes, and look here," cried carrie. "i'll tell you another thing. the hannigans are going to move out of the house next door." "on account of him?" demanded martha. carrie nodded. "mrs. hannigan says so herself." "well, of all things!" ejaculated martha. "going to move, eh? you don't say so! where they going to move to?" "down on orchard avenue." "well, of all things! nice house?" "i don't know about that. i haven't heard. but there's lots of nice houses on orchard." "yes, but they're all taken," said kate. "there isn't a vacant house on orchard avenue." "oh yes, there is," said martha. "the old hampstead house is vacant." "oh, of course," said kate. "but then i don't believe mrs. hannigan would like it there. i wonder where they can be going to move to?" "i'm sure i don't know," sighed martha. "it must be to some place we don't know about." "well." said carrie dungen, after a general reflective silence, "it's easy enough to find out, anyhow." "who knows--around here?" asked kate. "why, mrs. smith, and there she is in her garden," said carrie, jumping to her feet. as she dashed out of the door, kate and martha crowded at the window. carrie's voice rang out from near the steps. "mrs. smith! mrs. smith! do you know where the hannigans are going to move to?" xxiii the autumn smote the leaves, and the trees of whilomville were panoplied in crimson and yellow. the winds grew stronger, and in the melancholy purple of the nights the home shine of a window became a finer thing. the little boys, watching the sear and sorrowful leaves drifting down from the maples, dreamed of the near time when they could heap bushels in the streets and burn them during the abrupt evenings. three men walked down the niagara avenue. as they approached judge hagenthorpe's house he came down his walk to meet them in the manner of one who has been waiting. "are you ready, judge?" one said. "all ready," he answered. the four then walked to trescott's house. he received them in his office, where he had been reading. he seemed surprised at this visit of four very active and influential citizens, but he had nothing to say of it. after they were all seated, trescott looked expectantly from one face to another. there was a little silence. it was broken by john twelve, the wholesale grocer, who was worth $400,000, and reported to be worth over a million. "well, doctor," he said, with a short laugh, "i suppose we might as well admit at once that we've come to interfere in something which is none of our business." "why, what is it?" asked trescott, again looking from one face to another. he seemed to appeal particularly to judge hagenthorpe, but the old man had his chin lowered musingly to his cane, and would not look at him. "it's about what nobody talks of--much," said twelve. "it's about henry johnson." trescott squared himself in his chair. "yes?" he said. having delivered himself of the title, twelve seemed to become more easy. "yes," he answered, blandly, "we wanted to talk to you about it." "yes?" said trescott. [illustration: "'it's about what nobody talks of--much,' said twelve"] twelve abruptly advanced on the main attack. "now see here, trescott, we like you, and we have come to talk right out about this business. it may be none of our affairs and all that, and as for me, i don't mind if you tell me so; but i am not going to keep quiet and see you ruin yourself. and that's how we all feel." "i am not ruining myself," answered trescott. "no, maybe you are not exactly ruining yourself," said twelve, slowly, "but you are doing yourself a great deal of harm. you have changed from being the leading doctor in town to about the last one. it is mainly because there are always a large number of people who are very thoughtless fools, of course, but then that doesn't change the condition." a man who had not heretofore spoken said, solemnly, "it's the women." "well, what i want to say is this," resumed twelve: "even if there are a lot of fools in the world, we can't see any reason why you should ruin yourself by opposing them. you can't teach them anything, you know." "i am not trying to teach them anything." trescott smiled wearily. "i--it is a matter of--well--" "and there are a good many of us that admire you for it immensely," interrupted twelve; "but that isn't going to change the minds of all those ninnies." "it's the women," stated the advocate of this view again. "well, what i want to say is this," said twelve. "we want you to get out of this trouble and strike your old gait again. you are simply killing your practice through your infernal pigheadedness. now this thing is out of the ordinary, but there must be ways to--to beat the game somehow, you see. so we've talked it over--about a dozen of us--and, as i say, if you want to tell us to mind our own business, why, go ahead; but we've talked it over, and we've come to the conclusion that the only way to do is to get johnson a place somewhere off up the valley, and--" trescott wearily gestured. "you don't know, my friend. everybody is so afraid of him, they can't even give him good care. nobody can attend to him as i do myself." "but i have a little no-good farm up beyond clarence mountain that i was going to give to henry," cried twelve, aggrieved. "and if you--and if you--if you--through your house burning down, or anything--why, all the boys were prepared to take him right off your hands, and--and--" trescott arose and went to the window. he turned his back upon them. they sat waiting in silence. when he returned he kept his face in the shadow. "no, john twelve," he said, "it can't be done." there was another stillness. suddenly a man stirred on his chair. "well, then, a public institution--" he began. "no," said trescott; "public institutions are all very good, but he is not going to one." in the background of the group old judge hagenthorpe was thoughtfully smoothing the polished ivory head of his cane. xxiv trescott loudly stamped the snow from his feet and shook the flakes from his shoulders. when he entered the house he went at once to the dining-room, and then to the sitting-room. jimmie was there, reading painfully in a large book concerning giraffes and tigers and crocodiles. "where is your mother, jimmie?" asked trescott. "i don't know, pa," answered the boy. "i think she is up-stairs." trescott went to the foot of the stairs and called, but there came no answer. seeing that the door of the little drawing-room was open, he entered. the room was bathed in the half-light that came from the four dull panes of mica in the front of the great stove. as his eyes grew used to the shadows he saw his wife curled in an arm-chair. he went to her. "why, grace." he said, "didn't you hear me calling you?" she made no answer, and as he bent over the chair he heard her trying to smother a sob in the cushion. "grace!" he cried. "you're crying!" she raised her face. "i've got a headache, a dreadful headache, ned." "a headache?" he repeated, in surprise and incredulity. he pulled a chair close to hers. later, as he cast his eye over the zone of light shed by the dull red panes, he saw that a low table had been drawn close to the stove, and that it was burdened with many small cups and plates of uncut tea-cake. he remembered that the day was wednesday, and that his wife received on wednesdays. "who was here to-day, gracie?" he asked. from his shoulder there came a mumble, "mrs. twelve." "was she--um," he said. "why--didn't anna hagenthorpe come over?" the mumble from his shoulder continued, "she wasn't well enough." glancing down at the cups, trescott mechanically counted them. there were fifteen of them. "there, there," he said. "don't cry, grace. don't cry." the wind was whining round the house, and the snow beat aslant upon the windows. sometimes the coal in the stove settled with a crumbling sound, and the four panes of mica flashed a sudden new crimson. as he sat holding her head on his shoulder, trescott found himself occasionally trying to count the cups. there were fifteen of them. -----the blue hotel i the palace hotel at fort romper was painted a light blue, a shade that is on the legs of a kind of heron, causing the bird to declare its position against any background. the palace hotel, then, was always screaming and howling in a way that made the dazzling winter landscape of nebraska seem only a gray swampish hush. it stood alone on the prairie, and when the snow was falling the town two hundred yards away was not visible. but when the traveller alighted at the railway station he was obliged to pass the palace hotel before he could come upon the company of low clapboard houses which composed fort romper, and it was not to be thought that any traveller could pass the palace hotel without looking at it. pat scully, the proprietor, had proved himself a master of strategy when he chose his paints. it is true that on clear days, when the great trans-continental expresses, long lines of swaying pullmans, swept through fort romper, passengers were overcome at the sight, and the cult that knows the brown-reds and the subdivisions of the dark greens of the east expressed shame, pity, horror, in a laugh. but to the citizens of this prairie town and to the people who would naturally stop there, pat scully had performed a feat. with this opulence and splendor, these creeds, classes, egotisms, that streamed through romper on the rails day after day, they had no color in common. as if the displayed delights of such a blue hotel were not sufficiently enticing, it was scully's habit to go every morning and evening to meet the leisurely trains that stopped at romper and work his seductions upon any man that he might see wavering, gripsack in hand. one morning, when a snow-crusted engine dragged its long string of freight cars and its one passenger coach to the station, scully performed the marvel of catching three men. one was a shaky and quick-eyed swede, with a great shining cheap valise; one was a tall bronzed cowboy, who was on his way to a ranch near the dakota line; one was a little silent man from the east, who didn't look it, and didn't announce it. scully practically made them prisoners. he was so nimble and merry and kindly that each probably felt it would be the height of brutality to try to escape. they trudged off over the creaking board sidewalks in the wake of the eager little irishman. he wore a heavy fur cap squeezed tightly down on his head. it caused his two red ears to stick out stiffly, as if they were made of tin. at last, scully, elaborately, with boisterous hospitality, conducted them through the portals of the blue hotel. the room which they entered was small. it seemed to be merely a proper temple for an enormous stove, which, in the centre, was humming with godlike violence. at various points on its surface the iron had become luminous and glowed yellow from the heat. beside the stove scully's son johnnie was playing high-five with an old farmer who had whiskers both gray and sandy. they were quarrelling. frequently the old farmer turned his face towards a box of sawdust--colored brown from tobacco juice--that was behind the stove, and spat with an air of great impatience and irritation. with a loud flourish of words scully destroyed the game of cards, and bustled his son up-stairs with part of the baggage of the new guests. he himself conducted them to three basins of the coldest water in the world. the cowboy and the easterner burnished themselves fiery-red with this water, until it seemed to be some kind of a metal polish. the swede, however, merely dipped his fingers gingerly and with trepidation. it was notable that throughout this series of small ceremonies the three travellers were made to feel that scully was very benevolent. he was conferring great favors upon them. he handed the towel from one to the other with an air of philanthropic impulse. afterwards they went to the first room, and, sitting about the stove, listened to scully's officious clamor at his daughters, who were preparing the mid-day meal. they reflected in the silence of experienced men who tread carefully amid new people. nevertheless, the old farmer, stationary, invincible in his chair near the warmest part of the stove, turned his face from the sawdust box frequently and addressed a glowing commonplace to the strangers. usually he was answered in short but adequate sentences by either the cowboy or the easterner. the swede said nothing. he seemed to be occupied in making furtive estimates of each man in the room. one might have thought that he had the sense of silly suspicion which comes to guilt. he resembled a badly frightened man. later, at dinner, he spoke a little, addressing his conversation entirely to scully. he volunteered that he had come from new york, where for ten years he had worked as a tailor. these facts seemed to strike scully as fascinating, and afterwards he volunteered that he had lived at romper for fourteen years. the swede asked about the crops and the price of labor. he seemed barely to listen to scully's extended replies. his eyes continued to rove from man to man. finally, with a laugh and a wink, he said that some of these western communities were very dangerous; and after his statement he straightened his legs under the table, tilted his head, and laughed again, loudly. it was plain that the demonstration had no meaning to the others. they looked at him wondering and in silence. ii as the men trooped heavily back into the front-room, the two little windows presented views of a turmoiling sea of snow. the huge arms of the wind were making attempts--mighty, circular, futile--to embrace the flakes as they sped. a gate-post like a still man with a blanched face stood aghast amid this profligate fury. in a hearty voice scully announced the presence of a blizzard. the guests of the blue hotel, lighting their pipes, assented with grunts of lazy masculine contentment. no island of the sea could be exempt in the degree of this little room with its humming stove. johnnie, son of scully, in a tone which defined his opinion of his ability as a card-player, challenged the old farmer of both gray and sandy whiskers to a game of high-five. the farmer agreed with a contemptuous and bitter scoff. they sat close to the stove, and squared their knees under a wide board. the cowboy and the easterner watched the game with interest. the swede remained near the window, aloof, but with a countenance that showed signs of an inexplicable excitement. the play of johnnie and the gray-beard was suddenly ended by another quarrel. the old man arose while casting a look of heated scorn at his adversary. he slowly buttoned his coat, and then stalked with fabulous dignity from the room. in the discreet silence of all other men the swede laughed. his laughter rang somehow childish. men by this time had begun to look at him askance, as if they wished to inquire what ailed him. a new game was formed jocosely. the cowboy volunteered to become the partner of johnnie, and they all then turned to ask the swede to throw in his lot with the little easterner, he asked some questions about the game, and, learning that it wore many names, and that he had played it when it was under an alias, he accepted the invitation. he strode towards the men nervously, as if he expected to be assaulted. finally, seated, he gazed from face to face and laughed shrilly. this laugh was so strange that the easterner looked up quickly, the cowboy sat intent and with his mouth open, and johnnie paused, holding the cards with still fingers. afterwards there was a short silence. then johnnie said, "well, let's get at it. come on now!" they pulled their chairs forward until their knees were bunched under the board. they began to play, and their interest in the game caused the others to forget the manner of the swede. the cowboy was a board-whacker. each time that he held superior cards he whanged them, one by one, with exceeding force, down upon the improvised table, and took the tricks with a glowing air of prowess and pride that sent thrills of indignation into the hearts of his opponents. a game with a board-whacker in it is sure to become intense. the countenances of the easterner and the swede were miserable whenever the cowboy thundered down his aces and kings, while johnnie, his eyes gleaming with joy, chuckled and chuckled. because of the absorbing play none considered the strange ways of the swede. they paid strict heed to the game. finally, during a lull caused by a new deal, the swede suddenly addressed johnnie: "i suppose there have been a good many men killed in this room." the jaws of the others dropped and they looked at him. "what in hell are you talking about?" said johnnie. the swede laughed again his blatant laugh, full of a kind of false courage and defiance. "oh, you know what i mean all right," he answered. "i'm a liar if i do!" johnnie protested. the card was halted, and the men stared at the swede. johnnie evidently felt that as the son of the proprietor he should make a direct inquiry. "now, what might you be drivin' at, mister?" he asked. the swede winked at him. it was a wink full of cunning. his fingers shook on the edge of the board. "oh, maybe you think i have been to nowheres. maybe you think i'm a tenderfoot?" "i don't know nothin' about you," answered johnnie, "and i don't give a damn where you've been. all i got to say is that i don't know what you're driving at. there hain't never been nobody killed in this room." the cowboy, who had been steadily gazing at the swede, then spoke: "what's wrong with you, mister?" apparently it seemed to the swede that he was formidably menaced. he shivered and turned white near the corners of his mouth. he sent an appealing glance in the direction of the little easterner. during these moments he did not forget to wear his air of advanced pot-valor. "they say they don't know what i mean," he remarked mockingly to the easterner. the latter answered after prolonged and cautious reflection. "i don't understand you," he said, impassively. the swede made a movement then which announced that he thought he had encountered treachery from the only quarter where he had expected sympathy, if not help. "oh, i see you are all against me. i see--" the cowboy was in a state of deep stupefaction. "say." he cried, as he tumbled the deck violently down upon the board "--say, what are you gittin' at, hey?" the swede sprang up with the celerity of a man escaping from a snake on the floor. "i don't want to fight!" he shouted. "i don't want to fight!" the cowboy stretched his long legs indolently and deliberately. his hands were in his pockets. he spat into the sawdust box. "well, who the hell thought you did?" he inquired. the swede backed rapidly towards a corner of the room. his hands were out protectingly in front of his chest, but he was making an obvious struggle to control his fright. "gentlemen," he quavered, "i suppose i am going to be killed before i can leave this house! i suppose i am going to be killed before i can leave this house!" in his eyes was the dying-swan look. through the windows could be seen the snow turning blue in the shadow of dusk. the wind tore at the house and some loose thing beat regularly against the clap-boards like a spirit tapping. a door opened, and scully himself entered. he paused in surprise as he noted the tragic attitude of the swede. then he said, "what's the matter here?" the swede answered him swiftly and eagerly: "these men are going to kill me." "kill you!" ejaculated scully. "kill you! what are you talkin'?" the swede made the gesture of a martyr. scully wheeled sternly upon his son. "what is this, johnnie?" the lad had grown sullen. "damned if i know," he answered. "i can't make no sense to it." he began to shuffle the cards, fluttering them together with an angry snap. "he says a good many men have been killed in this room, or something like that. and he says he's goin' to be killed here too. i don't know what ails him. he's crazy, i shouldn't wonder." scully then looked for explanation to the cowboy, but the cowboy simply shrugged his shoulders. "kill you?" said scully again to the swede. "kill you? man, you're off your nut." "oh, i know." burst out the swede. "i know what will happen. yes, i'm crazy--yes. yes, of course, i'm crazy--yes. but i know one thing--" there was a sort of sweat of misery and terror upon his face. "i know i won't get out of here alive." the cowboy drew a deep breath, as if his mind was passing into the last stages of dissolution. "well, i'm dog-goned," he whispered to himself. scully wheeled suddenly and faced his son. "you've been troublin' this man!" johnnie's voice was loud with its burden of grievance. "why, good gawd, i ain't done nothin' to 'im." the swede broke in. "gentlemen, do not disturb yourselves. i will leave this house. i will go away because"--he accused them dramatically with his glance--"because i do not want to be killed." scully was furious with his son. "will you tell me what is the matter, you young divil? what's the matter, anyhow? speak out!" "blame it!" cried johnnie in despair, "don't i tell you i don't know. he--he says we want to kill him, and that's all i know. i can't tell what ails him." the swede continued to repeat: "never mind, mr. scully; nevermind. i will leave this house. i will go away, because i do not wish to be killed. yes, of course, i am crazy--yes. but i know one thing! i will go away. i will leave this house. never mind, mr. scully; never mind. i will go away." "you will not go 'way," said scully. "you will not go 'way until i hear the reason of this business. if anybody has troubled you i will take care of him. this is my house. you are under my roof, and i will not allow any peaceable man to be troubled here." he cast a terrible eye upon johnnie, the cowboy, and the easterner. "never mind, mr. scully; never mind. i will go away. i do not wish to be killed." the swede moved towards the door, which opened upon the stairs. it was evidently his intention to go at once for his baggage. "no, no," shouted scully peremptorily; but the white-faced man slid by him and disappeared. "now," said scully severely, "what does this mane?" johnnie and the cowboy cried together: "why, we didn't do nothin' to 'im!" scully's eyes were cold. "no," he said, "you didn't?" johnnie swore a deep oath. "why this is the wildest loon i ever see. we didn't do nothin' at all. we were jest sittin' here play in' cards, and he--" the father suddenly spoke to the easterner. "mr. blanc," he asked, "what has these boys been doin'?" the easterner reflected again. "i didn't see anything wrong at all," he said at last, slowly. scully began to howl. "but what does it mane?" he stared ferociously at his son. "i have a mind to lather you for this, me boy." johnnie was frantic. "well, what have i done?" he bawled at his father. iii "i think you are tongue-tied," said scully finally to his son, the cowboy, and the easterner; and at the end of this scornful sentence he left the room. up-stairs the swede was swiftly fastening the straps of his great valise. once his back happened to be half turned towards the door, and, hearing a noise there, he wheeled and sprang up, uttering a loud cry. scully's wrinkled visage showed grimly in the light of the small lamp he carried. this yellow effulgence, streaming upward, colored only his prominent features, and left his eyes, for instance, in mysterious shadow. he resembled a murderer. "man! man!" he exclaimed, "have you gone daffy?" "oh, no! oh, no!" rejoined the other. "there are people in this world who know pretty nearly as much as you do--understand?" for a moment they stood gazing at each other. upon the swede's deathly pale checks were two spots brightly crimson and sharply edged, as if they had been carefully painted. scully placed the light on the table and sat himself on the edge of the bed. he spoke ruminatively. "by cracky, i never heard of such a thing in my life. it's a complete muddle. i can't, for the soul of me, think how you ever got this idea into your head." presently he lifted his eyes and asked: "and did you sure think they were going to kill you?" the swede scanned the old man as if he wished to see into his mind. "i did," he said at last. he obviously suspected that this answer might precipitate an outbreak. as he pulled on a strap his whole arm shook, the elbow wavering like a bit of paper. scully banged his hand impressively on the foot-board of the bed. "why, man, we're goin' to have a line of ilictric street-cars in this town next spring." "'a line of electric street-cars,'" repeated the swede, stupidly. "and," said scully, "there's a new railroad goin' to be built down from broken arm to here. not to mintion the four churches and the smashin' big brick school-house. then there's the big factory, too. why, in two years romper 'll be a _metropolis_." having finished the preparation of his baggage, the swede straightened himself. "mr. scully," he said, with sudden hardihood, "how much do i owe you?" "you don't owe me anythin'," said the old man, angrily. "yes, i do," retorted the swede. he took seventy-five cents from his pocket and tendered it to scully; but the latter snapped his fingers in disdainful refusal. however, it happened that they both stood gazing in a strange fashion at three silver pieces on the swede's open palm. "i'll not take your money," said scully at last. "not after what's been goin' on here." then a plan seemed to strike him. "here," he cried, picking up his lamp and moving towards the door. "here! come with me a minute." "no," said the swede, in overwhelming alarm. "yes," urged the old man. "come on! i want you to come and see a picter--just across the hall--in my room." the swede must have concluded that his hour was come. his jaw dropped and his teeth showed like a dead man's. he ultimately followed scully across the corridor, but he had the step of one hung in chains. scully flashed the light high on the wall of his own chamber. there was revealed a ridiculous photograph of a little girl. she was leaning against a balustrade of gorgeous decoration, and the formidable bang to her hair was prominent. the figure was as graceful as an upright sled-stake, and, withal, it was of the hue of lead. "there," said scully, tenderly, "that's the picter of my little girl that died. her name was carrie. she had the purtiest hair you ever saw! i was that fond of her, she--" turning then, he saw that the swede was not contemplating the picture at all, but, instead, was keeping keen watch on the gloom in the rear. "look, man!" cried scully, heartily. "that's the picter of my little gal that died. her name was carrie. and then here's the picter of my oldest boy, michael. he's a lawyer in lincoln, an' doin' well. i gave that boy a grand eddycation, and i'm glad for it now. he's a fine boy. look at 'im now. ain't he bold as blazes, him there in lincoln, an honored an' respicted gintleman. an honored an' respicted gintleman," concluded scully with a flourish. and, so saying, he smote the swede jovially on the back. the swede faintly smiled. "now," said the old man, "there's only one more thing." he dropped suddenly to the floor and thrust his head beneath the bed. the swede could hear his muffled voice. "i'd keep it under me piller if it wasn't for that boy johnnie. then there's the old woman--where is it now? i never put it twice in the same place. ah, now come out with you!" presently he backed clumsily from under the bed, dragging with him an old coat rolled into a bundle. "i've fetched him," he muttered. kneeling on the floor, he unrolled the coat and extracted from its heart a large yellow-brown whiskey bottle. his first maneuver was to hold the bottle up to the light. reassured, apparently, that nobody had been tampering with it, he thrust it with a generous movement towards the swede. the weak-kneed swede was about to eagerly clutch this element of strength, but he suddenly jerked his hand away and cast a look of horror upon scully. "drink," said the old man affectionately. he had risen to his feet, and now stood facing the swede. there was a silence. then again scully said: "drink!" the swede laughed wildly. he grabbed the bottle, put it to his mouth, and as his lips curled absurdly around the opening and his throat worked, he kept his glance, burning with hatred, upon the old man's face. iv after the departure of scully the three men, with the card-board still upon their knees, preserved for a long time an astounded silence. then johnnie said: "that's the dod-dangest swede i ever see." "he ain't no swede," said the cowboy, scornfully. "well, what is he then?" cried johnnie. "what is he then?" "it's my opinion," replied the cowboy deliberately, "he's some kind of a dutchman." it was a venerable custom of the country to entitle as swedes all light-haired men who spoke with a heavy tongue. in consequence the idea of the cowboy was not without its daring. "yes, sir," he repeated. "it's my opinion this feller is some kind of a dutchman." "well, he says he's a swede, anyhow," muttered johnnie, sulkily. he turned to the easterner: "what do you think, mr. blanc?" "oh, i don't know," replied the easterner. "well, what do you think makes him act that way?" asked the cowboy. "why, he's frightened." the easterner knocked his pipe against a rim of the stove. "he's clear frightened out of his boots." "what at?" cried johnnie and cowboy together. the easterner reflected over his answer. "what at?" cried the others again. "oh, i don't know, but it seems to me this man has been reading dime-novels, and he thinks he's right out in the middle of it--the shootin' and stabbin' and all." "but," said the cowboy, deeply scandalized, "this ain't wyoming, ner none of them places. this is nebrasker." "yes," added johnnie, "an' why don't he wait till he gits _out west?_" the travelled easterner laughed. "it isn't different there even--not in these days. but he thinks he's right in the middle of hell." johnnie and the cowboy mused long. "it's awful funny," remarked johnnie at last. "yes," said the cowboy. "this is a queer game. i hope we don't git snowed in, because then we'd have to stand this here man bein' around with us all the time. that wouldn't be no good." "i wish pop would throw him out," said johnnie. presently they heard a loud stamping on the stairs, accompanied by ringing jokes in the voice of old scully, and laughter, evidently from the swede. the men around the stove stared vacantly at each other. "gosh!" said the cowboy. the door flew open, and old scully, flushed and anecdotal, came into the room. he was jabbering at the swede, who followed him, laughing bravely. it was the entry of two roisterers from a banquet-hall. "come now," said scully sharply to the three seated men, "move up and give us a chance at the stove." the cowboy and the easterner obediently sidled their chairs to make room for the new-comers. johnnie, however, simply arranged himself in a more indolent attitude, and then remained motionless. "come! git over, there," said scully. "plenty of room on the other side of the stove," said johnnie. "do you think we want to sit in the draught?" roared the father. but the swede here interposed with a grandeur of confidence. "no, no. let the boy sit where he likes," he cried in a bullying voice to the father. "all right! all right!" said scully, deferentially. the cowboy and the easterner exchanged glances of wonder. the five chairs were formed in a crescent about one side of the stove. the swede began to talk; he talked arrogantly, profanely, angrily. johnnie, the cowboy, and the easterner maintained a morose silence, while old scully appeared to be receptive and eager, breaking in constantly with sympathetic ejaculations. finally the swede announced that he was thirsty. he moved in his chair, and said that he would go for a drink of water. "i'll git it for you," cried scully at once. "no," said the swede, contemptuously. "i'll get it for myself." he arose and stalked with the air of an owner off into the executive parts of the hotel. as soon as the swede was out of hearing scully sprang to his feet and whispered intensely to the others: "up-stairs he thought i was tryin' to poison 'im." "say," said johnnie, "this makes me sick. why don't you throw 'im out in the snow?" "why, he's all right now," declared scully. "it was only that he was from the east, and he thought this was a tough place. that's all. he's all right now." the cowboy looked with admiration upon the easterner. "you were straight," he said. "you were on to that there dutchman." "well," said johnnie to his father, "he may be all right now, but i don't see it. other time he was scared, but now he's too fresh." scully's speech was always a combination of irish brogue and idiom, western twang and idiom, and scraps of curiously formal diction taken from the story-books and newspapers, he now hurled a strange mass of language at the head of his son. "what do i keep? what do i keep? what do i keep?" he demanded, in a voice of thunder. he slapped his knee impressively, to indicate that he himself was going to make reply, and that all should heed. "i keep a hotel," he shouted. "a hotel, do you mind? a guest under my roof has sacred privileges. he is to be intimidated by none. not one word shall he hear that would prejudice him in favor of goin' away. i'll not have it. there's no place in this here town where they can say they iver took in a guest of mine because he was afraid to stay here." he wheeled suddenly upon the cowboy and the easterner. "am i right?" "yes, mr. scully," said the cowboy, "i think you're right." "yes, mr. scully," said the easterner, "i think you're right." v at six-o'clock supper, the swede fizzed like a fire-wheel. he sometimes seemed on the point of bursting into riotous song, and in all his madness he was encouraged by old scully. the easterner was incased in reserve; the cowboy sat in wide-mouthed amazement, forgetting to eat, while johnnie wrathily demolished great plates of food. the daughters of the house, when they were obliged to replenish the biscuits, approached as warily as indians, and, having succeeded in their purpose, fled with ill-concealed trepidation. the swede domineered the whole feast, and he gave it the appearance of a cruel bacchanal. he seemed to have grown suddenly taller; he gazed, brutally disdainful, into every face. his voice rang through the room. once when he jabbed out harpoon-fashion with his fork to pinion a biscuit, the weapon nearly impaled the hand of the easterner which had been stretched quietly out for the same biscuit. after supper, as the men filed towards the other room, the swede smote scully ruthlessly on the shoulder. "well, old boy, that was a good, square meal." johnnie looked hopefully at his father; he knew that shoulder was tender from an old fall; and, indeed, it appeared for a moment as if scully was going to flame out over the matter, but in the end he smiled a sickly smile and remained silent. the others understood from his manner that he was admitting his responsibility for the swede's new view-point. johnnie, however, addressed his parent in an aside. "why don't you license somebody to kick you down-stairs?" scully scowled darkly by way of reply. when they were gathered about the stove, the swede insisted on another game of high five. scully gently deprecated the plan at first, but the swede turned a wolfish glare upon him. the old man subsided, and the swede canvassed the others. in his tone there was always a great threat. the cowboy and the easterner both remarked indifferently that they would play. scully said that he would presently have to go to meet the 6.58 train, and so the swede turned menacingly upon johnnie. for a moment their glances crossed like blades, and then johnnie smiled and said, "yes, i'll play." they formed a square, with the little board on their knees. the easterner and the swede were again partners. as the play went on, it was noticeable that the cowboy was not board-whacking as usual. meanwhile, scully, near the lamp, had put on his spectacles and, with an appearance curiously like an old priest, was reading a newspaper. in time he went out to meet the 6.58 train, and, despite his precautions, a gust of polar wind whirled into the room as he opened the door. besides scattering the cards, it dulled the players to the marrow. the swede cursed frightfully. when scully returned, his entrance disturbed a cosey and friendly scene. the swede again cursed. but presently they were once more intent, their heads bent forward and their hands moving swiftly. the swede had adopted the fashion of board-whacking. scully took up his paper and for a long time remained immersed in matters which were extraordinarily remote from him. the lamp burned badly, and once he stopped to adjust the wick. the newspaper, as he turned from page to page, rustled with a slow and comfortable sound. then suddenly he heard three terrible words: "you are cheatin'!" such scenes often prove that there can be little of dramatic import in environment. any room can present a tragic front; any room can be comic. this little den was now hideous as a torture-chamber. the new faces of the men themselves had changed it upon the instant. the swede held a huge fist in front of johnnie's face, while the latter looked steadily over it into the blazing orbs of his accuser. the easterner had grown pallid; the cowboy's jaw had dropped in that expression of bovine amazement which was one of his important mannerisms. after the three words, the first sound in the room was made by scully's paper as it floated forgotten to his feet. his spectacles had also fallen from his nose, but by a clutch he had saved them in air. his hand, grasping the spectacles, now remained poised awkwardly and near his shoulder. he stared at the card-players. probably the silence was while a second elapsed. then, if the floor had been suddenly twitched out from under the men they could not have moved quicker. the five had projected themselves headlong towards a common point. it happened that johnnie, in rising to hurl himself upon the swede, had stumbled slightly because of his curiously instinctive care for the cards and the board. the loss of the moment allowed time for the arrival of scully, and also allowed the cowboy time to give the swede a great push which sent him staggering back. the men found tongue together, and hoarse shouts of rage, appeal, or fear burst from every throat. the cowboy pushed and jostled feverishly at the swede, and the easterner and scully clung wildly to johnnie; but, through the smoky air, above the swaying bodies of the peace-compellers, the eyes of the two warriors ever sought each other in glances of challenge that were at once hot and steely. of course the board had been overturned, and now the whole company of cards was scattered over the floor, where the boots of the men trampled the fat and painted kings and queens as they gazed with their silly eyes at the war that was waging above them. scully's voice was dominating the yells. "stop now? stop, i say! stop, now--" johnnie, as he struggled to burst through the rank formed by scully and the easterner, was crying, "well, he says i cheated! he says i cheated! i won't allow no man to say i cheated! if he says i cheated, he's a -----------!" the cowboy was telling the swede, "quit, now! quit, d'ye hear--" the screams of the swede never ceased: "he did cheat! i saw him! i saw him--" as for the easterner, he was importuning in a voice that was not heeded: "wait a moment, can't you? oh, wait a moment. what's the good of a fight over a game of cards? wait a moment--" in this tumult no complete sentences were clear. "cheat"--"quit"--"he says"--these fragments pierced the uproar and rang out sharply. it was remarkable that, whereas scully undoubtedly made the most noise, he was the least heard of any of the riotous band. then suddenly there was a great cessation. it was as if each man had paused for breath; and although the room was still lighted with the anger of men, it could be seen that there was no danger of immediate conflict, and at once johnnie, shouldering his way forward, almost succeeded in confronting the swede. "what did you say i cheated for? what did you say i cheated for? i don't cheat, and i won't let no man say i do!" the swede said, "i saw you! i saw you!" "well," cried johnnie, "i'll fight any man what says i cheat!" "no, you won't," said the cowboy. "not here." "ah, be still, can't you?" said scully, coming between them. the quiet was sufficient to allow the easterner's voice to be heard. he was repealing, "oh, wait a moment, can't you? what's the good of a fight over a game of cards? wait a moment!" johnnie, his red face appearing above his father's shoulder, hailed the swede again. "did you say i cheated?" the swede showed his teeth. "yes." "then," said johnnie, "we must fight." "yes, fight," roared the swede. he was like a demoniac. "yes, fight! i'll show you what kind of a man i am! i'll show you who you want to fight! maybe you think i can't fight! maybe you think i can't! i'll show you, you skin, you card-sharp! yes, you cheated! you cheated! you cheated!" "well, let's go at it, then, mister," said johnnie, coolly. the cowboy's brow was beaded with sweat from his efforts in intercepting all sorts of raids. he turned in despair to scully. "what are you goin' to do now?" a change had come over the celtic visage of the old man. he now seemed all eagerness; his eyes glowed. "we'll let them fight," he answered, stalwartly. "i can't put up with it any longer. i've stood this damned swede till i'm sick. we'll let them fight." vi the men prepared to go out-of-doors. the easterner was so nervous that he had great difficulty in getting his arms into the sleeves of his new leather coat. as the cowboy drew his fur cap down over his cars his hands trembled. in fact, johnnie and old scully were the only ones who displayed no agitation. these preliminaries were conducted without words. scully threw open the door. "well, come on," he said. instantly a terrific wind caused the flame of the lamp to struggle at its wick, while a puff of black smoke sprang from the chimney-top. the stove was in mid-current of the blast, and its voice swelled to equal the roar of the storm. some of the scarred and bedabbled cards were caught up from the floor and dashed helplessly against the farther wall. the men lowered their heads and plunged into the tempest as into a sea. no snow was falling, but great whirls and clouds of flakes, swept up from the ground by the frantic winds, were streaming southward with the speed of bullets. the covered land was blue with the sheen of an unearthly satin, and there was no other hue save where, at the low, black railway station--which seemed incredibly distant--one light gleamed like a tiny jewel. as the men floundered into a thigh deep drift, it was known that the swede was bawling out something. scully went to him, put a hand on his shoulder and projected an ear. "what's that you say?" he shouted. "i say," bawled the swede again, "i won't stand much show against this gang. i know you'll all pitch on me." scully smote him reproachfully on the arm. "tut, man!" he yelled. the wind tore the words from scully's lips and scattered them far alee. "you are all a gang of--" boomed the swede, but the storm also seized the remainder of this sentence. immediately turning their backs upon the wind, the men had swung around a corner to the sheltered side of the hotel. it was the function of the little house to preserve here, amid this great devastation of snow, an irregular v-shape of heavily incrusted grass, which crackled beneath the feet. one could imagine the great drifts piled against the windward side. when the party reached the comparative peace of this spot it was found that the swede was still bellowing. "oh, i know what kind of a thing this is! i know you'll all pitch on me. i can't lick you all!" scully turned upon him panther fashion. "you'll not have to whip all of us. you'll have to whip my son johnnie. an' the man what troubles you durin' that time will have me to dale with." the arrangements were swiftly made. the two men faced each other, obedient to the harsh commands of scully, whose face, in the subtly luminous gloom, could be seen set in the austere impersonal lines that are pictured on the countenances of the roman veterans. the easterner's teeth were chattering, and he was hopping up and down like a mechanical toy. the cowboy stood rock-like. the contestants had not stripped off any clothing. each was in his ordinary attire. their fists were up, and they eyed each other in a calm that had the elements of leonine cruelty in it. during this pause, the easterner's mind, like a film, took lasting impressions of three men--the iron-nerved master of the ceremony; the swede, pale, motionless, terrible; and johnnie, serene yet ferocious, brutish yet heroic. the entire prelude had in it a tragedy greater than the tragedy of action, and this aspect was accentuated by the long, mellow cry of the blizzard, as it sped the tumbling and wailing flakes into the black abyss of the south. "now!" said scully. the two combatants leaped forward and crashed together like bullocks. there was heard the cushioned sound of blows, and of a curse squeezing out from between the tight teeth of one. as for the spectators, the easterner's pent-up breath exploded from him with a pop of relief, absolute relief from the tension of the preliminaries. the cowboy bounded into the air with a yowl. scully was immovable as from supreme amazement and fear at the fury of the fight which he himself had permitted and arranged. for a time the encounter in the darkness was such a perplexity of flying arms that it presented no more detail than would a swiftly revolving wheel. occasionally a face, as if illumined by a flash of light, would shine out, ghastly and marked with pink spots. a moment later, the men might have been known as shadows, if it were not for the involuntary utterance of oaths that came from them in whispers. suddenly a holocaust of warlike desire caught the cowboy, and he bolted forward with the speed of a broncho. "go it, johnnie! go it! kill him! kill him!" scully confronted him. "kape back," he said; and by his glance the cowboy could tell that this man was johnnie's father. to the easterner there was a monotony of unchangeable fighting that was an abomination. this confused mingling was eternal to his sense, which was concentrated in a longing for the end, the priceless end. once the fighters lurched near him, and as he scrambled hastily backward he heard them breathe like men on the rack. "kill him, johnnie! kill him! kill him! kill him!" the cowboy's face was contorted like one of those agony masks in museums. "keep still," said scully, icily. then there was a sudden loud grunt, incomplete, cut short, and johnnie's body swung away from the swede and fell with sickening heaviness to the grass. the cowboy was barely in time to prevent the mad swede from flinging himself upon his prone adversary. "no, you don't," said the cowboy, interposing an arm. "wait a second." scully was at his son's side. "johnnie! johnnie, me boy!" his voice had a quality of melancholy tenderness. "johnnie! can you go on with it?" he looked anxiously down into the bloody, pulpy face of his son. there was a moment of silence, and then johnnie answered in his ordinary voice, "yes, i--it--yes." assisted by his father he struggled to his feet. "wait a bit now till you git your wind," said the old man. a few paces away the cowboy was lecturing the swede. "no, you don't! wait a second!" the easterner was plucking at scully's sleeve. "oh, this is enough," he pleaded. "this is enough! let it go as it stands. this is enough!" "bill," said scully, "git out of the road." the cowboy stepped aside. "now." the combatants were actuated by a new caution as they advanced towards collision. they glared at each other, and then the swede aimed a lightning blow that carried with it his entire weight. johnnie was evidently half stupid from weakness, but he miraculously dodged, and his fist sent the over-balanced swede sprawling. the cowboy, scully, and the easterner burst into a cheer that was like a chorus of triumphant soldiery, but before its conclusion the swede had scuffled agilely to his feet and come in berserk abandon at his foe. there was another perplexity of flying arms, and johnnie's body again swung away and fell, even as a bundle might fall from a roof. the swede instantly staggered to a little wind-waved tree and leaned upon it, breathing like an engine, while his savage and flame-lit eyes roamed from face to face as the men bent over johnnie. there was a splendor of isolation in his situation at this time which the easterner felt once when, lifting his eyes from the man on the ground, he beheld that mysterious and lonely figure, waiting. "arc you any good yet, johnnie?" asked scully in a broken voice. the son gasped and opened his eyes languidly. after a moment he answered, "no--i ain't--any good--any--more." then, from shame and bodily ill he began to weep, the tears furrowing down through the blood-stains on his face. "he was too--too--too heavy for me." scully straightened and addressed the waiting figure. "stranger," he said, evenly, "it's all up with our side." then his voice changed into that vibrant huskiness which is commonly the tone of the most simple and deadly announcements. "johnnie is whipped." without replying, the victor moved off on the route to the front door of the hotel. the cowboy was formulating new and un-spellable blasphemies. the easterner was startled to find that they were out in a wind that seemed to come direct from the shadowed arctic floes. he heard again the wail of the snow as it was flung to its grave in the south. he knew now that all this time the cold had been sinking into him deeper and deeper, and he wondered that he had not perished. he felt indifferent to the condition of the vanquished man. "johnnie, can you walk?" asked scully. "did i hurt--hurt him any?" asked the son. "can you walk, boy? can you walk?" johnnie's voice was suddenly strong. there was a robust impatience in it. "i asked you whether i hurt him any!" "yes, yes, johnnie," answered the cowboy, consolingly; "he's hurt a good deal." they raised him from the ground, and as soon as he was on his feet he went tottering off, rebuffing all attempts at assistance. when the party rounded the corner they were fairly blinded by the pelting of the snow. it burned their faces like fire. the cowboy carried johnnie through the drift to the door. as they entered some cards again rose from the floor and beat against the wall. the easterner rushed to the stove. he was so profoundly chilled that he almost dared to embrace the glowing iron. the swede was not in the room. johnnie sank into a chair, and, folding his arms on his knees, buried his face in them. scully, warming one foot and then the other at a rim of the stove, muttered to himself with celtic mournfulness. the cowboy had removed his fur cap, and with a dazed and rueful air he was running one hand through his tousled locks. from overhead they could hear the creaking of boards, as the swede tramped here and there in his room. the sad quiet was broken by the sudden flinging open of a door that led towards the kitchen. it was instantly followed by an inrush of women. they precipitated themselves upon johnnie amid a chorus of lamentation. before they carried their prey off to the kitchen, there to be bathed and harangued with that mixture of sympathy and abuse which is a feat of their sex, the mother straightened herself and fixed old scully with an eye of stern reproach. "shame be upon you, patrick scully!" she cried. "your own son, too. shame be upon you!" "there, now! be quiet, now!" said the old man, weakly. "shame be upon you, patrick scully!" the girls, rallying to this slogan, sniffed disdainfully in the direction of those trembling accomplices, the cowboy and the easterner. presently they bore johnnie away, and left the three men to dismal reflection. vii "i'd like to fight this here dutchman myself," said the cowboy, breaking a long silence. scully wagged his head sadly. "no, that wouldn't do. it wouldn't be right. it wouldn't be right." "well, why wouldn't it?" argued the cowboy. "i don't see no harm in it." "no," answered scully, with mournful heroism. "it wouldn't be right. it was johnnie's fight, and now we mustn't whip the man just because he whipped johnnie." "yes, that's true enough," said the cowboy; "but--he better not get fresh with me, because i couldn't stand no more of it." "you'll not say a word to him," commanded scully, and even then they heard the tread of the swede on the stairs. his entrance was made theatric. he swept the door back with a bang and swaggered to the middle of the room. no one looked at him. "well," he cried, insolently, at scully, "i s'pose you'll tell me now how much i owe you?" the old man remained stolid. "you don't owe me nothin'." "huh!" said the swede, "huh! don't owe 'im nothin'." the cowboy addressed the swede. "stranger, i don't see how you come to be so gay around here." old scully was instantly alert. "stop!" he shouted, holding his hand forth, fingers upward. "bill, you shut up!" the cowboy spat carelessly into the sawdust box. "i didn't say a word, did i?" he asked. "mr. scully," called the swede, "how much do i owe you?" it was seen that he was attired for departure, and that he had his valise in his hand. "you don't owe me nothin'," repeated scully in his same imperturbable way. "huh!" said the swede. "i guess you're right. i guess if it was any way at all, you'd owe me somethin'. that's what i guess." he turned to the cowboy. "'kill him! kill him! kill him!'" he mimicked, and then guffawed victoriously. "'kill him!'" he was convulsed with ironical humor. but he might have been jeering the dead. the three men were immovable and silent, staring with glassy eyes at the stove. the swede opened the door and passed into the storm, giving one derisive glance backward at the still group. as soon as the door was closed, scully and the cowboy leaped to their feet and began to curse. they trampled to and fro, waving their arms and smashing into the air with their fists. "oh, but that was a hard minute!" wailed scully. "that was a hard minute! him there leerin' and scoffin'! one bang at his nose was worth forty dollars to me that minute! how did you stand it, bill?" "how did i stand it?" cried the cowboy in a quivering voice. "how did i stand it? oh!" the old man burst into sudden brogue. "i'd loike to take that swade," he wailed, "and hould 'im down on a shtone flure and bate 'im to a jelly wid a shtick!" the cowboy groaned in sympathy. "i'd like to git him by the neck and ha-ammer him "--he brought his hand down on a chair with a noise like a pistol-shot--"hammer that there dutchman until he couldn't tell himself from a dead coyote!" "i'd bate 'im until he--" "i'd show _him_ some things--" and then together they raised a yearning, fanatic cry--"oh-o-oh! if we only could--" "yes!" "yes!" "and then i'd--" "o-o-oh!" viii the swede, tightly gripping his valise, tacked across the face of the storm as if he carried sails. he was following a line of little naked, gasping trees, which he knew must mark the way of the road. his face, fresh from the pounding of johnnie's fists, felt more pleasure than pain in the wind and the driving snow. a number of square shapes loomed upon him finally, and he knew them as the houses of the main body of the town. he found a street and made travel along it, leaning heavily upon the wind whenever, at a corner, a terrific blast caught him. he might have been in a deserted village. we picture the world as thick with conquering and elate humanity, but here, with the bugles of the tempest pealing, it was hard to imagine a peopled earth. one viewed the existence of man then as a marvel, and conceded a glamour of wonder to these lice which were caused to cling to a whirling, fire-smote, ice-locked, disease-stricken, space-lost bulb. the conceit of man was explained by this storm to be the very engine of life. one was a coxcomb not to die in it. however, the swede found a saloon. in front of it an indomitable red light was burning, and the snow-flakes were made blood color as they flew through the circumscribed territory of the lamp's shining. the swede pushed open the door of the saloon and entered. a sanded expanse was before him, and at the end of it four men sat about a table drinking. down one side of the room extended a radiant bar, and its guardian was leaning upon his elbows listening to the talk of the men at the table. the swede dropped his valise upon the floor, and, smiling fraternally upon the barkeeper, said, "gimme some whiskey, will you?" the man placed a bottle, a whiskey-glass, and a glass of ice-thick water upon the bar. the swede poured himself an abnormal portion of whiskey and drank it in three gulps. "pretty bad night," remarked the bartender, indifferently. he was making the pretension of blindness which is usually a distinction of his class; but it could have been seen that he was furtively studying the half-erased blood-stains on the face of the swede. "bad night," he said again. "oh, it's good enough for me," replied the swede, hardily, as he poured himself some more whiskey. the barkeeper took his coin and maneuvered it through its reception by the highly nickelled cash-machine. a bell rang; a card labelled "20 cts." had appeared. "no," continued the swede, "this isn't too bad weather. it's good enough for me." "so?" murmured the barkeeper, languidly. the copious drams made the swede's eyes swim, and he breathed a trifle heavier. "yes, i like this weather. i like it. it suits me." it was apparently his design to impart a deep significance to these words. "so?" murmured the bartender again. he turned to gaze dreamily at the scroll-like birds and bird-like scrolls which had been drawn with soap upon the mirrors back of the bar. "well, i guess i'll take another drink," said the swede, presently. "have something?" "no, thanks; i'm not drinkin'," answered the bartender. afterwards he asked, "how did you hurt your face?" the swede immediately began to boast loudly. "why, in a fight. i thumped the soul out of a man down here at scully's hotel." the interest of the four men at the table was at last aroused. "who was it?" said one. "johnnie scully," blustered the swede. "son of the man what runs it. he will be pretty near dead for some weeks, i can tell you. i made a nice thing of him, i did. he couldn't get up. they carried him in the house. have a drink?" instantly the men in some subtle way incased themselves in reserve. "no, thanks," said one. the group was of curious formation. two were prominent local business men; one was the district-attorney; and one was a professional gambler of the kind known as "square." but a scrutiny of the group would not have enabled an observer to pick the gambler from the men of more reputable pursuits. he was, in fact, a man so delicate in manner, when among people of fair class, and so judicious in his choice of victims, that in the strictly masculine part of the town's life he had come to be explicitly trusted and admired. people called him a thoroughbred. the fear and contempt with which his craft was regarded was undoubtedly the reason that his quiet dignity shone conspicuous above the quiet dignity of men who might be merely hatters, billiard markers, or grocery-clerks. beyond an occasional unwary traveller, who came by rail, this gambler was supposed to prey solely upon reckless and senile farmers, who, when flush with good crops, drove into town in all the pride and confidence of an absolutely invulnerable stupidity. hearing at times in circuitous fashion of the despoilment of such a farmer, the important men of romper invariably laughed in contempt of the victim, and, if they thought of the wolf at all, it was with a kind of pride at the knowledge that he would never dare think of attacking their wisdom and courage. besides, it was popular that this gambler had a real wife and two real children in a neat cottage in a suburb, where he led an exemplary home life; and when any one even suggested a discrepancy in his character, the crowd immediately vociferated descriptions of this virtuous family circle. then men who led exemplary home lives, and men who did not lead exemplary home lives, all subsided in a bunch, remarking that there was nothing more to be said. however, when a restriction was placed upon him--as, for instance, when a strong clique of members of the new pollywog club refused to permit him, even as a spectator, to appear in the rooms of the organization--the candor and gentleness with which he accepted the judgment disarmed many of his foes and made his friends more desperately partisan. he invariably distinguished between himself and a respectable romper man so quickly and frankly that his manner actually appeared to be a continual broadcast compliment. and one must not forget to declare the fundamental fact of his entire position in romper. it is irrefutable that in all affairs outside of his business, in all matters that occur eternally and commonly between man and man, this thieving card-player was so generous, so just, so moral, that, in a contest, he could have put to flight the consciences of nine-tenths of the citizens of romper. and so it happened that he was seated in this saloon with the two prominent local merchants and the district-attorney. the swede continued to drink raw whiskey, meanwhile babbling at the barkeeper and trying to induce him to indulge in potations. "come on. have a drink. come on. what--no? well, have a little one, then. by gawd, i've whipped a man to-night, and i want to celebrate. i whipped him good, too. gentlemen," the swede cried to the men at the table, "have a drink?" "ssh!" said the barkeeper. the group at the table, although furtively attentive, had been pretending to be deep in talk, but now a man lifted his eyes towards the swede and said, shortly, "thanks. we don't want any more." at this reply the swede ruffled out his chest like a rooster. "well," he exploded, "it seems i can't get anybody to drink with me in this town. seems so, don't it? well!" "ssh!" said the barkeeper. "say," snarled the swede, "don't you try to shut me up. i won't have it. i'm a gentleman, and i want people to drink with me. and i want 'em to drink with me now. _now_--do you understand?" he rapped the bar with his knuckles. years of experience had calloused the bartender. he merely grew sulky. "i hear you," he answered. "well," cried the swede, "listen hard then. see those men over there? well, they're going to drink with me, and don't you forget it. now you watch." "hi!" yelled the barkeeper, "this won't do!" "why won't it?" demanded the swede. he stalked over to the table, and by chance laid his hand upon the shoulder of the gambler. "how about this?" he asked, wrathfully. "i asked you to drink with me." the gambler simply twisted his head and spoke over his shoulder. "my friend, i don't know you." "oh, hell!" answered the swede, "come and have a drink." "now, my boy," advised the gambler, kindly, "take your hand off my shoulder and go 'way and mind your own business." he was a little, slim man, and it seemed strange to hear him use this tone of heroic patronage to the burly swede. the other men at the table said nothing. "what! you won't drink with me, you little dude? i'll make you then! i'll make you!" the swede had grasped the gambler frenziedly at the throat, and was dragging him from his chair. the other men sprang up. the barkeeper dashed around the corner of his bar. there was a great tumult, and then was seen a long blade in the hand of the gambler. it shot forward, and a human body, this citadel of virtue, wisdom, power, was pierced as easily as if it had been a melon. the swede fell with a cry of supreme astonishment. the prominent merchants and the district attorney must have at once tumbled out of the place backward. the bartender found himself hanging limply to the arm of a chair and gazing into the eyes of a murderer. "henry," said the latter, as he wiped his knife on one of the towels that hung beneath the bar-rail, "you tell 'em where to find me. i'll be home, waiting for 'em." then he vanished. a moment afterwards the barkeeper was in the street dinning through the storm for help, and, moreover, companionship. the corpse of the swede, alone in the saloon, had its eyes fixed upon a dreadful legend that dwelt atop of the cash-machine: "this registers the amount of your purchase." ix months later, the cowboy was frying pork over the stove of a little ranch near the dakota line, when there was a quick thud of hoofs outside, and presently the easterner entered with the letters and the papers. "well," said the easterner at once, "the chap that killed the swede has got three years. wasn't much, was it?" "he has? three years?" the cowboy poised his pan of pork, while he ruminated upon the news. "three years. that ain't much." "no. it was a light sentence," replied the easterner as he unbuckled his spurs. "seems there was a good deal of sympathy for him in romper." "if the bartender had been any good," observed the cowboy, thoughtfully, "he would have gone in and cracked that there dutchman on the head with a bottle in the beginnin' of it and stopped all this here murderin'." "yes, a thousand things might have happened," said the easterner, tartly. the cowboy returned his pan of pork to the fire, but his philosophy continued. "it's funny, ain't it? if he hadn't said johnnie was cheatin' he'd be alive this minute. he was an awful fool. game played for fun, too. not for money. i believe he was crazy." "i feel sorry for that gambler," said the easterner. "oh, so do i," said the cowboy. "he don't deserve none of it for killin' who he did." "the swede might not have been killed if everything had been square." "might not have been killed?" exclaimed the cowboy. "everythin' square? why, when he said that johnnie was cheatin' and acted like such a jackass? and then in the saloon he fairly walked up to git hurt?" with these arguments the cowboy browbeat the easterner and reduced him to rage. "you're a fool!" cried the easterner, viciously. "you're a bigger jackass than the swede by a million majority. now let me tell you one thing. let me tell you something. listen! johnnie _was_ cheating!" "'johnnie,'" said the cowboy, blankly. there was a minute of silence, and then he said, robustly, "why, no. the game was only for fun." "fun or not," said the easterner, "johnnie was cheating. i saw him. i know it. i saw him. and i refused to stand up and be a man. i let the swede fight it out alone. and you--you were simply puffing around the place and wanting to fight. and then old scully himself! we are all in it! this poor gambler isn't even a noun. he is kind of an adverb. every sin is the result of a collaboration. we, five of us, have collaborated in the murder of this swede. usually there are from a dozen to forty women really involved in every murder, but in this case it seems to be only five men--you, i, johnnie, old scully, and that fool of an unfortunate gambler came merely as a culmination, the apex of a human movement, and gets all the punishment." the cowboy, injured and rebellious, cried out blindly into this fog of mysterious theory: "well, i didn't do anythin', did i?" -----his new mittens i little horace was walking home from school, brilliantly decorated by a pair of new red mittens. a number of boys were snowballing gleefully in a field. they hailed him. "come on, horace! we're having a battle." [illustration: "little horace"] horace was sad. "no," he said, "i can't. i've got to go home." at noon his mother had admonished him: "now, horace, you come straight home as soon as school is out. do you hear? and don't you get them nice new mittens all wet, either. do you hear?" also his aunt had said: "i declare, emily, it's a shame the way you allow that child to ruin his things." she had meant mittens. to his mother, horace had dutifully replied, "yes'm." but he now loitered in the vicinity of the group of uproarious boys, who were yelling like hawks as the white balls flew. [illustration: "...yelling like hawks as the white balls flew"] some of them immediately analyzed this extraordinary hesitancy. "hah!" they paused to scoff, "afraid of your new mittens, ain't you?" some smaller boys, who were not yet so wise in discerning motives, applauded this attack with unreasonable vehemence. "a-fray-ed of his mit-tens! a-fray-ed of his mit-tens." they sang these lines to cruel and monotonous music which is as old perhaps as american childhood, and which it is the privilege of the emancipated adult to completely forget. "afray-ed of his mit-tens!" horace cast a tortured glance towards his playmates, and then dropped his eyes to the snow at his feet. presently he turned to the trunk of one of the great maple-trees that lined the curb. he made a pretence of closely examining the rough and virile bark. to his mind, this familiar street of whilomville seemed to grow dark in the thick shadow of shame. the trees and the houses were now palled in purple. "a-fray-ed of his mit-tens!" the terrible music had in it a meaning from the moonlit war-drums of chanting cannibals. [illustration: "horace: i've got to go home."] at last horace, with supreme effort, raised his head. "'tain't them i care about," he said, gruffly. "i've got to go home. that's all." whereupon each boy held his left forefinger as if it were a pencil and began to sharpen it derisively with his right forefinger. they came closer, and sang like a trained chorus, "a-fray-ed of his mittens!" when he raised his voice to deny the charge it was simply lost in the screams of the mob. he was alone, fronting all the traditions of boyhood held before him by inexorable representatives. to such a low state had he fallen that one lad, a mere baby, outflanked him and then struck him in the cheek with a heavy snowball. the act was acclaimed with loud jeers. horace turned to dart at his assailant, but there was an immediate demonstration on the other flank, and he found himself obliged to keep his face towards the hilarious crew of tormentors. the baby retreated in safety to the rear of the crowd, where he was received with fulsome compliments upon his daring. horace retreated slowly up the walk. he continually tried to make them heed him, but the only sound was the chant, "a-fray-ed of his mit-tens!" in this desperate withdrawal the beset and haggard boy suffered more than is the common lot of man. [illustration: "when he raised his voice to deny the charge"] being a boy himself, he did not understand boys at all. he had, of course, the dismal conviction that they were going to dog him to his grave. but near the corner of the field they suddenly seemed to forget all about it. indeed, they possessed only the malevolence of so many flitter-headed sparrows. the interest had swung capriciously to some other matter. in a moment they were off in the field again, carousing amid the snow. some authoritative boy had probably said, "aw, come on!" [illustration: "aw, come on!"] as the pursuit ceased, horace ceased his retreat. he spent some time in what was evidently an attempt to adjust his self respect, and then began to wander furtively down towards the group. he, too, had undergone an important change. perhaps his sharp agony was only as durable as the malevolence of the others. in this boyish life obedience to some unformulated creed of manners was enforced with capricious but merciless rigor. however, they were, after all, his comrades, his friends. they did not heed his return. they were engaged in an altercation. it had evidently been planned that this battle was between indians and soldiers. the smaller and weaker boys had been induced to appear as indians in the initial skirmish, but they were now very sick of it, and were reluctantly but steadfastly, affirming their desire for a change of caste. the larger boys had all won great distinction, devastating indians materially, and they wished the war to go on as planned. they explained vociferously that it was proper for the soldiers always to thrash the indians. the little boys did not pretend to deny the truth of this argument; they confined themselves to the simple statement that, in that case, they wished to be soldiers. each little boy willingly appealed to the others to remain indians, but as for himself he reiterated his desire to enlist as a soldier. the larger boys were in despair over this dearth of enthusiasm in the small indians. they alternately wheedled and bullied, but they could not persuade the little boys, who were really suffering dreadful humiliation rather than submit to another onslaught of soldiers. they were called all the baby names that had the power of stinging deep into their pride, but they remained firm. then a formidable lad, a leader of reputation, one who could whip many boys that wore long trousers, suddenly blew out his checks and shouted, "well, all right then. i'll be an indian myself. now." the little boys greeted with cheers this addition to their wearied ranks, and seemed then content. but matters were not mended in the least, because all of the personal following of the formidable lad, with the addition of every outsider, spontaneously forsook the flag and declared themselves indians. there were now no soldiers. the indians had carried everything unanimously. the formidable lad used his influence, but his influence could not shake the loyalty of his friends, who refused to fight under any colors but his colors. plainly there was nothing for it but to coerce the little ones. the formidable lad again became a soldier, and then graciously permitted to join him all the real fighting strength of the crowd, leaving behind a most forlorn band of little indians. then the soldiers attacked the indians, exhorting them to opposition at the same time. the indians at first adopted a policy of hurried surrender, but this had no success, as none of the surrenders were accepted. they then turned to flee, bawling out protests. the ferocious soldiers pursued them amid shouts. the battle widened, developing all manner of marvellous detail. horace had turned towards home several times, but, as a matter of fact, this scene held him in a spell. it was fascinating beyond anything which the grown man understands. he had always in the back of his head a sense of guilt, even a sense of impending punishment for disobedience, but they could not weigh with the delirium of this snow-battle. ii one of the raiding soldiers, espying horace, called out in passing, "a-fray-ed of his mit-tens!" horace flinched at this renewal, and the other lad paused to taunt him again. horace scooped some snow, moulded it into a ball, and flung it at the other. "ho!" cried the boy, "you're an indian, are you? hey, fellers, here's an indian that ain't been killed yet." he and horace engaged in a duel in which both were in such haste to mould snowballs that they had little time for aiming. horace once struck his opponent squarely in the chest. "hey," he shouted, "you're dead. you can't fight any more, pete. i killed you. you're dead." the other boy flushed red, but he continued frantically to make ammunition. "you never touched me!" he retorted, glowering. "you never touched me! where, now?" he added, defiantly. "where did you hit me?" "on the coat! right on your breast! you can't fight any more! you're dead!" "you never!" "i did, too! hey, fellers, ain't he dead? i hit 'im square!" "he never!" nobody had seen the affair, but some of the boys took sides in absolute accordance with their friendship for one of the concerned parties. horace's opponent went about contending, "he never touched me! he never came near me! he never came near me!" the formidable leader now came forward and accosted horace. "what was you? an indian? well, then, you're dead--that's all. he hit you. i saw him." "me?" shrieked horace. "he never came within a mile of me----" at that moment he heard his name called in a certain familiar tune of two notes, with the last note shrill and prolonged. he looked towards the sidewalk, and saw his mother standing there in her widow's weeds, with two brown paper parcels under her arm. a silence had fallen upon all the boys. horace moved slowly towards his mother. she did not seem to note his approach; she was gazing austerely off through the naked branches of the maples where two crimson sunset bars lay on the deep blue sky. at a distance of ten paces horace made a desperate venture. "oh, ma," he whined, "can't i stay out for a while?" "no," she answered solemnly, "you come with me." horace knew that profile; it was the inexorable profile. but he continued to plead, because it was not beyond his mind that a great show of suffering now might diminish his suffering later. he did not dare to look back at his playmates. it was already a public scandal that he could not stay out as late as other boys, and he could imagine his standing now that he had been again dragged off by his mother in sight of the whole world. he was a profoundly miserable human being. aunt martha opened the door for them. light streamed about her straight skirt. "oh," she said, "so you found him on the road, eh? well, i declare! it was about time!" horace slunk into the kitchen. the stove, straddling out on its four iron legs, was gently humming. aunt martha had evidently just lighted the lamp, for she went to it and began to twist the wick experimentally. [illustration: "let's see them mittens."] "now," said the mother, "let's see them mittens." horace's chin sank. the aspiration of the criminal, the passionate desire for an asylum from retribution, from justice, was aflame in his heart. "i--i--don't--don't know where they are." he gasped finally, as he passed his hand over his pockets. "horace," intoned his mother, "you are tellin' me a story!" "'tain't a story," he answered, just above his breath. he looked like a sheep-stealer. his mother held him by the arm, and began to search his pockets. almost at once she was able to bring forth a pair of very wet mittens. "well, i declare!" cried aunt martha. the two women went close to the lamp, and minutely examined the mittens, turning them over and over. afterwards, when horace looked up, his mother's sad-lined, homely face was turned towards him. he burst into tears. his mother drew a chair near the stove. "just you sit there now, until i tell you to git off." he sidled meekly into the chair. his mother and his aunt went briskly about the business of preparing supper. they did not display a knowledge of his existence; they carried an effect of oblivion so far that they even did not speak to each other. presently they went into the dining and living room; horace could hear the dishes rattling. his aunt martha brought a plate of food, placed it on a chair near him, and went away without a word. [illustration: "brought a plate of food"] horace instantly decided that he would not touch a morsel of the food. he had often used this ruse in dealing with his mother. he did not know why it brought her to terms, but certainly it sometimes did. the mother looked up when the aunt returned to the other room. "is he eatin' his supper?" she asked. the maiden aunt, fortified in ignorance, gazed with pity and contempt upon this interest. "well, now, emily, how do i know?" she queried. "was i goin' to stand over 'im? of all the worryin' you do about that child! it's a shame the way you're bringin' up that child." "well, he ought to eat somethin'. it won't do fer him to go without eatin'," the mother retorted, weakly. aunt martha, profoundly scorning the policy of concession which these words meant, uttered a long, contemptuous sigh. iii alone in the kitchen, horace stared with sombre eyes at the plate of food. for a long time he betrayed no sign of yielding. his mood was adamantine. he was resolved not to sell his vengeance for bread, cold ham, and a pickle, and yet it must be known that the sight of them affected him powerfully. the pickle in particular was notable for its seductive charm. he surveyed it darkly. [illustration: "horace stared with sombre eyes at the plate of food"] but at last, unable to longer endure his state, his attitude in the presence of the pickle, he put out an inquisitive finger and touched it, and it was cool and green and plump. then a full conception of the cruel woe of his situation swept upon him suddenly, and his eyes filled with tears, which began to move down his cheeks. he sniffled. his heart was black with hatred. he painted in his mind scenes of deadly retribution. his mother would be taught that he was not one to endure persecution meekly, without raising an arm in his defence. and so his dreams were of a slaughter of feelings, and near the end of them his mother was pictured as coming, bowed with pain, to his feet. weeping, she implored his charity. would he forgive her? no; his once tender heart had been turned to stone by her injustice. he could not forgive her. she must pay the inexorable penalty. the first item in this horrible plan was the refusal of the food. this he knew by experience would work havoc in his mother's heart. and so he grimly waited. but suddenly it occurred to him that the first part of his revenge was in danger of failing. the thought struck him that his mother might not capitulate in the usual way. according to his recollection, the time was more than due when she should come in, worried, sadly affectionate, and ask him if he was ill. it had then been his custom to hint in a resigned voice that he was the victim of secret disease, but that he preferred to suffer in silence and alone. if she was obdurate in her anxiety, he always asked her in a gloomy, low voice to go away and leave him to suffer in silence and alone in the darkness without food. he had known this maneuvering to result even in pie. but what was the meaning of the long pause and the stillness? had his old and valued ruse betrayed him? as the truth sank into his mind, he supremely loathed life, the world, his mother. her heart was beating back the besiegers; he was a defeated child. he wept for a time before deciding upon the final stroke. he would run away. in a remote corner of the world he would become some sort of bloody-handed person driven to a life of crime by the barbarity of his mother. she should never know his fate. he would torture her for years with doubts and doubts, and drive her implacably to a repentant grave. nor would aunt martha escape. some day, a century hence, when his mother was dead, he would write to his aunt martha, and point out her part in the blighting of his life. for one blow against him now he would, in time, deal back a thousand--aye, ten thousand. [illustration: "some sort of bloody-handed person"] he arose and took his coat and cap. as he moved stealthily towards the door he cast a glance backward at the pickle. he was tempted to take it, but he knew that if he left the plate inviolate his mother would feel even worse. a blue snow was falling. people, bowed forward, were moving briskly along the walks. the electric lamps hummed amid showers of flakes. as horace emerged from the kitchen, a shrill squall drove the flakes around the corner of the house. he cowered away from it, and its violence illumined his mind vaguely in new directions. he deliberated upon a choice of remote corners of the globe. he found that he had no plans which were definite enough in a geographical way, but without much loss of time he decided upon california. he moved briskly as far as his mother's front gate on the road to california. he was off at last. his success was a trifle dreadful; his throat choked. [illustration: "people, bowed forward"] but at the gate he paused. he did not know if his journey to california would be shorter if he went down niagara avenue or off through hogan street. as the storm was very cold and the point was very important, he decided to withdraw for reflection to the wood-shed. he entered the dark shanty, and took seat upon the old chopping-block upon which he was supposed to perform for a few minutes every afternoon when he returned from school. the wind screamed and shouted at the loose boards, and there was a rift of snow on the floor to leeward of a crack. here the idea of starting for california on such a night departed from his mind, leaving him ruminating miserably upon his martyrdom. he saw nothing for it but to sleep all night in the wood-shed and start for california in the morning bright and early. thinking of his bed, he kicked over the floor and found that the innumerable chips were all frozen tightly, bedded in ice. later he viewed with joy some signs of excitement in the house. the flare of a lamp moved rapidly from window to window. then the kitchen door slammed loudly and a shawled figure sped towards the gate. at last he was making them feel his power. the shivering child's face was lit with saturnine glee as in the darkness of the wood-shed he gloated over the evidences of consternation in his home. the shawled figure had been his aunt martha dashing with the alarm to the neighbors. the cold of the wood-shed was tormenting him. he endured only because of the terror he was causing. but then it occurred to him that, if they instituted a search for him, they would probably examine the wood-shed. he knew that it would not be manful to be caught so soon. he was not positive now that he was going to remain away forever, but at any rate he was bound to inflict some more damage before allowing himself to be captured. if he merely succeeded in making his mother angry, she would thrash him on sight. he must prolong the time in order to be safe. if he held out properly, he was sure of a welcome of love, even though he should drip with crimes. evidently the storm had increased, for when he went out it swung him violently with its rough and merciless strength. panting, stung, half blinded with the driving flakes, he was now a waif, exiled, friendless, and poor. with a bursting heart, he thought of his home and his mother. to his forlorn vision they were as far away as heaven. iv horace was undergoing changes of feeling so rapidly that he was merely moved hither and then thither like a kite. he was now aghast at the merciless ferocity of his mother. it was she who had thrust him into this wild storm, and she was perfectly indifferent to his fate, perfectly indifferent. the forlorn wanderer could no longer weep. the strong sobs caught at his throat, making his breath come in short, quick snuffles. all in him was conquered save the enigmatical childish ideal of form, manner. this principle still held out, and it was the only thing between him and submission. when he surrendered, he must surrender in a way that deferred to the undefined code. he longed simply to go to the kitchen and stumble in, but his unfathomable sense of fitness forbade him. presently he found himself at the head of niagara avenue, staring through the snow into the blazing windows of stickney's butcher-shop. stickney was the family butcher, not so much because of a superiority to other whilomville butchers as because he lived next door and had been an intimate friend of the father of horace. rows of glowing pigs hung head downward back of the tables, which bore huge pieces of red beef. clumps of attenuated turkeys were suspended here and there. stickney, hale and smiling, was bantering with a woman in a cloak, who, with a monster basket on her arm, was dickering for eight cents' worth of some thing. horace watched them through a crusted pane. when the woman came out and passed him, he went towards the door. he touched the latch with his finger, but withdrew again suddenly to the sidewalk. inside stickney was whistling cheerily and assorting his knives. [illustration: "eight cents worth of something"] finally horace went desperately forward, opened the door, and entered the shop. his head hung low. stickney stopped whistling. "hello, young man," he cried, "what brings you here?" [illustration: "his head hung low"] horace halted, but said nothing. he swung one foot to and fro over the saw-dust floor. stickney had placed his two fat hands palms downward and wide apart on the table, in the attitude of a butcher facing a customer, but now he straightened. "here," he said, "what's wrong? what's wrong, kid?" "nothin'," answered horace, huskily. he labored for a moment with something in his throat, and afterwards added, "o'ny----i've----i've run away, and--" "run away!" shouted stickney. "run away from what? who?" "from----home," answered horace. "i don't like it there any more. i----" he had arranged an oration to win the sympathy of the butcher; he had prepared a table setting forth the merits of his case in the most logical fashion, but it was as if the wind had been knocked out of his mind. "i've run away. i----" stickney reached an enormous hand over the array of beef, and firmly grappled the emigrant. then he swung himself to horace's side. his face was stretched with laughter, and he playfully shook his prisoner. "come----come----come. what dashed nonsense is this? run away, hey? run away?" whereupon the child's long-tried spirit found vent in howls. "come, come," said stickney, busily. "never mind now, never mind. you just come along with me. it'll be all right. i'll fix it. never you mind." five minutes later the butcher, with a great ulster over his apron, was leading the boy homeward. at the very threshold, horace raised his last flag of pride. "no----no," he sobbed. "i don't want to. i don't want to go in there." he braced his foot against the step and made a very respectable resistance. "now, horace," cried the butcher. he thrust open the door with a bang. "hello there!" across the dark kitchen the door to the living-room opened and aunt martha appeared. "you've found him!" she screamed. "we've come to make a call," roared the butcher. at the entrance to the living-room a silence fell upon them all. upon a couch horace saw his mother lying limp, pale as death, her eyes gleaming with pain. there was an electric pause before she swung a waxen hand towards horace. "my child," she murmured, tremulously. whereupon the sinister person addressed, with a prolonged wail of grief and joy, ran to her with speed. "mam-ma! mam-ma! oh, mam-ma!" she was not able to speak in a known tongue as she folded him in her weak arms. [illustration: "'mam-ma! mam-ma! oh, mam-ma!'"] aunt martha turned defiantly upon the butcher because her face betrayed her. she was crying. she made a gesture half military, half feminine. "won't you have a glass of our root-beer, mr. stickney? we make it ourselves." the elegant art of dining bohemian san francisco its restaurants and their most famous recipes-the elegant art of dining by clarence e. edwords 1914 dedication to whom shall i dedicate this book? to some good friend? to some pleasant companion? to none of these, for from them came not the inspiration. to whom, then? to the best of all bohemian comrades, my wife. foreword no apologies are offered for this book. in fact, we rather like it. many years have been spent in gathering this information, and naught is written in malice, nor through favoritism, our expressions of opinion being unbiased by favor or compensation. we have made our own investigation and given our own ideas. that our opinion does not coincide with that of others does not concern us in the least, for we are pleased only with that which pleases us, and not that with which others say we ought to be pleased. if this sound egotistical we are sorry, for it is not meant in that way. we believe that each and every individual should judge for him or herself, considering ourselves fortunate that our ideas and tastes are held in common. san franciscans, both residential and transient, are a pleasure-loving people, and dining out is a distinctive feature of their pleasure. with hundreds of restaurants to select from, each specializing on some particular dish, or some peculiar mode of preparation, one often becomes bewildered and turns to familiar names on the menu card rather than venture into fields that are new, of strange and rare dishes whose unpronounceable names of themselves frequently are sufficient to discourage those unaccustomed to the art and science of cooking practiced by those whose lives have been spent devising means of tickling fastidious palates of a city of gourmets. in order that those who come within our gates, and many others who have resided here in blindness for years, may know where to go and what to eat, and that they may carry away with them a knowledge of how to prepare some of the dishes pleasing to the taste and nourishing to the body, that have spread san francisco's fame over the world, we have decided to set down the result of our experience and study of our bohemian population and their ways, and also tell where to find and how to order the best special dishes. over north beach way we asked the chef of a little restaurant how he cooked crab. he replied: "the right way." one often wonders how certain dishes are cooked and we shall tell you "the right way." it is hoped that when you read what is herein written some of our pleasure may be imparted to you, and with this hope the story of san francisco's bohemianism is presented. clarence e. edwords. san francisco, california, september 22, 1914. our toast not to the future, nor to the past; no drink of joy or sorrow; we drink alone to what will last; memories on the morrow. let us live as old time passes; to the present let bohemia bow. let us raise on high our glasses to eternity--the ever-living now. contents foreword the good gray city the land of bohemia as it was in the beginning when the gringo came early italian impression birth of the french restaurant at the cliff house some italian restaurants impress of mexico on the barbary coast the city that was passes sang the swan song bohemia of the present as it is in germany in the heart of italy a breath of the orient artistic japan old and new palace at the hotel st. francis amid the bright lights around little italy where fish come in fish in their variety lobsters and lobsters king of shell fish lobster in miniature clams and abalone's where fish abound some food variants about dining something about cooking told in a whisper out of nothing paste makes waist tips and tipping the mythical land appendix (how to serve wines, recipes) index bohemian san francisco "the best of all ways to lengthen our days is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear." the good gray city san francisco! san francisco! is there a land where the magic of that name has not been felt? bohemian san francisco! pleasure-loving san francisco! care-free san francisco! yet withal the city where liberty never means license and where bohemianism is not synonymous with boorishness. it was in paris that a world traveler said to us: "san francisco! that wonderful city where you get the best there is to eat, served in a manner that enhances its flavor and establishes it forever in your memory." were one to write of san francisco and omit mention of its gustatory delights the whole world would protest, for in san francisco eating is an art and cooking a science, and he who knows not what san francisco provides knows neither art nor science. here have congregated the world's greatest chefs, and when one exclaims in ecstasy over a wonderful flavor found in some dingy restaurant, let him not be surprised if he learn that the chef who concocted the dish boasts royal decoration for tickling the palate of some epicurean ruler of foreign land. and why should san francisco have achieved this distinction in the minds of the gourmets? do not other cities have equally as good chefs, and do not the people of other cities have equally as fine gastronomic taste? they have all this but with them is lacking "atmosphere." where do we find such romanticism as in san francisco? where do we find so many strange characters and happenings? all lending almost mystic charm to the environment surrounding queer little restaurants, where rare dishes are served, and where one feels that he is in foreign land, even though he be in the center of a high representative american city. san francisco's cosmopolitanism is peculiar to itself. here are represented the nations of earth in such distinctive colonies that one might well imagine himself possessed of the magic carpet told of in arabian nights tales, as he is transported in the twinkling of an eye from country to country. it is but a step across a street from america into japan, then another step into china. cross another street and you are in mexico, close neighbor to france. around the corner lies italy, and from italy you pass to lombardy, and on to greece. so it goes until one feels that he has been around the world in an afternoon. but the stepping across the street and one passes from one land to the other, finding all the peculiar characteristics of the various countries as indelibly fixed as if they were thousands of miles away. speech, manners, customs, costumes and religions change with startling rapidity, and as you enter into the life of the nation you find that each has brought the best of its gastronomy for your delectation. san francisco has called to the world for its best, and the response has been so prompt that no country has failed to send its tribute and give the best thought of those who cater to the men and women who know. this aggregation of cuisinaire, gathered where is to be found a most wonderful variety of food products in highest state of excellence, has made san francisco the mecca for lovers of gustatory delights, and this is why the name of san francisco is known wherever men and women sit at table. it has taken us years of patient research to learn how these chefs prepare their combinations of fish, flesh, fowl, and herbs, in order that we might put them down, giving recipes of dishes whose memories linger in the minds of world wanderers, and to which their thoughts revert with a sigh as they partake of unsatisfactory viands in other countries and other cosmopolitan cities. those to whom only the surface of things is visible are prone to express wonder at the love and enthusiasm of the san franciscan for his home city. the casual visitor cannot understand the enchantment, the mystery, the witchery that holds one; they do not know that we steal the hours from the night to lengthen our days because the gray, whispering wraiths of fog hold for us the very breath of life; they do not know that the call of the wind, and of the sea, and of the air, is the inspiration that makes san francisco the pleasure-ground of the world. it is this that makes san francisco the home of bohemia, and whether it be in the early morning hours as one rises to greet the first gray streaks of dawn, or as the sun drops through the golden gate to its ocean bed, so slowly that it seems loth to leave; whether it be in the broad glare of noon-day sun, or under the dazzling blaze of midnight lights, san francisco ever holds out her arms, wide in welcome, to those who see more in life than the dull routine of working each day in order that they may gain sufficient to enable them to work again on the morrow. the land of bohemia bohemia! what vulgarities are perpetrated in thy name! how abused is the word! because of a misconception of an idea it has suffered more than any other in the english language. it has done duty in describing almost every form of license and licentiousness. it has been the cloak of debauchery and the excuse for sex degradation. it has been so misused as to bring the very word into disrepute. to us bohemianism means the naturalism of refined people. that it may be protected from vulgarians society prescribes conventional rules and regulations, which, like morals, change with environment. bohemianism is the protest of naturalism against the too rigid, and, oft-times, absurd restrictions established by society. the bohemian requires no prescribed rules, for his or her innate gentility prevents those things society guards against. in bohemia men and women mingle in good fellowship and camaraderie without finding the sex question a necessary topic of conversation. they do not find it necessary to push exhilaration to intoxication; to increase their animation to boisterousness. their lack of conventionality does not tend to boorishness. some of the most enjoyable bohemian affairs we know of have been full dress gatherings, carefully planned and delightfully carried out; others have been impromptu, neither the hour, the place, nor the dress being taken into consideration. the unrefined get everywhere, even into the drawing rooms of royalty, consequently we must expect to meet them in bohemia. but the true bohemian has a way of forgetting to meet obnoxious personages and, as a rule, is more choice in the selection of associates than the vaunted "400." with the bohemian but one thing counts: fitness. money, position, personal appearance and even brains are of no avail if there be the bar sinister--unfit. in a restaurant, one evening, a number of men and women were seated conspicuously at a table in the center of the room. flowing neckties such as are affected by parisian art students were worn by the men; all were coarse, loud and much in evidence. they not only attracted attention by their loudness and outre actions, but they called notice by pelting other diners with missiles of bread. to us they were the last word in vulgarity, but to a young woman who had come to the place because she had heard it was "so bohemian" they were ideal, and she remarked to her companion: "i do so love to associate with real bohemians like these. can't we get acquainted with them?" "sure," was the response. "all we have to do is to buy them a drink." in san francisco there are bohemians and near-bohemians, and if you are like the young woman mentioned you are apt to miss the real and take the imitation for the genuine article. we mean no derogation of san francisco's restaurants when we say that san francisco's highest form of bohemianism is rarely in evidence in restaurants. we have enjoyed wonderful bohemian dinners in restaurants, but the other diners were not aware of it. some far more interesting gatherings have been in the rooms of bohemian friends. not always is it the artistic combination of famous chef that brings greatest delight, for we have as frequently had pleasure over a supper of some simple dish in the attic room of a good friend. this brings us to the crux of bohemianism. it depends so little on environment that it means nothing, and so much on companionship that it means all. to achieve a comprehensive idea of san francisco's bohemianism let us divide its history into five eras. first we have the old spanish days--the days "before the gringo came." then reigned conviviality held within most discreet bounds of convention, and it would be a misnomer, indeed, to call the pre-pioneer days of san francisco "bohemian" in any sense of the word. courtesy unfailing, good-fellowship always in tune, and lavish hospitality, marked the days of the dons--those wonderfully considerate hosts who always placed a pile of gold and silver coins on the table of the guest chamber, in order that none might go away in need. their feasts were events of careful consideration and long preparation, and those whose memories carry them back to the early days, recall bounteous loading of tables when festal occasion called for display. lips linger lovingly over such names as the vallejos, the picos, and those other spanish families who spread their hospitality with such wondrous prodigality that their open welcome became a by-word in all parts of the west. but it was not in the grand fiestas that the finest and most palatable dishes were to be found. in the family of each of these spanish grandees were culinary secrets known to none except the "senora de la casa," and transmitted by her to her sons and daughters. we have considered ourselves fortunate in being taken into the confidence of one of the descendants of senora benicia vallejo, and honored with some of her prize recipes, which find place in this book, not as the famous recipe of some bohemian restaurants but as the tribute to the spirit of the land that made those bohemian restaurants possible. of these there is no more tasty and satisfying dish than spanish eggs, prepared as follows: spanish eggs empty a can of tomatoes in a frying pan; thicken with bread and add two or three small green peppers and an onion sliced fine. add a little butter and salt to taste. let this simmer gently and then carefully break on top the number of eggs desired. dip the simmering tomato mixture over the eggs until they are cooked. another favorite recipe of mrs. vallejo was spanish beefsteak prepared as follows: spanish beefsteak cut the steak into pieces the size desired for serving. place these pieces on a meat board and sprinkle liberally with flour. with a wooden corrugated mallet beat the flour into the steak. fry the steak in a pan with olive oil. in another frying pan, at the same time, fry three good-sized onions and three green peppers. when the steak is cooked sufficiently put it to one side of the pan and let the oil run to the other side. on the oil pour sufficient water to cover the meat and add the onions and peppers, letting all simmer for a few minutes. serve on hot platter. spanish mode of cooking rice is savory and most palatable, and mrs. vallejo's recipe for this is as follows: spanish rice slice together three good-sized onions and three small green peppers. fry them in olive oil. take one-half cup of rice and boil it until nearly done, then drain it well and add it to the frying onions and peppers. fry all together until thoroughly brown, which will take some time. season with salt and serve. these three recipes are given because they are simple and easily prepared. many complex recipes could be given, and some of these will appear in the part of the book devoted to recipes, but when one considers the simplicity of the recipes mentioned, it can readily be seen that it takes little preparation to get something out of the ordinary. when the gringo came to its pioneer days much of san francisco's bohemian spirit is due. when the cry of "gold" rang around the world adventurous wanderers of all lands answered the call, and during the year following marshall's discovery two thousand ships sailed into san francisco bay, many to be abandoned on the beach by the gold-mad throng, and it was in some of these deserted sailing vessels that san francisco's restaurant life had its inception. with the immediately succeeding years the horde of gold hunters was augmented by those who brought necessities and luxuries to exchange for the yellow metal given up by the streams flowing from the mother lode. with them also came cooks to prepare delectable dishes for those who had passed the flap-jack stage, and desired the good things of life to repay them for the hardships, privations and dearth of woman's companionship. as the male human was largely dominant in numbers it was but natural that they should gather together for companionship, and here began the bohemian spirit that has marked the city for its own to the present day. these men were all individualists, and their individualism has been transmitted to their offspring together with independence of action. hence comes the bohemianism born of individuality and independence. it was only natural that the early san franciscans should foregather where good cheer was to be found, and the old el dorado house, at portsmouth square, was really what may be called the first bohemian restaurant of the city. so well was this place patronized and so exorbitant the prices charged that twenty-five thousand dollars a month was not considered an impossible rental. next in importance was the most fashionable restaurant of early days, the iron house. it was built of heavy sheet iron that had been brought around the horn in a sailing vessel, and catered well, becoming for several years the most famed restaurant of the city. here, in montgomery street, between jackson and pacific, was the rendezvous of pioneers, and here the society of california pioneers had its inception, receiving impressions felt to the present day in san francisco and california history. here, also, was first served chicken in the shell, the dish from which so many later restaurants gained fame. the recipe for this as prepared by the iron house is still extant, and we are indebted to a lady, who was a little girl when that restaurant was waning, whose mother secured the recipe. it was prepared as follows: chicken in a shell into a kettle containing a quart of water put a young chicken, one sliced onion, a bay leaf, two cloves, a blade of mace and six pepper-corns. simmer in the covered kettle for one hour and set aside to cool. when cool remove the meat from the bones, rejecting the skin. cut the meat into small dice. mix in a saucepan, over a fire without browning, a tablespoonful of butter, a tablespoonful of flour, then add half a pint of cream. stir this constantly until it boils, then add a truffle, two dozen mushrooms chopped fine, a dash of white pepper and then the dice of chicken. let the whole stand in a bain marie, or chafing dish, until quite hot. add the yolks of two eggs and let cook two minutes. stir in half a glass of sherry and serve in cockle shells. early italian impression almost coincident with the opening of the iron house an italian named bazzuro took possession of one of the stranded sailing vessels encumbering the bay, and anchored it out in the water at the point where davis and pacific streets now intersect. he opened a restaurant which immediately attracted attention and gained good reputation for its service and its cooking. later, when the land was filled in, bazzuro built a house at almost the same spot and opened his restaurant there, continuing it up to the time of the great fire in 1906. after the fire one of the earliest restaurants to be established in that part of the city was bazzuro's, at the same corner, and it is still run by the family, who took charge after the death of the original proprietor. here one can get the finest italian peasant meal in the city, and many of the italian merchants and bankers still go there for their luncheons every day, preferring it to the more pretentious establishments. the french peasant style came a little later, beginning in a little dining room opened in washington street, just above kearny, by a french woman whose name was a carefully guarded secret. she was known far and wide as "ma tanta" (my aunt). her cooking was considered the best of all in the city, and her patrons sat at a long common table, neat and clean to the last degree. peasant style of serving was followed. first appeared ma tanta with a great bowl of salad which she passed around, each patron helping himself. this was followed by an immense tureen of soup, held aloft in the hands of ma tanta, and again each was his own waiter. fish, entree, roast, and dessert, were served in the same manner, and with the black coffee ma tanta changed from servitor to hostess and sat with her guests and discussed the topics of the day on equal terms. in california street, just below dupont, the california house boasted a great chef in the person of john somali, who in later years opened the maison riche, a famous restaurant that went out of existence in the fire of 1906. gourmets soon discovered that the california house offered something unusual and it became a famed resort. somali's specialties were roast turkey, chateaubriand steak and coffee frappe. it is said of his turkeys that their flavor was of such excellence that one of the gourmands of that day, michael reece, would always order two when he gave a dinner--one for his guests and one for himself. it is also said that our well-beloved bohemian, rafael weill, still holds memories of the old california house, of which he was an habitue, and from whose excellent chef he learned to appreciate the art and science of cooking as evidenced by the breakfasts and dinners with which he regales his guests at the present day. but many of the hardy pioneers were of english and american stock and preferred the plainer foods of their old homes to the highly seasoned dishes of the latin chefs, and to cater to this growing demand the nevada was opened in pine street between montgomery and kearny. this place became noted for its roast beef and also for its corned beef and cabbage, which was said to be of most excellent flavor. most famous of all the old oyster houses was mannings, at the corner of pine and webb streets. he specialized in oysters and many of his dishes have survived to the present day. it is said that the style now called "oysters kirkpatrick," is but a variant of manning's "oyster salt roast." at the corner of california and sansome streets, where now stands the bank of california, was the tehama house, one of the most famous of the city's early hostelries, whose restaurant was famed for its excellence. the tehama house was the rendezvous of army and navy officers and high state officials. lieutenant john derby, of the united states army, one of the most widely known western authors of that day, made it his headquarters. derby wrote under the names of "john phoenix," and "squibob." perini's, in post street between grant avenue and stockton, specialized in pastes and veal risotto, and was much patronized by uptown men. the original marchand began business in a little room in dupont street, between jackson and washington, which district at that time had not been given over to the chinese, and he cooked over a charcoal brazier, in his window, in view of passing people who were attracted by the novelty and retained by the good cooking. with the extension of his fame he found his room too small and he rented a cottage at bush and dupont street, but his business grew so rapidly that he was compelled to move to more commodious quarters at post and dupont and later to a much larger place at geary and stockton, where he enjoyed good patronage until the fire destroyed his place. there is now a restaurant in geary street near mason which has on its windows in very small letters "michael, formerly of," and then in bold lettering, "marchands." but michael has neither the art nor the viands that made marchands famous, and he is content to say that his most famous dish is tripe--just plain, plebeian tripe. christian good, at washington and kearny, big john, at merchant street between montgomery and sansome, marshall's chop house, in the old center market, and johnson's oyster house, in a basement at clay and leidesdorff streets, were all noted places and much patronized, the latter laying the foundation of one of san francisco's "first families." martin's was much patronized by the old comstock crowd, and this was the favorite dining place of the late william c. ralston. one of the most famous restaurants of the early '70s was the mint, in commercial street, between montgomery and kearny, where the present restaurant of the same name is located. it was noted for its southern cooking and was the favorite resort of w. w. foote and other prominent southerners. the kitchen was presided over by old billy jackson, an old-time southern darkey, who made a specialty of fried chicken, cream gravy, and corn fritters. birth of the french restaurant french impression came strongly about this time, and the poodle dog, of paris, had its prototype at bush and dupont streets. this was one of the earliest of the type known as "french restaurants," and numerous convivial parties of men and women found its private rooms convenient for rendezvous. old pierre of later days, who was found dead out on the colma road some two years after the fire of 1906, was a waiter at the poodle dog when it started, and by saving his tips and making good investments he was able to open a similar restaurant at stockton and market, which he called the pup. the pup was famous for its frogs' legs a la poulette. in this venture pierre had a partner, to whom he sold out a few years later and then he opened the tortoni in o'farrell street, which became one of the most famous of the pre-fire restaurants, its table d'hote dinners being considered the best in the city. when claus spreckels built the tall spreckels building pierre and his partner opened the call restaurant in the top stories. with the fire both of the restaurants went out of existence, and the old proprietor of the poodle dog having died, pierre and a partner named pon bought the place, and for a year or so after the fire it was one of the best french restaurants in the city. after pierre's untimely death the restaurant was merged with bergez and frank's, and is now in bush street above kearny. much romance attached to pierre, it being generally believed that he belonged to a wealthy french family, because of his education, his unfailing courtesy, his ready wit and his gentility. pierre specialized in fish cooked with wine, and as a favor to his patrons he would go to the kitchen and prepare the dish with his own hands. in o'farrell street the delmonico was one of the most famous of the french restaurants until the fire. it was several stories high, and each story contained private rooms. carriages drove directly into the building from the street and the occupants went by elevator to soundproof rooms above, where they were served by discreet waiters. the poodle dog, the pup, delmonico's, jacques, frank's, the mint, bergez, felix and campi's are the connecting links between the fire and the pioneer days. some of them still carry the names and memories of the old days. all were noted for their good dinners and remarkably low prices. shortly after the fire blanco, formerly connected with the old poodle dog, opened a place in o'farrell street, between hyde and larkin, calling it "blanco's." during the reconstruction period this was by far the best restaurant in the city, and it is still one of the noted places. later blanco opened a fine restaurant in mason street, between turk and eddy, reviving the old name of the poodle dog, and here all the old traditions have been revived. both of these savor of the old type of french restaurants, catering to a class of quiet spenders who carefully guard their indiscretions. in the early '50s and '60s the most noted places were not considered respectable enough for ladies, and at restaurants like the three trees, in dupont just above bush street, ladies went into little private rooms through an alley. peter job saw his opportunity and opened a restaurant where special attention was paid to lady patrons, and shortly after the new york restaurant, in kearny street, did the same. merging the post-pioneer, era with the pre-fire era came the maison doree, which became famous in many ways. it was noted for oysters a la poulette, prepared after the following recipe: oysters a la poulette one-half cup butter, three tablespoons flour, yolks of three eggs. one pint chicken stock (or veal), one tablespoonful lemon juice, one-eighth teaspoon pepper, one level teaspoon salt. beat the butter and flour together until smooth and white. then add salt, pepper and lemon juice. gradually pour boiling stock on this mixture and simmer for ten minutes. beat the yolks of eggs in a saucepan, gradually pouring the cooked sauce upon them. pour into a double boiler containing boiling water in lower part of utensil. stir the mixture for one and one-half minutes. into this put two dozen large oysters and let cook until edges curl up and serve hot. captain cropper, an old marylander, had a restaurant that was much patronized by good livers, and in addition to the usual southern dishes he specialized on terrapin a la maryland, sending back to his native state for the famous diamond-back terrapin. his recipe for this was as follows: terrapin a la maryland cut a terrapin in small pieces, about one inch long, after boiling it. put the pieces in a saute pan with two ounces of sweet butter, salt, pepper, a very little celery salt, a pinch of paprika. simmer for a few minutes and then add one glass of sherry wine, which reduce to half by boiling. then add one cup of cream, bring to a boil and thicken with two yolks of eggs mixed with a half cup of cream. let it come to a near boil and add half a glass of dry sherry and serve. you may thicken the terrapin with the following mixture: two raw yolks of eggs, two boiled yolks of eggs, one ounce of butter, one ounce corn starch. rub together and pass through a fine sieve. uncle tom's cabin, tony oakes, the hermitage, and cornelius stagg's were noted road-houses where fine meals were served, but these are scarcely to be considered as san francisco bohemian restaurants. the reception, on the corner of sutter and webb streets, which continued up to the time of the fire, was noted for its terrapin specialties, but it was rather malodorous and ladies who patronized it usually went in through the webb street entrance to keep from being seen. the old baldwin hotel, which stood where the flood building now stands, at the corner of market and powell and which was destroyed by fire some fourteen years ago, was the favorite resort of many of the noted men of the west, and the grill had the distinction of being the best in san francisco at that time. the grill of the old palace hotel was also of highest order, and this was especially true of the ladies' grill which was then, as now, noted for its artistic preparation of a wondrous variety of good things. probably the most unique place of the pioneer and post-pioneer eras was the cobweb palace, at meiggs's wharf, run by queer old abe warner. it was a little ramshackle building extending back through two or three rooms filled with all manner of old curios such as comes from sailing vessels that go to different parts of the world. these curios were piled indiscriminately everywhere, and there were boxes and barrels piled with no regard whatever for regularity. this heterogeneous conglomeration was covered with years of dust and cobwebs, hence the name. around and over these played bears, monkeys, parrots, cats, and dogs, and whatever sort of bird or animal that could be accommodated until it had the appearance of a small menagerie. warner served crab in various ways and clams. in the rear room, which was reached by a devious path through the debris, he had a bar where he served the finest of imported liquors, french brandy, spanish wines, english ale, all in the original wood. he served no ordinary liquor of any sort, saying that if anybody wanted whiskey they could get it at any saloon. he catered to a class of men who knew good liquors, and his place was a great resort for children, of whom he was fond and who went there to see the animals. the frontispiece of this book is from one of the few existing (if not the only one) photographs of the place. equally unique, yet of higher standard, was the palace of art, run by the hackett brothers, in post street near market. here were some of the finest paintings and marble carvings to be found in the city, together with beautiful hammered silver plaques and cups. curios of all sorts were displayed on the walls, and among them were many queer wood growths showing odd shapes as well as odd colorings. a large and ornate bar extended along one side of the immense room and tables were placed about the room and in a balcony that ran along one side. here meals were served to both men and women, the latter being attracted by the artistic display and unique character of the place. this was destroyed by the fire and all the works of art lost. at the cliff house three times destroyed by fire, and three times rebuilt, the cliff house stands on a rocky promontory overlooking the sundown sea, where san francisco's beach is laved by the waves of the ocean. since the first cliff house was erected this has been a place famous the world over because of its scenic beauty and its overlooking the seal rocks, where congregate a large herd of sea lions disporting much to the edification of the visitors. appealing from its romantic surroundings, interesting because of its history, and attractive through its combination of dashing waves and beautiful beach extending miles in one direction, with the rugged entrance to golden gate in the other, with the mysterious farallones in the dim distance, the cliff house may well be classed as one of the great bohemian restaurants of san francisco. lovers of the night life know it well for it is the destination of many an automobile party. during the day its terraces are filled with visitors from abroad who make this a part of their itinerary, and here, as they drink in the wondrous beauty of the scene spread before them, partake of well prepared and well served dishes such as made both the cliff house and san francisco well and favorably known and whose fame is not bounded by the continent. but for a most pleasant visit to the cliff house one should choose the early morning hours, and go out when the air is blowing free and fresh from the sea, the waves cresting with amber under the magic touch of the easterly sun. select a table next to one of the western windows and order a breakfast that is served here better than any place we have tried. this breakfast will consist of broiled breast of young turkey, served with broiled virginia ham with a side dish of corn fritters. when you sit down to this after a brisk ride out through golden gate park, you have the great sauce, appetite, and with a pot of steaming coffee whose aroma rises like the incense to the sea gods, you will feel that while you have thought you had good breakfasts before this, you know that now you are having the best of them all. of course there are many other good things to order if you like, but we have discovered nothing that makes so complete a breakfast as this. some italian restaurants "is everybody happy? oh, it is only nine o'clock and we've got all night." it was a clear, fresh young voice, full of the joy of living and came from a young woman whose carefree air seemed to say of her existence as of the night "we've got all life before us." the voice, the healthful face and vigorous form, the very live and joyous expression were all significant of the time and place. it was sunday night and the place was steve sanguinetti's, with roisterers in full swing and every table filled and dozens of patrons waiting along the walls ready to take each seat as it was emptied. here were young men and women just returned from their various picnics across the bay to their one great event of the week--a sunday dinner at sanguinetti's. over in one corner of the stifling room, on a raised platform, sat two oily and fat negroes, making the place hideous with their ribald songs and the twanging of a guitar and banjo. when, a familiar air was sounded the entire gathering joined in chorus, and when such tunes as "there'll be a hot time in the old town tonight" came, the place was pandemonium. yet through it all perfect order was kept by the fat proprietor, his muscular "bouncer" and two policemen stationed at the doors. noise was rather invited than frowned upon, and the only line drawn regarding conduct was the throwing of bread. probably steve did not want it wasted. it was all free and easy and nobody took offense at anything said or done. in fact if one were squeamish about such things sanguinetti's was no place for him or her. one found one's self talking and laughing with the people about as if they were old friends. it made no difference how you were dressed, nor how dignified you tried to be, it was all one with the crowd around the tables. if you wished to stay there in comfort you had to be one of them, and dignity had to be left outside or it would make you so uncomfortable that you would carry it out, to an accompaniment of laughter and jeers of the rest of the diners. so far as eating was concerned that was not one of the considerations when discussing sanguinetti's. it was a table d'hote dinner served with a bottle of "dago red," for fifty cents. you gave the waiter a tip of fifteen cents or "two bits" as you felt liberal, and he was satisfied. if you were especially pleased you gave the darkeys ten cents, not because you enjoyed the music, but just "because." the one merit of sanguinetti's before the fire was the fact that all the regular customers were unaffected and natural. they came from the factories, canneries, shops, and drays, and after a week of heart-breaking work this was their one relaxation and they enjoyed it to the full. many people from the residential part of the city, and many visitors at the hotels, went there as a part of slumming trips, but the real sentiment was expressed by the young girl when she sang out "is everybody happy?" sanguinetti still has his restaurant, and there is still to be found the perspiring darkeys, playing and singing their impossible music, and a crowd still congregates there, but it is not the old crowd for this, like all things else in san francisco, has changed, and instead of the old-time assemblage of young men and women whose lack of convention came from their natural environment, there is now a crowd of young and old people who patronize it because they have heard it is "so bohemian." thrifty hotel guides take tourists there and tell them it is "the only real bohemian restaurant in san francisco," and when the outlanders see the antics of the people and listen to the ribald jests and bad music of the darkeys, they go back to their hotels and tell with bated breath of one of the most wonderful things they have ever seen, and it is one of the wonderful things of their limited experience. among the pre-fire restaurants of note were several italian places which appealed to the bohemian spirit through their good cooking and absence of conventionality, together with the inexpensiveness of the dinners. among these were the buon gusto, the fior d'italia, la estrella, campi's and the gianduja. of these campi's, in clay street below sansome, was the most noted, and the primitive style of serving combined with his excellent cooking brought him fame. all of these places, or at least restaurants with these names, are still in existence. jule's, the fly trap, the st. germain and the cosmos laid claim to distinction through their inexpensiveness, up to the time of the fire. all of these names are still to be seen over restaurants and they are still in that class, jule's, possibly, being better than it was before the fire. a good dinner of seven or eight courses, well cooked and well served, could be had in these places for fifty cents. lombardi's was of the same type but his price was but twenty-five cents for a course dinner in many respects the equal of the others. pop floyd, recently killed by his bartender in an altercation, had a place down in california street much patronized by business men. he had very good service and the best of cooking, and for many years hundreds of business men gathered there at luncheon in lieu of a club. the place is still in existence and good service and good food is to be had there, but it has lost its bohemian atmosphere. in pine street above montgomery was the viticultural, a restaurant that had great vogue owing to the excellence of its cooking. its specialty was marrow on toast and broiled mushrooms, and game. to speak of bohemian san francisco and say nothing of the old hoffman saloon, on second and market streets, would be like the play of hamlet with hamlet left out. "pop" sullivan, or "billy" sullivan, according to the degree of familiarity of the acquaintance, boasted of the fact that from the day this place opened until he sold the doors were closed but once, the keys having been thrown away on opening day. during all the years of its existence the only day it was closed was the day of the funeral of sullivan's mother. here was the most magnificent bar in san francisco, and in connection was a restaurant that catered to people who not only knew good things but ordered them. the back part of the place with entrance on second street was divided off into little rooms with tables large enough for four. these rooms were most lavish in their decoration, the most interesting feature being that they were all made of different beautiful woods, highly polished. woods were here from all parts of the world, each being distinctive. in these rooms guests were served with the best the market afforded, by discreet darkeys. this place was the best patronized of all the bohemian resorts of the city up to the time of the fire. one of the special dainties served were the hoffman house biscuits, light and flaky, such as could be found nowhere else. out by marshall square, by the city hall, was good fellow's grotto, started by techau, who afterward built and ran the techau tavern. this place was in a basement and had much vogue among politicians and those connected with the city government. it specialized on beefsteaks. under the st. ann building, at eddy and powell streets, was the louvre, started and managed by carl zinkand, who afterward opened the place in market above fourth street, called zinkand's. this was distinctly german in appointments and cooking and was the best of its kind in the city. under the phelan building at o'farrell and market was the old louvre in which place one could get german cooking, but it was not a place that appealed to those who knew good service. bab's had a meteoric career and was worthy of much longer life, but babcock had too high an idealization of what san francisco wanted. he emulated the parisian restaurants in oddities, one of his rooms being patterned after the famous cabaret de la mort, and one dined off a coffin and was lighted by green colored tapers affixed to skulls. aside from its oddities it was one of the best places for a good meal for bab had the art of catering down to a nicety. there were rooms decorated to represent various countries and in each room you could get a dinner of the country represented. thompson's was another place that was too elaborate for its patronage and after a varied existence from the old oyster loaf to a cafeteria thompson was compelled to leave for other fields and san francisco lost a splendid restaurateur. he opened the place under the flood building, after the fire, in most magnificent style, taking in two partners. the enormous expense and necessary debt contracted to open the place was too much and thompson had to give up his interest. this place is now running as the portola-louvre. much could be written of these old-time restaurants, and as we write story after story amusing, interesting, and instructive come to mind, each indicative of the period when true bohemianism was to be found in the city that was. an incident that occurred in the old fior d'italia well illustrates this spirit of camaraderie, as it shows the good-fellowship that then obtained. we went to that restaurant for dinner one evening, and the proprietor, knowing our interest in human nature studies, showed us to a little table in the back part of the room, where we could have a good view of all the tables. our table was large enough to seat four comfortably, and presently, as the room became crowded, the proprietor, with many excuses, asked if he could seat two gentlemen with us. they were upper class italians, exceedingly polite, and apologized profusely for intruding upon us. in a few minutes another gentleman entered and our companions at once began frantic gesticulations and called him to our table, where room was made and another cover laid. again and again this occurred until finally at a table suited for four, nine of us were eating, laughing, and talking together, we being taken into the comradeship without question. when it came time for us to depart the entire seven rose and stood, bowing as we passed from the restaurant. impress of mexico running through all the fabric of san francisco's history is the thread of mexican and spanish romance and tradition, carrying us back to the very days when the trooper sent out by portola first set eyes on the great inland sea now known as san francisco bay. it would seem that the cuisinaire most indelibly stamped on the taste of the old san franciscan would, therefore, be of either spanish or mexican origin. that this is not a fact is because among the earliest corners to california after it passed from mexican hands to those of the united states, were french and italian cooks, and the bon vivants of both lands who wanted their own style of cooking. while the spanish did not impress their cooking on san francisco, it is the cuisine of the latin races that has given to it its greatest gastronomic prestige, and there still remains from those very early days recipes of the famous dishes which had their beginnings either in spain or mexico. there is much misconception regarding both spanish and mexican cooking, for it is generally accepted as a fact that all mexican and spanish dishes are so filled with red pepper as to be unpalatable to the normal stomach of those trained to what is called "plain american cooking." certain dishes of mexican and spanish origin owe their fine flavor to discriminating use of chili caliente or chili dulce, but many of the best dishes are entirely innocent of either. the difference between spanish and mexican cooking is largely a matter of sentiment. it is a peculiarity of the spaniard that he does not wish to be classed as a mexican, and on the other hand the mexican is angry if he be called a spaniard. but the fact remains that their cooking is much alike, so much so, in fact, as to be indistinguishable except by different names for similar dishes, and frequently these are the same. the two famous and world-known dishes of this class of cooking are tortillas and tamales. it is generally supposed that both of these are the product of mexico, but this is not the case. the tamale had its origin in spain and was carried to mexico by the conquistadors, and taken up as a national dish by the natives after many years. the tortilla, on the other hand, is made now exactly as it was made by the mexican indian when the spanish found the country. the aborigine prepared his corn on a stone metate and made it into cakes by patting it with the hand, then cooked it on a hot stone before an open fire. it is still made in that manner in the heart of mexico, and we could tell a story of how we saw this done one night in the midst of a dense tropical forest, while muleteers and mozas of a great caravan sat around their little campfires, whose fitful light served to intensify the weird appearance of the shadows of the indians as they passed to and fro among their packs, but this is not the place for such stories. of the old mexican restaurants, those of us who can look back to the days of a quarter of a century ago remember old felipe and maria, the mexican couple who kept the little place in the alley back of the old county jail, off broadway. here one had to depend entirely upon sentiment, or rather sentimentality, to be pleased. the cooking was truly mexican for it included the usual mexican disregard for dirt. chattering monkeys and parrots were hanging around the kitchen, peering into pots and fingering viands, and they served to attract attention from myriads of cockroaches that swarmed about the walls. one could go to this place just on the theory that one is willing to try anything once, but aside from its picturesque old couple, and its dantesque appearance, it offered nothing to induce a return unless it was to entertain a friend. everyone who lived in san francisco before the fire remembers ricardo, he of the one eye, who served so well at luna's, on vallejo and dupont streets. ricardo had but one eye but he could see the wants of his patrons much better than many of the later day waiters who have two. luna's brought fame to san francisco and in more than one novel of san francisco life it was featured. entering the place one came into the home life of the luna family, and reached the dining room through the parlor, where mrs. luna, busy with her drawn work, and all the little lunas and the neighbors and their children foregathered in the window spaces behind the torn nottingham curtains which partially concealed the interior from passers on the street. the elder sons and daughters attended to the wants of those who fancied any of the curios displayed in the long showcase that extended from the door to the rear of the room. passing through this family group one came to the curtained dining room proper, although there were a number of tables in the family parlor to be used in case of a rush of patrons. luna's dinners were a feature of the old san francisco. they were strictly mexican, from the unpalatable soup (mexicans do not understand how to make good soup) to the "dulce" served at the close of the meal. first came the appetizers in form of thin slices of salami and of a peculiar mexican sausage, so extremely hot with chili pepino as to immediately call for a drink of claret to assuage the burning. then came the soup which we experienced ones always passed over. the salad of modern tables was replaced by an enchilada, and then came either chili con carne or chili con polle according to the day of the week, sundays having as the extra attraction the chili con pollo, or chicken with pepper. in place of bread they served tortillas, which were rolled and used as a spoon or fork if one were so inclined. following this was what is known among unenlightened as "stuffed pepper," but which is called by the spanish, from which country it gets its name, "chili reinas." to signify the close of the meal came frijoles fritas or fried beans, and these were followed by the dessert consisting of some preserved fruit or of a sweet tamale. fifty cents paid the bill and a tip of fifteen cents to ricardo made him as happy and as profuse with his thanks as the present day waiter on receipt of half a dollar. accepting luna's as the best type of the mexican restaurant of the days before the fire, our inquiry developed the fact that the dish on which he specialized was chili reinas, and this is the recipe he used in their preparation: chili reinas roast large bell peppers until the skin turns black. wash in cold water and rub off the blackened skin. cut around the stem and remove the seed and coarse veins. take some dry monterey cheese, grated fine, and with this fill the peppers, closing the end with a wooden toothpick. prepare a batter made as follows: beat the yolks and whites of six eggs separately, then mix, and stir in a little flour to make a thin batter. have a pan of boiling lard ready and after dipping the stuffed pepper into the batter dip it into the lard. remove quickly and dip again in the batter and then again in the lard where it is to remain until fried a light, golden brown, keeping the peppers entirely covered with the boiling lard. take the seeds of the peppers, one small white onion and two tomatoes, and grind all together into a pulp, add a little salt and let cook ten minutes. when the chilies are fried turn the remainder of the batter into the tomatoes and boil twenty minutes, then turn this sauce over the peppers. this is a most delicious dish and can be varied by using finely ground meat to stuff the peppers instead of the cheese. mexican restaurants of the present day in san francisco are a delusion, and unsatisfactory. on the barbary coast much has been said and more printed regarding san francisco's barbary coast--much of truth and much mythical. probably no other individual district has been so instrumental in giving to people of other parts of the country an erroneous idea of san francisco. it is generally accepted as a fact that in barbary coast vice flaunted itself in reckless abandon before the eyes of the world, showing those things usually concealed behind walls and under cover of the darkness. according to the purists here youth of both sexes was debauched, losing both money and souls. to speak of seeing barbary coast brought furtive looks and lowered voices, as if contamination even from the thought were possible. no slumming party was completed without a visit to the "coast," after chinatown's manufactured horrors had been shuddered at. one cannot well speak of the barbary coast without bringing into consideration the social evil, for here was concentrated dozens of the poor unfortunates of the underworld, compelled to eke out miserable existence through playing on the foibles and vanities of men, or seek oblivion in a suicide's grave. we do not propose to discuss this phase of barbary coast as that is not a part of bohemianism. we have visited the coast many times, at all hours of the night, and beyond the unconcealed license of open caresses we have seen nothing shocking to our moral sense that equaled what we have seen in broadway, new york, or in some of the most fashionable hotels and restaurants of san francisco on new year's eve. dancing, singing and music--all that is embodied in the "wine, women and song" of the poets, was to be found there, but it was open, and had none of the veiled suggestion to be found in places considered among the best. in barbary coast we have seen more beautiful dancing than on any stage, or in the famous moulin rouge, or jardin mabile of paris. in fact, many of the modern dances that have become the vogue all over the country, even being carried to europe, had their origin in pacific street dance halls. texas tommy, the grizzly bear, and many others were first danced here, and some of the finest texas tommy dancers on eastern stages went from the dance halls of san francisco's barbary coast. vice was there--yes. it was open--yes. but there was the attraction of light and life and laughter that drew crowds nightly. barbary coast was a part of san francisco's bohemianism because of its unconventionality, for, you know, there is conventionality even in vice. here was the rendezvous of sailor men from all parts of the world, for here they found companionship and joviality. up to the time of the closing of barbary coast molestation of women on the streets of san francisco was almost unheard of. since its closing it is becoming more and more hazardous for women to walk alone at night in the only large city in the world that always had the reputation of guarding its womankind. the city that was passes times change and we change with them is well evidenced by the restaurant life of the present day san francisco. now, as before the fire, we have the greatest restaurant city of the world--a city where home life is subordinated to the convenience of apartment dwelling and restaurant meals-but the old-time bohemian finds neither the same atmosphere nor the same restaurants. true, many of the old names have been retained or revived, but there is not felt the old spirit of camaraderie. old personalities have passed away and old customs have degenerated. those who await the call feel that with the passing of the old city there passed much that made life worth living, and as they prepare to cross to the great beyond, they live in their memories of the past. with reverence we think of the men and women of the early san francisco--those who made the city the home of bohemia--and it is with this feeling that we now come to discuss the bohemian restaurants of the new san francisco. sang the swan song in the latter part of april, 1906, when the fire-swept streets presented their most forbidding aspect, and when the only moving figures to be seen after nightfall were armed soldiers guarding the little remaining of value from depredations of skulking vagabonds, a number of the old bohemian spirits gathered at the corner of montgomery and commercial streets, and gazed through the shattered windows into the old dining room where they had held many a royal feast. on the blackened walls might still be seen scarred pictures, fringed by a row of black cats along the ceiling. they turned their steps out toward the presidio, hunted among the italian refugees and there found coppa--he of the wonderful black cats, and it took little persuasion to induce him to go back to his ruined restaurant and prepare a dinner, such as had made his place famous among artists, writers, and other bohemians, in the days when san francisco was care-free and held her arms wide open in welcome to all the world. it was such a dinner as has been accorded to few. few there are who have the heart to make merry amid crumbling ruins of all they held dear in the material world. the favored ones who assembled there will always hold that dinner in most affectionate memory, and to this day not one thinks of it without the choking that comes from over-full emotion. it was more than a tribute to the days of old--it marked the passing of the old san francisco and the inauguration of the new. it was bohemia's swan song, sung by those to whom san francisco held more than pleasure--more than sentimentality. it held for them close-knit ties that nothing less than a worldshaking cataclysm could sever--and the cataclysm had arrived. the old coppa restaurant in montgomery street became a memory and on its ashes came the new one, located in pine street between montgomery and kearny streets, and for a number of years this remained the idol of bohemia until changed conditions drove the tide of patronage far up toward powell, ellis, eddy and o'farrell streets. at that time there grew up a mushroom crop of so-called restaurants in columbus avenue close to barbary coast such as caesar's, the follies cabaret, jupiter and el paradiso, where space was reserved in the middle of the floor for dancing. coppa emulated the new idea by fitting out a gorgeous basement room at the corner of kearny and jackson, which he called the neptune palace. it represented a great grotto under the ocean, and here throngs gathered nightly to dance and eat until the police commissioners closed all of these resorts, as well as barbary coast. coppa became financially injured by this venture and was forced to take a partner in his old restaurant, and finally gave up his share and went beyond the city limits and opened the pompeiian garden, on the san mateo road, and there with his heroic little wife tried to rebuild his shrunken fortunes, leaving the historic restaurant with its string of black cats and its memorable pictures on the walls to less skilled hands. he struggled against hard times and at the time of this writing he, with his wife, their son and his wife, are giving the old-time dinners and trying to make the venture a success. in the old days it was considered a feat of gormandizing to go through one of coppa's dinners and eat everything set before you for one dollar. notwithstanding the delicious dishes he prepared and the wonderful recipes, the quantity served was so great that one would have to be possessed of enormous capacity, indeed, to be able to say at the end of the meal that he had eaten all that was given him. in his pompeiian garden coppa still maintains his old reputation for most tasty viands and liberal portions, and if one desire to find the true bohemian restaurant of san francisco today, one that approaches the old spirit of the days before the fire, he need but go out to coppa's and while he will not have his eyes regaled by the quaint drawings with which the old-time artists decorated the walls, nor the hurrying footsteps along the ceiling to the famous center table where sat some of the world's most notable bohemians on their visits to san francisco, nor the frieze of black cats around the cornice, nor the bohemian verse, written under inspiration of "dago red," he will find the same old cooking, done by coppa himself. we asked coppa what he considered his best dish and he gave us the irishman's reply by asking another question: "what do you think of it?" there are so many to choose from that our answer was difficult but we finally stopped at "chicken portola." it was then that the old smile came back to coppa's face. "ah! chicken portola. that is my own idea. it is the most delicious way chicken was ever cooked." this is the recipe as coppa gave it to us, his little wife standing at his side and giving, now and then, a suggestion as coppa's memory halted: chicken portola a la coppa take a fresh cocoanut and cut off the top, removing nearly all of the meat. put together three tablespoonfuls of chopped cocoanut meat and two ears of fresh, green corn, taken from the cob. slice two onions into four tablespoonfuls of olive oil, together with a tablespoonful of diced bacon fried in olive oil, add one chopped green pepper, half a dozen tomatoes stewed with salt and pepper, one clove of garlic, and cook all together until it thickens. strain this into the corn and cocoanut and add one spring chicken cut in four pieces. put the mixture into the shell of the cocoanut, using the cut-off top as a cover, and close tightly with a covering of paste around the jointure to keep in the flavors. put the cocoanut into a pan with water in it and set in the oven, well heated, for one hour, basting frequently to prevent the cocoanut's burning. a bare recital of the terms of the recipe cannot bring to the uninitiated even a suspicion of the delightful aroma that comes from the cocoanut when its top is lifted, nor can it give the slightest idea of the delicacy of the savor arising from the combination of the cocoanut with young chicken. it is not a difficult dish to prepare, and if you cannot get it at any of the restaurants, and we are sure you cannot, try it at home some time and surprise your friends with a dish to be found in only one restaurant in the world. if you desire it at coppa's on your visit to san francisco you will have to telephone out to him in advance (unless he has succeeded in getting back to the city, which he contemplates) so that he can prepare it for you, and, take our word for it, you will never regret doing so. coppa has many wonderful dishes to serve, and he delights so much in your appreciation that he is always fearful something is wrong if you fail to do full justice to his meal. he showed this one evening when he had filled a little party of us to repletion by his lavish provision for our entertainment, and nature rebelled against anything more. to us came coppa in tears. "what is the matter with the chicken, doctor? is it not cooked just right?" it was with difficulty that we made him understand that there was a limit to capacity, and that he had fed us with such bountiful hand we could eat no more. even now when we go to coppa's we have a little feeling of fear lest we offend him by not eating enough to convince him that we are pleased. coppa's walls were always adorned with strange conceits of the artists and writers who frequented his place, and after a picture, or a bit of verse had remained until it was too familiar some one erased it and replaced it with something he thought was better. we preserved one written by an unknown bohemian. we give it just as it was: through the fog of centuries, dim and dense, i sometimes seem to see the shadowy line of a backyard fence and a feline shape of me. i hear the growl, and yowl and howl of each nocturnal fight, and the throaty stir, half cry, half purr of passionate delight, as seeking an amorous rendezvous my ancient brothers go stealing through the purple gloom of night. i've seen your eyes, with a greenish glint; you move with a feline grace; and when you are pleased i catch the hint of a purr in your throat and face. then i wonder if you are dreaming, too, of temples along the nile, where you yowled and howled, and loved and prowled, with many a sensuous wile, and borrowed the grace you own today from that other life in the far-away; and if such dreams beguile. i know that you sit by your cozy fire, when shadows crowd the room, and my soul responds to an old desire to roam through the velvety gloom, so stealthily stealing, softly shod, my spirit is hurrying thence to the lure of an ancient mystic god, whose magnet is intense, where i know your soul, too, roams in fur, for i hear it call with a throaty purr, from the shadowy backyard fence. bohemia of the present san francisco's care-free spirit was fully exemplified before the ashes of the great fire of 1906 were cold. on every hand one could find little eating places established in the streets, some made of abandoned boxes, others of debris from the burned buildings, and some in vacant basements and little store rooms, while a few enterprising individuals improvised wheeled dining rooms and went from one part of the city to another serving meals. the vein of humor of irrepressible effervescence of spirit born of bohemianism gave to these eating places high sounding names, and many were covered with witty signs which laughed in the face of fate. fillmore became the great business street of the city now in ashes, and here were established the first restaurants of any pretensions, the louvre being first to open an establishment that had the old-time appearance. this was on the corner of fillmore and ellis, and had large patronage, it being crowded nightly with men and women who seemed to forget that san francisco had been destroyed. thompson opened a large restaurant in o'farrell street, just above fillmore, and for two years or more did a thriving business, his place being noted for its good cooking and its splendid service. one of his waiters, phil tyson, was one of the earlier ones to go back into the burned district to begin business and he opened a restaurant called the del monte in powell street near market, but it was too early for success and closed after a short career. thompson enlisted others to join with him in opening a magnificent place under the new flood building at the corner of powell and market street, but through faulty understanding of financial power thompson was compelled to give up his interest and the place afterward closed. it has since been reopened under the name of the portola-louvre, where now crowds assemble nightly to listen to music and witness cabaret performances. here, as well as in a number of other places, one can well appreciate the colloquial definition of "cabaret." that which takes the rest out of restaurant and puts the din in dinner. if one likes noise and distraction while eating such places are good to patronize. across the street from the portola-louvre at 15 powell street is the modernized techau tavern now known as "techau's". here there is always good music and food well cooked and well served, and always a lively crowd during the luncheon, dinner and after-theatre hours. the room is not large but its dimensions are greatly magnified owing to the covering of mirrors which line the walls. this garish display of mirrors, and elaborate decoration of ceiling and pillars, gives it the appearance of the abode of saturnalia, but decorum is the rule among the patrons. around at 168 o'farrell street, just opposite the orpheum theatre, is tait-zinkand restaurant, or as it is more popularly known, "tait's". john tait is the presiding spirit here, he having made reputation as club manager, and then as manager of the cliff house. one of the partners here was carl zinkand, who ran the old zinkand's before the fire. while these three restaurants are of similar type neither has the pre-fire atmosphere. they are lively, always, with music and gay throngs, and serve good food. one of the early restaurants established after the fire was blanco's, at 857 o'farrell street, and later blanco opened the poodle dog in mason street just above eddy. both of these restaurants are of the old french type and are high class in every respect. the poodle dog has a hotel attachment where one may get rooms or full apartments. if you know how to order, and do not care to count the cost when you order, probably the best dinner at these restaurants can be had at either blanco's or the poodle dog. the cuisine is of the best and the chefs rank at the top of their art. prices are higher than at the other restaurants mentioned, but one certainly gets the best there is prepared in the best way. but the same food, prepared equally well, is to be found in a number of less pretentious places. at the two mentioned one pays for the surroundings as well as for the food, and sometimes this is worth paying for. the restaurants of the present day that approach nearest the old bohemian restaurants of pre fire days, of the french class, are jack's in sacramento street between montgomery and kearny; felix, in montgomery street between clay and washington, and the poodle dog-bergez-franks, in bush street between kearny and grant avenue. in either of these restaurants you will be served with the best the market affords, cooked "the right way." in clay street opposite the california market is the new frank's, one of the best of the italian restaurants, and much patronized by italian merchants. next to it is coppa's, but it is no longer run by coppa. in this same district is the mint, in commercial street between montgomery and kearny streets. it has changed from what it was in the old days, but is still an excellent place to dine. negro's, at 625 merchant street, near the hall of justice, has quite a following of those whose business attaches them to the courts, and while many claim this to be one of the best of its class, we believe the claim to be based less on good cooking than on the fact that the habitues are intimate, making it a pleasant resort for them. the cooking is good and the variety what the market affords. in washington street, just off columbus avenue, is bonini's barn, making great pretense through an unique idea. so far as the restaurant is concerned the food is a little below the average of italian restaurants. one goes there once through curiosity and finds himself in a room that has all the appearance of the interior of a barn, with chickens and pigeons strutting around, harness hanging on pegs, and hay in mangers, and all the farming utensils around to give it the verisimilitude of country. tables and chairs are crude in the extreme and old-time lanterns are used for lighting. it is an idea that is worth while, but, unfortunately, the proprietors depend too much on the decorative feature and too little on the food and how they serve it. the fly trap, and charlie's fashion, the first in sutter street near kearny and the other in market near sutter, serve well-cooked foods, especially soup, salads, and fish. of course these are not the entire menus but of all the well-prepared dishes these are their best. felix, mentioned before, also makes a specialty of his family soup, which is excellent. spanish dinners of good quality are to be had at the madrilena, at 177 eddy street, and at the castilian, at 344 sutter street. both serve good spanish dinners at reasonable prices. they serve table d'hote dinners, but you can also get spanish dishes on special order. under the monadnock building, in market street near third, is jule's, well liked and well patronized because of its good cooking and good service. jule is one of the noted restaurateurs of the city, having attained high celebrity before the fire. his prices are moderate and his cooking and viands of the best, and will satisfy the most critical of the gourmets. at the corner of market and eddy streets is the odeon, down in a basement, with decorations of most garish order. there is a good chef and the place has quite a vogue among lovers of good things to eat. probably at no place in san francisco can one find game cooked better than at jack's, 615 sacramento street. his ducks are always cooked so as to elicit high praise. he has an old-style french table d'hote dinner which he serves for $1.25, including wine. or you may order anything in the market and you will find it cooked "the best way." one of the specialties of jack's is fish, for which the restaurant is noted. it is always strictly fresh and booked to suit the most fastidious taste. as it is in germany when you see august (do not fail to pronounce it owgoost) in repose you involuntarily say, that is if you understand german, "mir ist alles an," which is the german equivalent of "i should worry." when august is in action you immediately get a thirst that nothing but a stein of cold beer will quench. august is the pride of the heidelberg inn at 35 ellis street. all you can see from the street as you pass around the corner from market, is a sign and some stairs leading down into a basement, but do not draw back just because it is a basement restaurant, for if you do you will miss one of the very few real bohemian restaurants of san francisco. possibly our point of view will not coincide with that of others, but while there are dozens of other bohemian restaurants there is but one heidelberg inn. here is absolute freedom from irksome conventionality of other people, and none of the near bohemianism of so many places claiming the title. at the heidelberg inn one need never fear obtrusiveness on the part of other visitors, for here everybody attends strictly to his or her own party, enjoying a camaraderie that has all the genuine, whole-souled companionship found only where german families are accustomed to congregate to seek relaxation from the toil and worry of the day. an evening spent in heidelberg inn is one replete with character study that cannot be excelled anywhere in san francisco--and this means that everybody there is worth while as a study, from the little, bald-headed waiter, heme, and the big, imposing waiter, august, to the "herr doctor" who comes to forget the serious surgical case that has been worrying him at the hospital. here you do not find obtrusive waiters brushing imaginary crumbs from your chair with obsequious hand, nor over zealous stewards solicitous of your food's quality. it is all perfect because it is made perfect by good management. here are german families, from grossfader and grossmutter, down to the newest grandchild, sitting and enjoying their beer and listening to such music as can be heard nowhere else in san francisco, as they eat their sandwiches of limburger, or more dainty dishes according to their tastes. one can almost imagine himself in one of the famous rathskellers of old heidelberg--not at the schloss, of course, for here you cannot look down on the weiser as it flows beneath the windows of the great wine stube on the hill. but you have the real atmosphere, and this is enhanced by the mottoes in decoration and the flagons, stems and plaques that adorn the pillars as well as typical german environment. it is when the martial strains of "de wacht am rhein" are heard from the orchestra, which of itself is an institution, that the true camaraderie of the place is appreciated, for then guests, waiters, barkeepers, and even the eagle-eyed gray-haired manager, join in the swelling chorus, and you can well understand why german soldiers are inspired to march to victory when they hear these stirring chords. but there is other music--sometimes neither inspiring nor beautiful when heard in a german rathskeller--the music of rag time. if there is anything funnier than a german orchestra trying to play rag-time music we have never heard it. it is unconscious humor on part of the orchestra, consequently is all the more excruciating. but if you really love good music--music that has melody and rhythm and soothing cadences, go to the heidelberg inn and listen to the concert which is a feature of the place every evening. and while you are listening to the music you can enjoy such food as is to be found nowhere else in san francisco, for it is distinctly heidelbergian. we asked for the recipe that they considered the very best in the restaurant, and hirsch, with a shrug of his shoulders, said: "oh, we have so many fine dishes." we finally got him to select the one prized above all others and this is what chef scheiler gave us: german sauer braten take four pounds of clear beef, from either the shoulder or rump, and pickle it for two days in one-half gallon of claret and one-half gallon of good wine vinegar (not cider). to the pickle add two large onions cut in quarters, two fresh carrots and about one ounce of mixed whole allspice, black peppers, cloves and bay leaves. when ready for cooking take the meat out of the brine and put in a roasting pan. put in the oven and brown to a golden color. then take it out of the roasting pan and put it into a casserole, after sprinkling it with two ounces of flour. put into the oven again and cook for half an hour, basting frequently with the original brine. when done take the meat out of the sauce. strain the sauce through a fine collander and add a few raisins, a piece of honey cake, or ginger snaps and the meat of one fresh tomato. season with salt and pepper and a little sugar to taste. slice and serve with the sauce over it. for those who like german dishes and german cooking it is not necessary to confine yourself to the heidelberg inn, for both the hof brau, in market just above fourth street, and the german house rathskeller, at turk and polk streets are good places where you can get what you want. the hof brau, however, is less distinctively german as the greater number of its patrons are americans. the specialty of the hof brau is abalone's, and they have as a feature this shell fish cooked in several ways. they also have as the chef in charge of the abalone dishes, herbert, formerly chef for one of the yacht clubs of the coast, who claims to have the only proper recipe for making abalone's tender. under ordinary circumstances the abalone is tough and unpalatable, but after the deft manipulation of herbert they are tender and make a fine dish, either fried, as chowder or a la newberg. in addition to abalone's the hof brau makes a specialty of little oregon crawfish. while there is a distinctive german atmosphere at the rathskeller of the german house, the place is too far out to gather such numbers as congregate at either the heidelberg or the hof brau, but one can get the best of german cooking here and splendid service, and for a quiet little "dutch supper" we know of no place that will accommodate you better than the rathskeller. on special occasions, when some german society or club is giving a dance or holding a meeting at the german house, the rathskeller is the most typical german place in san francisco, and if you go at such a time you will get all the "atmosphere" you will desire, as well as the best the market affords in the way of good viands. in the heart of italy what a relief it is sometimes to have a good waiter say: "you do not know what you want? will you let me bring you the best there is in the house?" sometimes, you know, you really do not know what you want, and usually when that is the case you are not very hungry. that is always a good time to try new things. it is also possible that you do not know what you want because you do not know how to order. in either instance our advice is, if the waiter gets confidential and offers his assistance you will certainly miss something if you do not accept his good offices. this was the case with us, one day when we were over at 1549 stockton street, near washington square, at the gianduja. the proper pronunciation of this is as if it were spelled zhan-du-ya. this is one of the good italian restaurants of the latin quarter. at the gianduja you get the two prime essentials to a good meal--good cooking and excellent service. it matters not whether you take their thirty-five cent luncheon or order a most elaborate meal, you will find that the service is just what it ought to be. we asked brenti what he considered his most famous dish, and like all other proprietors, he shrugged his shoulders and said, with hands emphasizing his words: "we have so many fine dishes." "of course we know that, but what do you consider the very best?" "there is no one the 'very best'. i could give you two." "let it be two, then," was our immediate rejoinder, and here is what he gave us as the best recipes of the gianduja. first, let us give you an idea of the difficulty under which we secured these recipes by printing them just as he wrote them down for us, and then we shall elaborate a little and show the result of skillful questioning. this is the way he wrote the recipe for risotto milanaise: risotto ala milanaise "onions chop fine--marrow and little butter--rice--saffron--chicken broth--wen cook add fresh butter and parmesan cheese seasoned." what was embodied in the words "wen cook" was the essential of the recipe and here is the way we got it: chop one large onion fine. cut a beef marrow into small dice and stir it with the chopped onion. put a small piece of butter in a frying pan and into this put the onion and marrow and fry to a delicate brown. now add one scant cup of rice, stirring constantly, and into this put a pinch of saffron that has been bruised. when the rice takes on a brown color add, slowly, chicken broth as needed, until the rice is thoroughly cooked. then add a lump of fresh butter about the size of a walnut, and sprinkle liberally with grated parmesan cheese, seasoning to taste with pepper and salt. this is to be served with chicken or veal. the second recipe was for fritto misto, and he wrote it as follows: fritto misto "lamb chops and brains breaded--sweetbreads--escallop of veal--fresh mushrooms--italian squash when in season--asparagus or cauliflower--fried in fresh butter--dipped in beaten eggs--lime jus." "fritto misto" means fried mixture, and the recipe as we finally elucidated it is as follows: take a lamb chop, a piece of calf brain, one sweetbread, a slice of veal, a fresh mushroom, sliced italian squash, a piece of asparagus or of cauliflower and dip these into a batter made of an egg well beaten with a little flour. sprinkle these with a little lime juice and fry to a delicate brown in butter, adding salt and pepper to taste. at the gianduja, as at all other italian restaurants not much affected by americans, you will find an atmosphere of unconventionality that is delightful to the bohemian. there is no irksome espionage on the part of other patrons, all of whom are there for the purpose of attending strictly to their own business, and the affairs of other diners are of no consequence to them. there is freedom of expression and unconsciousness, most pleasing after having experienced those other restaurants where it seems to be the business of all the rest of the guests to know just what you are eating and drinking. there is little of the obnoxious posing that one finds in restaurants of the downtown districts, for while italians, in common with all other latins, are natural born poseurs, they are not offensive in it, but rather impress you with the same feeling as the antics of a child. one of the little, out-of-the way restaurants of the italian quarter is the leon d'oro, at 1525 grant avenue, and it is one of the surprises of that district. lazzarini, he with the big voice, presides over the tiny kitchen in the rear of the room devoted to public service and family affairs. soft-voiced rita, with her demure air and her resemblance to evangeline, with her crossed apron, strings and delicate features, takes your order, and soon comes the booming sound from the neighborhood of the range, that announces to all patrons, as well as to some who may be in the vicinity on the street, that your order is ready, and then everybody knows what you are eating. as you sit, either in curtained alcove or at the common table in the main room, little andrea will visit you with his cat. both are institutions of the place and one is, prone to wonder how a cat can have so much patience with a little boy. andrea speaks italian so fluently and so rapidly that it gives you the impression of a quick rushing stream of pure water, tumbling over the stones of a steep declivity. he is not yet old enough to understand that it is not everybody who knows how to speak italian, but that makes not the slightest difference with him, for he talks without ever expecting an answer. lazzarini understands the art and science of cooking, and some of the dishes he prepares are so unusual that one goes again and again to partake of them: possibly his best dish is the following: chicken a la leon d'oro cut a spring chicken into pieces. place these in a pan containing hot olive oil, and season with salt and pepper. turn the chicken until it is thoroughly browned, and add finely chopped green peppers. let it cook awhile then add a finely chopped clove of garlic and a little sage. put in a small glass of marsala wine, tomato sauce and french mushrooms and let simmer for ten minutes. before taking from the pan add half a tablespoonful of butter and serve on a hot plate. lazzarini also makes a specialty of snails, and they are well worth trying while you are experimenting with the unusual things to eat. the recipe for these is as follows: snails a la bordelaise put ten pounds of snails in a covered barrel and keep for ten days. then put in a tub with a handful of salt and a quarter of a gallon of vinegar. stir for twenty minutes until a foam rises, then take out and wash thoroughly until the water runs clear. put in a large pot a pint of virgin olive oil, four large onions and eight cloves of garlic, all chopped fine, and a small bunch of parsley, chopped fine. put the pot over the fire and when the onions are browned stir in some white wine or marsala and then put in the snails. cover and let simmer for thirty-five minutes. while cooking add a pint of meat stock, a little butter and some anise seed. when done put in a soup tureen and serve. to remove the snails use small wooden toothpicks. a breath of the orient san francisco's world-famed chinatown, like the rest of the city, is changed since the big fire, and the chinatown of today is but a reminiscence of the old oriental city that was set in the midst of the most thriving occidental metropolis--the city that was. there has never been much of chinatown that savored of bohemianism, but it has always been the vogue for visitors to make a trip through its mysterious alleys, peering into the fearsome dark doorways, listening to the ominous slamming doors of the "clubs," and shuddering in a delightful horror at the recumbent opium smokers, pointed out to them by the industrious guide. and when they were taken into one of the gambling houses and shown the double doors, and the many contrivances used to prevent police interference with the innocent games of fan tan and then were shown the secret underground passage leading from one of the gambling houses to the stage of the great chinese theatre, two blocks away, they went home ready to believe anything told them about "the ways that are dark and tricks that are vain," for they were sure "the heathen chinee was peculiar." chinese restaurant life never appealed to bohemians, and when it became necessary to entertain visitors with a trip to a chinatown restaurant the ordinary service was of tea and rice cakes, served from lacquered trays, in gaudy rooms, and the admiring visitors could well imagine themselves in "far off cathay." then came the fire and chinatown, with the rest of the down-town portion of san francisco, passed away. in the rebuilding the owners of the properties concluded to give the quarter a more chinese aspect and pagoda like structures are now to be found in all parts of the section. the curiosity of the tourist is an available asset to chinatown, and with queer houses and queerer articles on sale there is always plenty of uninitiated to keep the guides busy, but from a city of more than twenty-five thousand orientals in the midst of an enlightened city--an asiatic city that had its own laws and executed its criminals with the most utter disregard for american laws, it has changed into one of the most law-abiding parts of the great city. with the passing of the queue came the adoption of the american style of dressing, and much of the picturesqueness of the old chinatown has disappeared. but with the changed conditions there has come a change in the restaurant life of the quarter, and now a number of places have been opened to cater to americans, and on every hand one sees "chop suey" signs, and "chinese noodles." it goes without saying that one seldom sees a chinaman eating in the restaurants that are most attractive to americans. some serve both white and yellow and others serve but the chinese, and a few favored white friends. probably the best restaurant in chinatown is that of the hang far low company, at 723 grant avenue. here is served such a variety of strange dishes that one has to be a brave bohemian, indeed, to partake without question. ordinarily when chinese restaurants are mentioned but two dishes are thought of--chop suey and chow main. but neither is considered among the fine dishes served to chinese epicures. it is much as if one of our best restaurants were to advertise hash as its specialty. both these dishes might be termed glorified hash. the ingredients are so numerous and so varied with occasion that one is tempted to imagine them made of the table leavings, and that is not at all pleasant to contemplate. we asked one of the managers at the hang far low what he would order if he wished to get the best dish prepared in the restaurant, and he was even more emphatic in his shrugs than the french or italian managers. he protested that there were so many good things it was impossible to name just one as being the best. "you see, we have fish fins, they are very good. snails, china style. very good, too. then we have turtle brought from china, different from the turtle they have here, and we cook it china style. eels come from china and they are cooked china style, too. what is china style? that i cannot tell you for the cook knows and nobody else. when we cook china style everything is more better. we have here the very best tea." this may be taken as a sample of what to expect when visiting chinatown's restaurants, and while we confess to having some excellent dishes served us in chinatown, our preference lies in other paths of endeavor. we suppose it is all in the point of view, and our point of view is that there is nothing except superficiality in the ordinary chinese restaurants frequented by americans, and those not so frequented are impossible because of the average chinaman's disregard for dirt and the usual niceties of food preparation. artistic japan we wish it were in our power to describe a certain dinner as served us in a japanese restaurant in the days that followed the great fire. desiring to observe in fitting manner a birthday anniversary, we asked a japanese friend if he could secure admission for a little party at a restaurant noted for serving none but the highest class japanese. we did not even know where the restaurant was but had heard of such a place, and when we received word that we would be permitted to have a dinner there we invited a newspaper friend who was in the city from new york, together with two other friends and the japanese, who was the editor of the soko shimbun. he took us to a dwelling house in o'farrell street, having given previous notice of our coming. there was nothing on the outside to indicate that it was anything but a residence, but when we were ushered into the large front room, we found it beautifully decorated with immense chrysanthemums, and glittering with silver and cut glass on a magnificently arranged table. in deference to the fact that all but our japanese friend were unaccustomed to chopsticks, forks were placed on the table as well as the little sticks that the orientals use so deftly. at each place was a beautiful lacquer tray, about twelve by eighteen inches, a pair of chopsticks, a fork and a teaspoon. before the meal was over several of us became quite expert in using the chopsticks. when we were seated in came two little japanese women, in full native costume, bearing a service of tea. the cups and saucers were of a most delicate blue and white ware, with teapot to match. our first cup was taken standing in deference to a japanese custom where all drank to the host. then followed saki in little artistic bottles and saki cups that hold not much more than a double tablespoonful. saki is the japanese wine made of rice, and is taken in liberal quantities. at each serving some one drank to some one else, then a return of the compliment was necessary. having always heard that orientals turned menus topsy-turvy we were not at all surprised when the little serving women brought to each of us two silver plates and set them on our trays. these plates contained what appeared to be cake, one seeming to be angel food with icing, and the other fruit cake with the same covering. with these came bowls of soup, served in lacquer ware, made of glutinous nests of swallows, and also a salad made of shark fins. we ate the soup and salad and found it good, and then made tentative investigation of the "cake." to our great surprise we discovered the angel food to be fish and the "icing" was shredded and pressed lobster. the "fruitcake" developed into pressed dark meat of chicken, with an icing of pressed and glazed white meat of the same fowl. following this came the second service of tea, this time in cups of a rare yellow color and beautiful design, with similar teapot. the next course was a mixture of immature vegetables, served in a sort of saute. these were sprouting beans, lentils, peas and a number of others with which we were unfamiliar. the whole was delicately flavored with a peculiar sauce. after a short wait, during which the saki bottles circulated freely, one of the women came in bearing aloft a large silver tray on which reposed a mammoth crayfish, or california lobster. this appeared to be covered with shredded cocoanut, and when it was placed before the host for serving he was at loss, for no previous experience told him what to do. it developed that the shredded mass on top was the meat of the lobster which had been removed leaving the shell-fish in perfect form. it was served cold, with a peculiar sauce. now followed the piece de resistance. a tub of water was brought in and in this was swimming a live fish, apparently of the carp family. after being on view for a few minutes it was removed and soon the handmaidens appeared with thinly sliced raw fish, served with soy sauce. ordinarily one can imagine nothing more repulsive than a dish of raw fish, but we were tempted and did eat, and found it most delicious, delicate, and with a flavor of raw oysters. next came the third service of tea, this time in a deep red ware. then came a dessert of unusual flavor and appearance, followed by preserved ginger and fruit. it must be remembered that during the meal, which lasted from seven until past midnight, saki was served constantly yet no one felt its influence in more than a sense of increased exhilaration. it is customary to let the emptied bottles remain on the table until the close of the meal, and there was a mighty showing. it was impossible to eat all that was set before us, but japanese custom forbids such a breach of etiquette as an indication that the food was not perfection, consequently the serving maids appeared bearing six carved teak boxes, and placed one at each plate. into these we arranged the food that was unconsumed, and when we went away we carried it with us. to cap the climax the japanese stripped the room of its bounteous decoration of chrysanthemums and piled them into our arms and we went home loaded with food and flowers. proprietor and all his household accompanied us to the door with many bows and gesticulations, wishing us best of luck, and we went back to our homes in the desolated city with the feeling of having been transported to fairyland of the orient. we discovered later that our japanese friend was of the family of the emperor and was here on a diplomatic mission. old and new palace one cannot well write a book on bohemian restaurants of san francisco without saying something about the great hotel whose history is so intimately intertwined with that of the city since 1873, when william c. ralston determined that the city by the golden gate should have a hotel commensurate with its importance. san francisco and the palace hotel were almost synonymous all over the world, and it was conceded by travelers that nowhere else was there a hostelry to equal this great hotel. to the bon vivant the grills of the palace hotel contained more to enhance the joy of living than anywhere else, and here the chefs prided themselves with providing the best in the land, prepared in such perfect ways as to make a meal at the palace the perfection of gastronomic art. there are three distinct eras to the history of the palace hotel, the first being from 1876 to 1890, the second from 1890 to 1906, and the third from 1906 to the present day. in the earlier days the grills, both that for gentlemen and that for ladies, were noted for their magnificent service and their wonderful cooking. a breakfast in the ladies' grill, with an omelet of california oysters, toast and coffee, was a meal long to be remembered. possibly the most famous dish of the old palace was this one of omelet with california oysters, and it was prepared in the following manner: oyster omelet (for two): take six eggs, one hundred california oysters, one small onion, one tablespoonful of butter, one tablespoonful of flour, salt and pepper to taste. beat the eggs to a froth and stir in the onion chopped fine. put the eggs into an omelet pan over a slow fire. mix the flour and butter to a soft paste with a little cream, and stir in with the oysters, adding salt and pepper to taste. when the eggs begin to stiffen pour the oysters over and turn the omelet together. serve on hot plate with a dash of paprika. this is the recipe of ernest arbogast, the chef for many years of the old palace. the slightly coppery taste of the california oysters gives a piquancy to the flavor of the omelet that can be obtained in no other way, and those who once ate of arbogast's california oyster omelet, invariably called for it again and again. we asked jules dauviller, the present chef of the palace, for the recipe of what he considered the best dish now prepared at the palace and he said he would give us two, as it was difficult to decide which was the best and most distinctive. these are the recipes as he wrote them for us: planked fillet mignon trim some select fillet mignon of beef, about four ounces of each, nicely. saute these in a frying pan with clarified butter on a hot fire. dress on a small round plank, about four and a half inches in diameter, decorated with a border of mashed potatoes. over the fillet mignon pour stuffed pimentoes, covered with a sauce made of fresh mushrooms, sauteed sec over which has been poured a little chateaubriand sauce. serve chateaubriand sauce in a bowl. the second is: cold fillet of sand-dabs, palace select six nice fresh sand-dabs. raise the fillets from the bone skin and pare nicely, and season with salt and paprika. arrange them in an earthenware dish. cut in julienne one stalk of celery, one green pepper, one cucumber, two or three tomatoes, depending on their size. with the bone of the sand-dab, well cleaned, make a stock with one bottle of riesling, juice of one lemon and seasoning. add chervil and tarragon. season to taste and cook the julienne ingredients with some of the stock. when the rest of the stock is boiling poach it in the fillets of sand-dab, then remove from the fire and let get cold. put the garnishing around the fillets and put on ice to get in jelly. when ready to serve decorate around the dish with any kind of salad you like, and with beets, capers, olives and marinated mushrooms. this must be served very cold and you may serve mayonnaise sauce on the side. we asked dauviller what he considered his most delicate salad and he gave us this recipe: palace grill salad select three hearts of celery and cut them julienne. cut some pineapple and pimentoes into dice. mix all well together in a bowl and add mayonnaise sauce and a little whipped cream. sprinkle some finely chopped green peppers on top and serve very cold. at the hotel st. francis on the morning of april 18, 1906, one of us stood in the doorway of the hotel st. francis, and watched approaching fires that came from three directions. it was but a few hours later when all that part of the city was a mass of seething flames, and in the ruins that lay in the wake of devastation was this magnificent hostelry. before business in the down-town district was reorganized, and while the work of removing the tangled masses of debris was still in progress the merchants association of san francisco called its members together in its annual banquet, and this banquet was held in the basement of the hotel st. francis, the crumbling walls, and charred and blackened timbers hidden under a mass of bunting and foliage and flowers. here was emphasized the spirit of bohemian san francisco, and it was one of the most merry and enjoyable of feasts ever held in the city. it was made possible by the fact that the management of the hotel st. francis was undaunted in the face of almost overwhelming disaster. the same spirit has carried the hotel through stress of storm and it stands now, almost as a monument to the energy of james woods, its manager. there has always been a soft spot in our hearts for the hotel st. francis, and it is here that we have always felt a most pleasurable emotion when seeking a place where good things are served. whether it be in the magnificent white and gold dining room, or the old tapestry room that has been remodeled into a dining room, or in the electric grill below stairs, it has always been the same. we asked chef victor hertzler what he considered his best recipe and his answer was characteristic of him. "i shall give you sole edward vii. if this is not satisfactory i can give you a meat, or a salad or a soup recipe." we considered it satisfactory, and here it is: sole edward vii cut the fillets out of one sole and lay them flat on a buttered pan, and season with salt and pepper. make the following mixture and spread over each fillet of sole: take one-half pound of sweet butter, three ounces of chopped salted almonds, one-fourth pound of chopped fresh mushrooms, a little chopped parsley, the juice of a lemon, salt, pepper and a little grated nutmeg. add to the pan one-half glassful of white wine and put in the oven for twenty minutes. when done serve in the pan by placing it on a platter, with a napkin under it. hertzler has another recipe which he prizes greatly and which he calls "celery victor," and this is the recipe which he gave us: celery victor take six stalks of celery well washed. make a stock of one soup hen or chicken bones, and five pounds of veal bones in the usual manner, with carrots, onions, parsley, bay leaves, salt and pepper. place the celery in a vessel and strain the broth over it. boil until soft and let cool off in its own broth. when cold press the broth out of the celery with the hand, gently, and place on a plate. season with salt, fresh ground black pepper, chervil, and one-quarter white wine vinegar with tarragon to three-quarters of best olive oil. amid bright lights streets centering around powell from market up to geary, may well be termed the "great white way" of san francisco, if new york will permit the plagiarism. here are congregated the most noted of the lively restaurants of the present day san francisco. here the streets are ablaze with light at night, and thronged with people, for here is the restaurant and theatre district proper of the city. among the restaurants deserving of special mention in this district are the two solaris. when solari opened his restaurant at 354 geary street, where he continues to attract good livers by the excellence of his cooking, he at once achieved fame which has never waned. it so happened that there were two brothers, and as sometimes occurs brothers disagreed with the result that fred solari withdrew and opened a restaurant at geary and mason, just a short distance from the original place. evidently the recipe for what is considered best in both of the solari restaurants came from common ownership, for each of these places gave in response to a request for its best recipe, the following: chicken country style cut a chicken in eight pieces and drop them into some cold milk, seasoning with salt. after soaking for a few minutes dry the chicken in flour and lay in a frying pan in good butter. place in the oven and let them cook slowly, turning them occasionally until they are nice and brown on all sides, when remove them. in the gravy put a tumblerful of cream and a pinch of paprika, mix well and let it cook for ten minutes, until it gets thick, then strain and pour over the chicken and serve. the following "don'ts" are added to the recipe: don't use frozen poultry. don't substitute corn starch and milk for cream. around little italy san francisco holds no more interesting district than that lying around the base of telegraph hill, and extending over toward north beach, even as far as fisherman's wharf. here is the part of san francisco that first felt the restoration impulse, and this was the first part of san francisco rebuilt after the great fire, and in its rebuilding it recovered all of its former characteristics, which is more than can be said of any other part of the rebuilt city. here, extending north from jackson street to the bay, are congregated italians, french, portuguese and mexicans, each in a distinct colony, and each maintaining the life, manners and customs, and in some instances the costumes, of the parent countries, as fully as if they were in their native lands. here are stores, markets, fish and vegetable stalls, bakeries, paste factories, sausage factories, cheese factories, wine presses, tortilla bakeries, hotels, pensions, and restaurants; each distinctive and full of foreign life and animation, and each breathing an atmosphere characteristic of the country from which the parent stock came. walk along the streets on the side of telegraph hill and one can well imagine himself transported to a sunny hillside in italy, for here he hears no other language than that which came from the shores of the mediterranean. here are italians of all ages, sexes and conditions of servitude, from the padrone to the bootblack who works for a pittance until he obtains enough to start himself in business. if one investigate closely it will be found that many of the people of this part of san francisco have been here for years and still understand no other language than that of their native home. why should they learn anything else, they say. everybody around them, and with whom they come in contact speaks italian. here are the corsicans, with their peculiar ideas of the vendetta and the cheapness of life in general, and the sicilians and genoese and milanese. here are some from the slopes of vesuvius or aetna, with inborn knowledge of the grape and of wine making. all have brought with them recipes and traditions, some dating back for hundreds of years, or even thousands, to the days before the christian era was born. it is just the same to them as it was across the ocean, for they hear the same dialect and have the same customs. do they desire any special delicacy from their home district, they need but go to the nearest italian grocery store and get it, for these stores are supplied direct from genoa or naples. this is the reason that many of the older men and women still speak the soft dialect of their native communities, and if you are so unfortunate as not to be able to understand them, then it is you who are the loser. do you wish to know something about conditions in mexico? would you like to learn what the mexicans themselves really think about affairs down in that disturbed republic? go along broadway west of grant avenue, and then around the corner on stockton, and you will see strange signs, and perhaps you will not know that "fonda" means restaurant, or that "tienda," means a store. but these are the signs you will see, and when you go inside you will hear nothing but the gentle spanish of the mexican, so toned down and so changed that some of the castilians profess to be unable to understand it. here you will find all the articles of household use that are to be found in the heart of mexico, and that have been used for hundreds of years despite the progress of civilization in other countries. you will find all the strange foods and all the inconsequentials that go to make the sum of mexican happiness, and if you can get sufficiently close in acquaintance you will find that not only will they talk freely to you, but they will tell you things about mexico that not even the heads of the departments in washington are aware of. perhaps you would like to know something about the bourgeoise french, those who have come from the peasant district of the mother country. go a little further up broadway and you will begin to see the signs changing from spanish to french, and if you can understand them you will know that here you will be given a dinner for twenty-five cents on week days and for thirty-five cents on sundays. the difference is brought about by the difference between the price of cheap beef or mutton and the dearer chicken. up in the second story on a large building you may see a sign that tells you meals will be served and rooms provided. one of these is the rendezvous of anarchists, who gather each evening and discuss the affairs of the world, and how to regulate them. but they are harmless anarchists in san francisco, for here they have no wrongs to redress, so they sit and drink their forbidden absinthe, and dream their dreams of fire and sword, while they talk in whispers of what they are going to do to the crowned heads of europe. it is their dream and we have no quarrel with it or them. but for real interest one must get back to the slope of telegraph hill; to the streets running up from columbus avenue, until they are so steep that only goats and babies can play on them with safety. at least we suppose the babies are as active as the goats for the sides of the hill are alive with them. let us walk first along grant avenue and do a little window shopping. just before you turn off broadway into grant avenue, after passing the fior d'italia, the buon gusto, the dante and il trovatore restaurants, we come to a most interesting window where is displayed such a variety of sausages as to make one wonder at the inventive genius who thought of them all. as you wonder you peep timidly in the door and then walk in from sheer amazement. you now find yourself surrounded with sausages, from floor to ceiling, and from side wall to side wall on both ceiling and floor, and such sausage it is! from strings so thin as to appear about the size of a lady's little finger, to individual sausages as large as the thigh of a giant, they hang in festoons, crawl over beams, lie along shelves, decorate counters, peep from boxes on the floor, and invite you to taste them in the slices that lay on the butcher's block. one can well imagine being in a cave of flesh, yet if you look closely you will discover that sausage is but a part of the strange edible things to be had here. here are cheeses in wonderful variety. cheeses from italy that are made from goats' milk, asses' milk, cows' milk and mares' milk, and also cheeses from spain, mexico, germany, switzerland, and all the other countries where they make cheese, even including the united states. these cheeses are of all sizes and all shapes, from the great, round, flat cheese that we are accustomed to see in country grocery stores, to the queer-shaped caciocavallo, which looks like an indian club and is eaten with fruit. there are dried vegetables and dried fruits such as were never dreamed of in your limited experience, and even the grocer himself, the smiling and cosmopolitan verga, confesses that he does not know the names of all of them. as you go out into the street you blink at the transformation, for you have been thousands of miles away. you think that surely there can be nothing more. wait a bit. turn the corner and walk along grant avenue toward the hill. see, here is a window full of bread. look closely at it and you will notice that it is not like the bread you are accustomed to. count the different kinds. fourteen of them in all, from the long sticks of grissini to the great slid loaves weighing many pounds. light bread, heavy bread, good bread, soft bread, hard bread, delicate bread, each having its especial use, and all satisfying to different appetites. now go a little further to the corner, cross the street and enter the store of the costa brothers. it is a big grocery store and while you will not find the sausage and mystifying mass of food products in such lavish display and profuseness, as in the previous place, if you look around you will find this even more interesting, for it is on a different plane. here you find the delicacies and the niceties of italian living. at first glance it looks as if you were in any one of the american grocery stores of down-town, but a closer examination reveals the fact that these canned goods and these boxes and jars, hold peculiar foods that you are unaccustomed to. perhaps you will find a clerk who can speak good english, but if you cannot either of the costa brothers will be glad to show you the courtesy of answering your questions. turn around and look at the shelves filled with bottles of wine. now you feel that you are on safe ground, for you know about wines and can talk about cresta blanca, and mont rouge, and asti colony tipo chianti. but wait a minute. here are labels that you do not understand and wines that you never even heard of. here are wines whose taste is so delicious that you wonder why it is the whole world is not talking about it and drinking it. here are wines from the slopes of aetna, sparkling and sweet. here are wines from grapes grown on the warm slopes of vesuvius, and brought to early perfection by the underground fires. here are wines from the colder slopes of mountains; wines from parma and from sicily and palermo where the warm italian sunshine has been the arch-chemist to bring perfection to the fruit of the vine. here are still wines and those that sparkle. here the famed lacrima christi, both spumanti and fresco, said to be the finest wine made in all italy, and the spumanti have the unusual quality for an italian wine of being dry. but to tell you of all the interesting articles to be found in these italian, and french and mexican stores, would be impossible, for some of them have not been translated into english, and even the storekeepers would be at a loss for words to explain them. this is all a part of the bohemianism of san francisco, and that is why we are telling you about it in a book that is supposed to be devoted to the bohemian restaurants. the fact is that san francisco's bohemian restaurants would be far less interesting were it not for the fact that they can secure the delicacies imported by these foreign storekeepers to supply the wants of their people. but do not think you have exhausted the wonders of little italy when you have left the stores, for there is still more to see. if you were ever in palermo and went into the little side streets, you saw the strings of macaroni, spaghetti and other pastes drying in the sun while children and dogs played through and around it, giving you such a distaste for it that you have not eaten any italian paste since. but in san francisco they do things differently. there are a number of paste factories, all good and all clean. take that of p. fiorini, for instance, at a point a short distance above costa brothers. you cannot miss it for it has a picture of fiorini himself as a sign, and on it he tells you that if you eat his paste you will get to be as fat as he is. go inside and you will find that fiorini can talk just enough english to make himself understood, while his good wife, his sole assistant, can neither speak nor understand any but her native italian. but that does not bother her in the least, for she can make signs, and you can understand them even better than you understand the english of her husband. here you will see the making of raviolis by the hundred at a time. tagliarini, tortilini, macaroni, spaghetti, capellini, percatelli, tagliatelli, and all the seventy and two other varieties. the number of kinds of paste is most astonishing, and one wonders why there are so many kinds and what is done with them. fiorini will tell you that each kind has its distinctive use. some are for soups, some for sauces, and all for special edibility. there are hundreds of recipes for cooking the various pastes and each one is said to be a little better than the others, if you can imagine such a thing. turn another corner after leaving fiorini's and look down into a basement. you do not have to go to the country to see wine making. here is one of the primitive wine presses of italy, and if you want to know why some irreverent people call the red wine of the italians "chateau la feet," you have but to watch the process of its making in these telegraph hill wine houses. the grapes are poured into a big tub and a burly man takes off his shoes and socks and emulates the oxen of biblical times when it treaded out the grain. of course he washes his feet before he gets into the wine tub. but, at that, it is not a pleasant thing to contemplate. now you look around with wider and more comprehensive eyes, and now you begin to understand something about these strange foreign quarters in san francisco. as you look around you note another thing. italian fecundity is apparent everywhere, and the farther up the steep slope of the hill you go the more children you see. they are everywhere, and of all sizes and ages, in such reckless profusion that you no longer wonder if the world is to be depopulated through the coming of the fad of eugenics. the italian mother has but two thoughts--her god and her children, and it is to care for her children that she has brought from her native land the knowledge of cookery, and of those things that help to put life and strength in their bodies. an italian girl said to us one day: "mama knows nothing but cooking and going to church. she cooks from daylight until dark, and stops cooking only when she is at church." it was evident that her domestic and religious duties dominated her life, and she knew but two things--to please her god and to care for her family, and without question if occasion demanded the pleasure of her family took precedence. san francisco's latin quarter is appealing, enticing and hypnotizing. go there and you will learn why san francisco is a bohemian city. you will find out that so many things you have thought important are really not at all worth while. go there and you will find the root of bohemian restaurants. these people have studied gastronomy as a science, and they have imparted their knowledge to san francisco, with the result that the bohemian spirit enters into our very lives, and our minds are broadened, and our views of life and our ideas have a wider scope. it is because of this condition, born on the slopes of telegraph hill, that we are drawn out of depressing influences, out of the spirit of self-consciousness, and find a world of pleasure, innocent and educational, the inspiration for which has been handed down through generations of latina since the days of early roman empire, which inspiration is still a power for good because it takes people out of themselves and places them where they can look with understanding and speak the language of perception. little italy's charm has long been recognized by artists and writers, and many of them began their careers which led to fame and fortune in little cheap rooms on telegraph hill. here have lived many whose names are now known to fame, and to name them would be almost like a directory of world renowned artists and writers. here is still the memory of bret harte and mark twain. here is where keith had his early studio. cadenasso, martinez, and many others know these slopes and love them. to all these and many more the latin quarter of san francisco possessed a charm they could find nowhere else, and if one desire to bring a saddened look to the faces of many now living elsewhere it is but necessary to talk of the good old days when bohemia was on telegraph hill in san francisco. here they had their domicile, and here they foregathered in the little restaurants, whose claims to merit lay chiefly in the fact that they were rarely visited by other than the italians of the quarter and these bohemians who lived there. here was the inspiration of many a good book and many a famous picture whose inception came from thoughts that crystallized amid these surroundings, and here many a needy bohemian struggled through the lean days with the help of these kind-hearted latina. here they, even as we, were taught something of the art of cooking. of course, if one desire to learn various methods of preparing food, it is necessary to keep both eyes open and to ask many questions, seeking the information that sometimes comes from unlooked for sources. even at that it is not always a good idea to take everything for granted or to accept every suggestion, for you may meet with the italian vegetable dealer who is so eager to please his customers that he pretends a knowledge he does not possess. we discovered him one day when he had on display a vegetable that was strange to us. "how do you cook it?" was our question. "fry it." then his partner shouted his laughter and derision. "oh, he's one fine cook. all the time he say 'fry it.' one day a lady she come into da store an' she see da big bucket of ripe olives. da lady she from the east and she never see olives like dat before. 'how you cook it?' say da lady. 'fry it,' say my partner. everything he say fry it." in another vegetable stand we found an italian girl, whose soft lisping accent pronounced her a genoese, and she, diffidently suggested "a fine italian dessert." a fine desert "you take macaroons and strawberries. put a layer of macaroons in a dish and then a layer of strawberries, cover these with sugar, and then another layer of macaroons and strawberries and sugar until you have all you want. over these pour some rum and set fire to it. after it is burned out you have a fine dessert." we bought the macaroons and strawberries on the way home and did not even wait for dinner time to try it. we pronounce it good. it was made the right way and we advise you to try it, for it is simple and leaves a most delicious memory. where fish come in it was very early one morning. so early that one of us strenuously pretended sleep while the other gave urgent reminder that this was the day we were to go to fishermen's wharf. daylight came early and it was just four o'clock when we began preparations. a cup of hot coffee while dressing served to get us wide-awake, and we were off to see the fish come in. fishermen's wharf lies over at north beach, at the end of meiggs's wharf, where the customs officers have their station, and to reach it one takes either the powell and north beach cars, or the kearny and north beach cars, and at the end of either walks two blocks. when you get that far anybody you see can tell you where to go. fog mist was stealing along the marin shore, and hiding golden gate when we arrived, and the rays of the sun took some time to make a clear path out to sea. out of the bank of white came gliding the heavy power boats of the sicilian and corsican fishermen, while from off shore were the ghostly lateen rigged boats of those who had been fishing up the sacramento and san joaquin rivers, their yards aslant to catch the faint morning breeze. as they slipped through the leaden water to their mooring at the wharf we could see the decks and holds piled with fish and crabs. roosting on piles, and lining the water's edge on everything that served to give foothold, were countless seagulls, all waiting for the breakfast they knew was coming from the discarded fish, and fit companions were the women with shawls over their heads irreverently called mud hens, and old men in dilapidated clothing, who sat along the stringers of the wharf, some with baskets, some with buckets and others with little paper bags, in which to put the fish which they could get so cheaply it meant a meal for them when otherwise they would have to go without. the earlier boats were moored and on the decks fires were burning in charcoal braziers, on which the fishermen cooked their breakfasts of fish and coffee, with the heavy black loaves of bread for which they seem to have special fancy. as the odor of the cooking fish came up from the water the waiting gulls and men and women moved a little closer. breakfast over the fishermen turned to the expectant crowd and began taking notice of the pitiful offerings of coin. tin buckets, newspapers, bags, rags and even scooped hands were held down, each containing such coin as the owner possessed, and in return came bountiful supply of fish. a fine, fat crab for which your market man would charge you forty cents was sold for ten. beautiful, fresh sand-dabs, but an hour or two out of the water, were five cents a pound, while sea bass, fresh cod, mackerel, and similar fish went at the same price. small fish, or white bait, went by quantity, ten cents securing about half a gallon. smelt, herring, flounder, sole, all went at equally low prices, and as each buyer secured his allotment he went hurrying off through the mist, as silently as the floating gulls. when these were all supplied the rest of the fish and crabs were taken up to the wharf and put on the counters of the free market, where they were sold at prices most tempting. shrimps, alive and active, crayfish, clams, squid and similar sea food was in profusion and sold at prices on a parity with that of the fish. as the day wore on the early buyers were replaced by those who knew of the free fish market and came to get good supplies for their money. here were boarding-house keepers, unmistakable anywhere, bohemians in hard luck who remembered that they could get good food here at a minimum of price, and came now while on the down turn of the wheel. as a human interest study it was better than a study of fish. fishermen's wharf is where the independent fishermen bring their catches to san francisco, but it is not where the city's great supply comes in. to see that we had to go along the docks until we came to the broadway wharf where paladini, the head of the fish trust, unloads his tugs of their tons and tons of fish. it is not nearly so interesting to look at, but it gives a good idea of what comes out of the sea every day to supply the needs of san francisco and the surrounding country. these tugs bring in the catches of dozens of smaller boats manned by fishermen who are toiling out beyond the heads, and up the two great rivers. from far out around the farallones, from up around the potato patch with its mournful fog bell constantly tolling, from down the coast as far as monterey bay where fish are in such abundance that it is said they have to give a signal when they want to turn around, from up the rivers, come fish to the man who has grown from the owner of a small sail boat to be the power who controls prices of all the fish that go to the markets of the city. by the time we finished with paladini's fish we felt ready for breakfast and took a car down to davis and pacific street where we found bazzuro's serving breakfast to dozens of market gardeners who had finished their unloading, and there, while partaking of the fresh fish we had brought from fishermen's wharf, we saw another phase of san francisco's early morning life. here were gardeners who came in the darkness of early morning to supply hucksters, small traders and a few thrifty people who knew of the cheapness, and in columbo market they drove their great wagons and discharged their day's gathering of vegetables of all kinds. but a few steps away is the great fruit market of the early morning and here tons of the finest fruits are distributed to the hundreds of wagons that crowd the street to such an extent that it takes all the ingenuity of experienced policemen to keep clearway for traffic. threading their way in and out between the wheels and the heels of horses, were men and women, all looking for bargains in food. amid a din almost deafening business was transacted with such celerity that in three hours the streets were cleared, fruits and vegetables sold and on their way to distant stands, and the tired policemen leaning against friendly walls, recuperating after the strenuous work of keeping order in chaos. it is when one goes to these places in the morning and sees the cheapness of these foods that he can understand in a small way why it is that so many italian restaurants can give such good meals for so little money. one wonders at a table d'hote dinner of six or seven courses for twenty-five cents, or even for half a dollar, and one accustomed to buying meats, fish, vegetables and fruits at the exorbitant prices charged at most of the markets and fruit and vegetable stands now sees why the thrifty foreigner can make and save money while the average american can hardly keep more than two jumps ahead of the sheriff. fish in their variety probably the most frequent question asked us by those who come to san francisco is: "where can we get the best fish?" with san francisco's wonderful natural advantages as a fish market one is sometimes surprised that more attention is not given to preparing fish as a specialty. but one restaurant in the city deals exclusively with sea food, and even there one is astonished at an overlooked opportunity. darbee & immel have catered to san francisco in oysters for many years and after the fire they opened the shell fish grotto, in o'farrell street, between powell and mason streets, and this is one of the very few distinctive fish restaurants of the country. it is when one considers the possibilities that a shock comes from the environing decorations. white and gold pillars, with twining ivy reaching to the old gold and rose mural and ceiling embellishments seem out of place in a restaurant that is devoted entirely to catering to lovers of fish. nothing in the place indicates its character except the big lobster in front of the building. not even so much as a picture to bring a sentiment of the ocean to the mind. we are going to take a liberty, and possibly darbee & immel may call it an impertinence, and give them a bit of advice. it costs them nothing consequently they can act on it or not and it will make no difference. this is our suggestion: change the interior of the place entirely by having around the walls a series of large glass aquaria, with as many different kinds of fish swimming about as it is possible to get; something on the order of the interior of the aquarium in battery park in new york. paint the ceiling to represent the surface of the water as seen from below. have seaweed and kelp in place of ivy, and a fish net or two caught up in the corners of the room, with here and there a starfish or a crab--not too many, for profuseness in this sort of decoration is an abomination. then you will have a restaurant that will be talked about wherever people sit at meat. but to get back to our talk about fish, and where to get it prepared and cooked the best. we must say that the finest fish we have eaten in san francisco was not in the high-priced restaurants at all, but in a little, dingy back room, down at fishermen's wharf, where there was sand on the floor and all the sounds of the kitchen were audible in the dining room. the place was patronized almost solely by the italian fishermen who not only know how to catch a fish but how it ought to be cooked. one may always rest assured that when he gets a fish in one of the italian restaurants it is perfectly fresh, for there are two things that an italian demands in eating, and they are fresh fish and fresh vegetables. at the gianduja at union and stockton streets, one is certain to get fish cooked well and that it is perfectly fresh. the variety is not so good as at the shell fish grotto, but otherwise it is just as good in every respect. at the grotto there is a wonderful variety but the quantity is at the minimum because there, too, they will have no fish that has been twenty-four hours out of the water. one wonders how a full course dinner entirely of fish can be prepared, but if you will go to the shell fish grotto you will find that it is done, and done well at that. here you can get a good dinner for one dollar, or if you prefer it they have a fish dinner de luxe for which they charge two dollars. both are good, the latter having additional wines and delicacies. down in washington street, just off columbus avenue, is the vesuvius, an italian restaurant of low price, but excellent cooking. a specialty there is fish which is always brought fresh from the nearby clay street market as ordered, consequently is perfect. when you give your order a messenger is dispatched to the market and usually he brings the fish alive and the chef prepares it in one of his many ways, for he is said to have more secrets about the cooking of fish than one would think it possible for one brain to contain. the trouble about this restaurant is that the rest of the menu does not come up to the fish standard, but if you desire a simple luncheon of fish there is no better place to get it. there are three things in which an easterner will be disappointed in san francisco, and these are oysters. pacific coast oysters fail in size, flavor and cooking, when compared with the luscious bivalve of the atlantic, so far as the ordinary forms of preparation is concerned. even fancy dishes, such as oysters kirkpatrick, would be better if made of the eastern oyster, not what they call the eastern oyster here, for that is a misnomer, but the oysters that grow in the atlantic ocean. of the pacific oysters the best is the toke point, that comes from oregon. they are similar in size to the blue point, but lack the flavor. when, in a san francisco restaurant, you are asked what sort of oyster you will have, and you see the familiar names on the menu card, remember that these are transplanted oysters, and have lost much of their flavor in the transplanting, or else they are oysters that have been shipped across the continent and have thereby lost their freshness. the california oyster proper, is very small, and it has a peculiar coppery taste, which bon vivants declare adds to its piquancy. instead of ordering these by the dozen you order them by the hundred, it being no difficult task to eat an hundred at a meal, especially when prepared in a pepper roast. everyone knows the staple ways of preparing oysters, and every chef looks upon the oyster as the source of new flavors in many dishes, but to our mind the best way we have found in san francisco was at a little restaurant down in washington street before the fire. it was the buon gusto, where they served fish and oysters better than anything else because the owners were the chefs, and they were from the island of catalan, off the coast of italy. their specialty was called "oysters a la catalan," and their recipe, which is given, can be prepared excellently in a chafing dish: oysters a la catalan take one tablespoonful of butter, two teaspoonfuls grated edam or parmesan cheese, four tablespoonfuls catsup, one-half teaspoonful worcestershire sauce, two tablespoonfuls cream, meat of one good-sized crab cut fine and two dozen oysters. put the cheese and butter into a double boiler and when melted smooth add the catsup and worcestershire sauce. mix well and add the cream and then the crab meat. when creamy and boiling hot drop in the oysters. as soon as the oysters are crinkled serve on hot buttered toast on hot plates. in the days before the fire when you went to a restaurant and ordered fish or oysters the waiter invariably put before you either a plate of crab salad or a dish of shrimps, with which you were supposed to amuse yourself while the meal was being prepared. shrimps and crabs were then so plentiful that their price was never considered. under our new conditions these always appear on the bill when ordered, and if they be not ordered they do not appear for they now are made to increase the income. to the uninitiated visitor the shrimps so served were always something of a mystery, and after a few futile efforts to get at the meat they generally gave it up as too much work for the little good derived. the old timer, however, cracked the shrimp's neck, pinched its tail, and out popped a delicious bonne bouche which added to the joy of the meal and increased the appetite. but there are many other ways of serving shrimps, and they are also much used to give flavor to certain fish sauces. one of the most delicious ways of preparing shrimp is what is known as "shrimp creole, a la antoine," so named after the famous new orleans antoine by a chef in san francisco who had regard for the new orleans caterer. we doubt if it can be had anywhere in san francisco now unless you are well enough known to have it prepared according to the recipe. this recipe, by the way, is a good one to use in a chafing dish supper. this is the way it was prepared at the old pup restaurant, one of the noted restaurants before the fire and earthquake changed conditions: shrimp creole take three pints of unshelled shrimps and shell them, one-half pint of cream, two tablespoonfuls of butter, two tablespoonfuls of flour, two tablespoonfuls of catsup, one wine glass of sherry, paprika, chili powder and parsley. brown the flour in the butter and add the milk until it is thickened. color with the catsup and season with paprika and chili powder. stir in the sherry and make a pink cream which is to be mixed through the shrimps and not cooked. sprinkle with chopped parsley and serve with squares of toast or crackers. lobsters and lobsters when is a lobster not a lobster? when it is a crayfish. this question and answer might well go into the primer of information for those who come to san francisco from the east, for what is called a lobster in san francisco is not a lobster at all but a crayfish. the true lobster is not found in the pacific along the california coast, and so far efforts at transplanting have not been successful. the pacific crayfish, however, serves every purpose, and while many contend that its meat is not so delicate in flavor as that of its eastern cousin, the californian will as strenuously insist that it is better, but, of course, something must always be allowed for the patriotism of the californian. lobster, served cold with mayonnaise, or broiled live lobster are most frequently called for, and while they are both excellent, we find so many other ways of preparing this crustacean that we rarely take the common variety of lobster dishes into consideration. probably nowhere in san francisco could one get lobster better served than in the old delmonico restaurant of the days before the fire. a book could be written about this restaurant and then all would not be told for all its secrets can never be known. in new york city they have what they are pleased to call "lobster palaces," but there is not a restaurant in that great metropolis that could approach the delmonico of san francisco in its splendid service and its cuisine arrangements; neither could they approach the romance that always surrounded the o'farrell street restaurant. it was here that most magnificent dinners were arranged; it was here that extraordinary dishes were concocted by chefs of world-wide fame; it was here that lobster a la newberg reached its highest perfection, and this is the recipe that was followed when it was prepared in the delmonico: lobster a la newberg one pound of lobster meat, one teaspoonful of butter, one-half pint of cream, yolks of four eggs, one wine glass of sherry, lobster fat. three hours before cooking pour the sherry over the lobster meat and let it stand until ready to cook. heat the butter and stir in with the lobster and wine, then place this in a stewpan, or chafing dish, and cook for eight minutes. have the yolks of eggs well beaten and add to them the cream and lobster fat, stir well and then stir in a teaspoonful of flour. put this in a double boiler and let cook until thick, stirring constantly. when this is cooked pour it over the lobster and let all cook together for three minutes. serve in a chafing dish with thin slices of dry toast. king of shell fish one has to come to san francisco to partake of the king of shell fish--the mammoth pacific crab. i say "come to san francisco" advisedly, for while the crab is found all along the coast it is prepared nowhere so deliciously as in san francisco. of course our friends in portland will take exception to this, but the fact remains that nowhere except in san francisco have so many restaurants become famous because of the way they prepare the crab. the pacific crab is peculiar, and while it has not the gigantic claws such as are to be seen on those in the parisian and london markets, its meat is much more delicate in flavor, and the dishes of crab prepared by artists of the gastronomic profession in san francisco are more savory than those found elsewhere. in the pre-fire days there were many places which paid especial attention to the cooking of the crab, among them being the cobweb palace, previously mentioned, and gobey's. gobey ran one of those places which was not in good repute, consequently when ladies went there they were usually veiled and slipped in through an alley, but the enticement of gobey's crab stew was too much for conventionality and his little private rooms were always full. gobey's passed with the fire, and the little restaurant bearing his name, and in charge of his widow, in union square avenue, has not attained the fame of the old place. it is possible that she knows the secret of preparing crab as it was prepared in the gobey's of before the fire, but his prestige did not descend to her. almost all of the italian restaurants will give you crab in many forms, and all of them are good; many restaurants use crab meat for flavoring other, dishes, but of all the recipes for cooking crab we have found none that we consider so good as that of gobey's. it is as follows: gobey's crab stew take the meat of one large crab, scraping out all of the fat from the shell. one good-sized onion, one tomato, one sweet pepper, one teaspoonful of butter, one teaspoonful of flour, half a glass of sherry, a pinch of rosemary, one clove of garlic, paprika, salt and minionette pepper. soak the crab meat in the sherry two hours before cooking. chop fine the onion, sweet pepper and tomato with the rosemary. mash the clove of garlic, rubbing thoroughly in a mortar and on this put the butter and flour, mixing well together, and gradually adding the salt and minionette pepper, and stir in two tablespoonfuls of cream. heat this in a stewpan and when simmering add the sherry and crab meat and let all cook together with a slow fire for eight minutes. serve in a chafing dish with toasted crackers or thin slices of toasted bread. a dash of worcestershire sauce just before it is taken up adds to the flavor. lobster in miniature crawfish, or ecravisse, has never been very popular in san francisco, probably because there are so many other delicate crustaceans that are more easily handled, yet the crawfish grows to perfection in pacific waters, and importation's of them from portland, oregon, are becoming quite an industry. so far it has been used mostly for garnishment of other dishes, and it is only recently that the hof brau has been making a specialty of them. all of the better class restaurants, however, will serve them if you order them. the full flavor of the crawfish is best obtained in a bisque, and the best recipe for this is by the famous chef francatelli, who boasts having been the head of the cuisine of queen victoria. his recipe is long, and its preparation requires much patience, but the result is such a gastronomic marvel that one never regrets the time spent in its accomplishment. this is the recipe for eight people, and it is well worth trying if you are giving a dinner of importance: bisque of crawfish take thirty crawfish, from which remove the gut containing the gall in the following manner: take firm hold of the crawfish with the left hand so as to avoid being pinched by its claws; with the thumb and forefinger of the right hand pinch the extreme end of the central fin of the tail, and, with a sudden jerk, the gut will be withdrawn. mince or cut into small dice a carrot, an onion, one head of celery and a few parsley roots, and to these add a bay leaf, a sprig of thyme, a little minionette pepper and two ounces of butter. put these ingredients into a stewpan and fry them ten minutes, then throw in the crawfish and pour on them half a bottle of french white wine. allow this to boil and then add a quart of strong consomme and let all continue boiling for half an hour. pick out the crawfish and strain the broth through a napkin by pressure into a basin in order to extract all the essence from the vegetables. pick the shells off twenty-five of the crawfish tails, trim them neatly and set them aside until wanted. reserve some of the spawn, also half of the body shells with which to make the crawfish butter to finish the soup. this butter is made as follows: place the shells on a baking sheet in the oven to dry; let the shells cool and then pound them in a mortar with a little lobster coral and four ounces of fresh butter, thoroughly bruising the whole together so as to make a fine paste. put this in a stewpan and set it over a slow fire to simmer for about five minutes, then rub it through a sieve with considerable pressure into a basin containing ice water. as soon as the colored crawfish butter is become firmly set, through the coldness of the water, take it out and put it into a small basin and set in the refrigerator until wanted. reverting to the original recipe: take the remainder of the crawfish and add thereto three anchovies, washed for the purpose, and also the crusts of french rolls, fried to a light brown color in butter. pound all these thoroughly together and then put them into a stewpan with the broth that has been reserved in a basin, and having warmed the bisque thus prepared rub it through a sieve into a fine puree. put this puree into a soup pot and finish by incorporating therewith the crawfish butter and season with a little cayenne pepper and the juice of half a lemon. pour the bisque quite hot into the tureen in which have been placed the crawfish tails, and send to the table. this is not so difficult as it appears when you are reading it and if you wish to have something extra fine take the necessary time and patience and prepare it. clams and abalone's we cannot dispose of the shell fish of san francisco without a word or two about clams, for certainly there is no place where they are in greater variety and better flavor. in fact the clam is the only bivalve of this part of the coast that has a distinctive and good flavor. several varieties are to be found in the markets, the best and rarest being the little rock clams that come from around drake's bay, just above the entrance to golden gate. these are most delicious in flavor and should never be eaten otherwise than raw. the sand, or hard shell, or as they are sometimes called little necks, are next in choiceness, and then come the pismo beach clams, noted for their flavor and enormous size. the mud clam is good for chowder but not so good as either of the other varieties mentioned. the bohemian way to have your clams is to go to the shore of bolinas bay or some other equally retired spot, and have a clam bake, or else take a pot along with the other ingredients and have a good clam chowder. this, however, may be prepared at any time and is always a good meal. clam fritters when prepared according to the recipe given herein, is one of the best methods of preparing the clam, and it has the peculiarity of being so tasty that one feels that there is never enough cooked. of all the ways of cooking clams chowder takes precedence as a rule, and it is good when made properly. by that we do not mean the thin, watery stuff that is served in most of the restaurants and called clam chowder just because it happens to be made every friday. that is fairly good as a clam soup but it is no more chowder than a mexican soup approaches a crawfish bisque. there is but one right way to make clam chowder, and that is either to make it yourself or closely superintend the making, and this is the way to make it: clam chowder take one quart of shelled sand clams, two large potatoes, two large onions, one clove of garlic, one sweet pepper, one thick slice of salt pork, one-half pound small oyster crackers, one-half glass sherry, one tablespoonful worcestershire sauce, one tomato, salt, and pepper. in a large stewpan place the salt pork cut into small dice, and let this fry slightly over a slow fire until the bottom of the stewpan is well greased. take this off the fire and put in a layer of potatoes sliced thin, on top of the salt pork, then a layer of onions sliced thin, and a layer of clams. put on this salt and pepper and sprinkle with a little flour and then a layer of crackers. chop the sweet pepper and tomato fine and mix with them the bruised and mashed garlic. on top of each succession of layers put a little of the mixture. continue making these layers until all the ingredients are placed in the stewpan, and then pour on the top sufficient water to just show. cover tightly and let cook gently for half an hour. pour on the worcestershire sauce and sherry just before serving. do not stir this while cooking, and in order to prevent its burning it should be cooked over an asbestos cover. when done this should be thick enough to be eaten with a fork. among the good bohemians who lived in san francisco as a child when it was in the post-pioneer days, and who has enjoyed the good things of all the famous restaurants is mrs. emma sterett, who has given us the following recipe for clam fritters which we consider the most delicious of all we have ever eaten, and when you try them you will agree with us: clam fritters take two dozen clams, washed thoroughly and drained. put in chopping bowl and chop, not too fine. add to these one clove of garlic mashed, one medium-sized onion chopped fine, add bread crumbs sufficient to stiffen the mass, chopped parsley, celery and herbs to taste. beat two eggs separately and add to the clams. if too stiff to drop from a spoon add the strained liquor of clams. drop tablespoonfuls of this mixture into hot fat, turn and cook for sufficient time to cook through, then drain on brown paper and serve. abalone's are a univalve that has been much in vogue among the chinese but has seldom found place on the tables of restaurants owing to the difficulty in preparing them, as they are tough and insipid under ordinary circumstances. when made tender either by the chinese method of pounding, or by steeping in vinegar, they serve the purpose of clams but have not the fine flavor. the hof brau restaurant is now making a specialty of abalone's, but it takes sentiment to say that one really finds anything extra good in them. another shell fish much in vogue among the italian restaurants is mussels, which are found to perfection along the coast. these are usually served bordelaise, and make quite a pleasant change when one is surfeited with other shell fish, but the best recipe is: mussels mariniere thoroughly clean the mussels and then put them in a deep pan and pour over them half a glass of white wine. chop an onion, a clove of garlic and some parsley fine and put in the pan, together with a tablespoonful of butter. let these boil very quick for twelve minutes, keeping the pan tightly covered. take off half shells and place the mussels in a chafing dish and pour over them bechamel sauce and then add sufficient milk gravy to cover. serve hot from chafing dish. where fish abound according to david starr jordan, acknowledged world authority on fish, there is greater variety of fish in monterey bay than anywhere else in the world. monterey bay is one of san francisco's sources of supply consequently we have a greater variety of fish in our markets than are to be found anywhere else. in the markets are fish from all parts of the pacific ocean, from the tropics to far north in the arctics, while denizens of the waters all the way, between add to the variety. the essential element of goodness in fish is freshness, and it is always fresh in san francisco markets, and also in the restaurants. of all varieties two rank first in the estimation of gourmets, but, of course, that is purely a matter of individual taste. according to the above-mentioned authority, "the finest fish that swims is the sand-dab." some gourmets, however, will take issue with him on this and say the pompano is better. others will prefer the mountain trout. be that as it may they all are good, with many others following close in choice. fine striped bass from the ocean, or black bass from the fresh water takes high place in preference. then there is sole, both in the fillet and rex, as prepared at jule's under the monadnock building. tom cod, rock cod, fresh mackerel and fresh cod, white bait and boned smelt all are excellent fish, but were we to attempt to tell of all the fish to be found here we would have to reproduce a piscatorial directory. there are two good methods of acquiring knowledge of the fish of san francisco. go to the wharves and see them come and and go to the wholesale markets down in clay street, below montgomery. you will then begin to realize that we certainly do have a variety of good fish. now for a little bohemianism of a different sort: recently there came to san francisco, with his wife, an actor whose name used to be almost a household word among theater-goers, and when we say "the villain still pursued her," all you old timers will know whom we mean. when he was here in the years long gone by it was his custom to go to the old california market, select what he desired to eat, then take it to the restaurant and have it cooked, and the old atmosphere came back to him on his recent arrival and he revived the old custom. "meet us at the california market," was the telephone message that came to us, and we were there, for we knew that something good was in store for us. first we went through the market from end to end and all the side aisles, "spying out the land." it is not possible to enumerate what we saw. if you want to know go there and see for yourselves. having seen we were told to go and select what we wished to have for our dinner, and then the selection began and there was a feast of buying fish, meats, vegetables and delicacies of all sorts, even to french pastry. our purchases were ordered sent to the restaurant in the corner of the market where the chef had already been duly "seen," and then came each particular idea as to how the food was to be cooked. we had sand-dabs munier, chateaubriand with mushrooms, italian squash, fried in oil with a flavor of garlic, french pastry, and coffee, together with some good california tipo chianti, all flavored with such a stream of reminiscence that we forgot that such things as clocks existed. it was the first time our theatrical friends had tasted sand-dabs, for this fish has come to san francisco markets only in recent years, and they declared that it was the "only" fish fit to be eaten. it is possible that they were prejudiced by the sentiment of the surroundings and consequently not exactly in position to be good judges. all italian restaurants serve fish well. at the new buon gusto you will find a most excellent cippino with polenti, and if you have not experienced this we advise you to try it as soon as possible. at the gianduja you will find sand-dabs au gratin to be very fine. at jack's, striped bass cooked in wine is what we think the best of the fish to be found in the market, or at the restaurants, cooked that way. jule's is famous for his rex sole. at all of the french and italian restaurants small fry is cooked to perfection. if you wish fish in any way or of any kind you will make no mistake in asking for it at any of the french or italian restaurants, or at the shell fish grotto, and if you are in doubt regarding what to order just take the proprietor into your confidence, tell him you are a stranger in the city and ask him to serve you fish the best way he prepares it. you will not be disappointed. some food variants variants of food preparation sometimes typify nationalities better even than variants of language or clothing. take the lowly corn meal, for instance. we find that italian polenti, spanish tamale, philadelphia scrapple and southern darkey crackling corn bread are but variants of the preparation of corn meal in delectable foods. it is a long step from plain corn meal mush to scrapple, which we consider the highest and best form of preparing this sort of dish, but all the intermediate steps come from a desire to please the taste with a change from simple corn meal. crackling corn bread is the first step, and here we find that the darkies of the south found good use for the remnants of the pork after lard was tried out at hog-killing time, by mixing the cracklings with their corn meal and making a pone which they cooked before an open fire on a hoe blade, the first of this being called "cracklin' hoe cake." good scrapple is one of the finest breakfast dishes that we know during the winter, and when prepared after the recipe given here it precedes all other forms of serving corn meal. to mix it properly one must know the proper values of herbs and condiments, and this recipe is the result of much discriminating study. modesty prevents us giving it more than the name of "scrapple." it is prepared in the following manner, differing from that made in philadelphia: scrapple take a young pig's head and boil it until the flesh drops from the bones, in water to which has been added two good-sized onions, quartered, five bruised cloves of garlic, one bay leaf, sweet marjoram, thyme, rosemary, a little sage, salt, and pepper. separate the meat from the bones and chop fine. strain off the liquor and boil with corn meal, adding the chopped meat. put in the corn meal gradually, until it makes a stiff mush, then cook for half an hour with the meat. put in shallow pans and let cool. to serve slice about half an inch thick and fry in olive oil or butter to a light brown. as originally prepared the tamale was made for conveyance, hence the wrappings of corn husk. this is a spanish dish, having been brought to this country by the early spanish explorers, and adopted by the indian tribes with whom they came in contact. in the genuine tamale the interior is the sauce and meat that goes with the corn meal which is alternately laid with the husks, and when made the ends are tied with fine husk. for meat, chicken, pork, and veal are considered the best. there is also a sweet tamale, made with raisins or preserves. the following recipe for tamales was given us by luna: tamales boil one chicken until the meat comes from the bones. chop the neat fine and moisten it with the liquor in which it was boiled. boil six large chili peppers in a little water until cooked so they can be strained through a fine strainer, and add to this the chopped chicken, with salt to taste and a little chopped parsley. take corn meal and work into it a lump of butter the size of an egg, adding boiling water and working constantly until it makes a paste the consistency of biscuit dough. have ready a pile of the soft inner husks of green corn and on each husk spread a lump of dough, the size of a walnut, into a flat cake covering the husk. in the center of the dough put a teaspoonful of the chopped meat with minced olive. on a large husk put several tablespoonfuls of chopped meat with olives. roll this together and lay on them other husks until the tamale is of the size desired. tie the ends together with strips of fine husk and put in boiling water for twenty minutes. either veal or pork may be used instead of chicken. polenti, properly prepared, is a dish that requires much labor, and scarcely repays for the time and exertion spent in its making. it differs from scrapple in that the ingredients are mixed in a sauce and poured over the mush instead of being mixed in the meal. in the new buon gusto restaurant, in broadway, they cook polenti to perfection, and when it is served with cippino it leaves nothing to be desired. this is the recipe: polenti for the gravy: make a little broth with veal bone, a small piece of beef, a pig's foot, neck, feet and gizzard of chicken. in a separate kettle cook in hot oil one sliced onion, one clove of garlic, a little parsley, one bell pepper, one tomato, a small piece of celery, and a carrot. cook until soft and then add this to the broth with a few dried mushrooms. cook slowly for thirty minutes and then strain. for the mush: boil corn meal until it is thoroughly done and then cool it until it can be cut in slices for frying. mix butter and olive oil and heat in a frying pan and into this put the slices of corn meal, frying to a light brown. place the fried corn meal in a platter in layers, sprinkling each with grated parmesan cheese, salt, and pepper. take parsley and one clove of garlic chopped fine and a can of french mushrooms cut in quarters, and fry in butter, then add enough gravy to pour over the fried corn meal. place this in an oven for a few minutes then serve. about dining table d'hote is the feature of san francisco's restaurant life. it is the ideal method for those who wish a good dinner and who have not the inclination, or the knowledge, to order a special dinner. it is also the least expensive way of getting a good dinner. it also saves an exhibition of ignorance regarding the dishes, for if you are in doubt all you have to do is to leave it to the waiter, and he will bring the best there is on the day's menu and will serve it properly. it is really something to elicit wonder when one considers the possibilities of a table d'hote dinner in some of the less expensive restaurants. take, for instance, the buon gusto, in broadway. this restaurant boasts a good chef, and the food is the finest the market affords. here is served a six course dinner for fifty cents, and the menu card is typical of this class of restaurants. what is provided is shown by the following taken from the bill of fare as it was served us: hor d'ouvres--four kinds; five kinds of salad; two kinds of soup; seven kinds of fish; four kinds of paste; broiled spring chicken; green salad with french dressing; ice cream or rum omelet; mixed fruits; demi tasse. with this is served a pint of good table wine. as one goes up with the scale of prices in the restaurants that charge $1, $1.25, $1.50, $2, $2.50, and $3 for their dinners it will be found that the difference lies chiefly in the variety from which to choose and from the surroundings and service. take, for example, the following typical menu for a dollar dinner, served at the fior d'italia, and compare it with the fifty-cent dinner just mentioned: salami and anchovies; salad; chicken broth with italian paste; fillet of english sole, sauce tartare; spaghetti or ravioli; escallop of veal, caper sauce; french peas with butter; roast chicken with chiffon salad; ice cream or fried cream; assorted fruits and cakes; demi tasse. wine with this dinner is extra. now going a step up in the scale we come to the $1.50 dinner as follows: anchovies, salami (note that it is the same as above); combination salad; tortellini di bologna soup; striped bass a la livornaise; ravioli a la genoese and spaghetti with mushrooms; chicken saute, italian style, with green peas; squab with lettuce; zabaione; fruit; cheese; coffee. wine is extra. let us now look at the menu of the $3.50 dinner, without wine: pate 'de foie gras--truffles on toast; salad; olives; alice fallstaff; italian ham "prosciutto;" soup--semino italiani with brodo de cappone; pompano a la papillote; tortellini with fungi a funghetto; fritto misto; spring chicken saute; carcioffi all'inferno; capretto al forno con insallata; omelet celestine; fruit; cheese, and black coffee. this dinner must be ordered three days in advance. these menus will give a good idea of the different classes of dinners that can be obtained. between are dinners to suit all tastes and pocketbooks. if you wish to go beyond these there is no limit except the amount of money you have. if but the food value be taken into consideration then one will be as well pleased with the fifty-cent dinner as he will be at the higher priced meals, but if light and music and brilliant surroundings are desired, then one must pay for them as well as for the meal he eats. all of the restaurants mentioned serve good table d'hote dinners, giving an astonishing variety of foods for the money, and it is all cooked and served in a manner that leaves nothing to be desired. as before mentioned if you wish a table d'hote dinner composed entirely of sea food you can get it at the shell fish grotto for one dollar. a good rule to follow when dining at any of the restaurants is: when in doubt order a table d'hote dinner. you will always get a good meal, for the least out lay of money and least expenditure of thought. often one desires something a little different, and this is easy, too, and you can conserve your brain energy and get the most for the least money by seeing the proprietor or manager of the restaurant and telling him that you wish to give a little dinner. tell him how many will be in the party and give him the amount you wish to spend. it will be surprising, sometimes, to see how much more you can get for a slight increase in the price. of course your wines and cocktails will be extra and these must be reckoned in the cost. from this we come to the ordered dinner, and here is where your own knowledge and special desires come in. here, too, comes a marked increase in the cost. you now have the widest range of possibilities both as to viands and as to price. it is not at all difficult to have a dinner, without wine, that costs twenty-five dollars a plate, and when you come down to the more normal dinners, unless you confine yourself to one or two dishes you will find that you far exceed in price the table d'hote dinners of equal gastronomic value. while this is true it is well to be able to order your dinner for it frequently occurs that one does not care to go through the heavy course dinner provided table d'hote. sometimes one wants a simple dish, or perhaps two, and it is well to know something about them and how to order them. we have made it a rule whenever we have seen something new on the bill of fare to order it, on the theory that we are willing to try anything once, and in this way we have greatly enlarged our knowledge of good things. it is also well to remember national characteristics and understand that certain dishes are at their best at certain restaurants. for instance, you will be served with an excellent paste at a french restaurant, but if you want it at its best you will get it at an italian restaurant. on the other hand if you desire a delicate entree you will get the best at a french restaurant. for instance, one would not ask for sauer braten anywhere except at a german restaurant. it will readily be seen that the elegant art of dining in san francisco means much more than the sitting at table and partaking of what is put before you. dining is an art, and its pleasure is greatly enhanced by a knowledge of foods, cooking, serving, national characteristics, and combinations of both foods and wines. how few people are there, for instance, who know that one should never drink any hard liquor, like whisky, brandy, or gin, with oysters. many a fit of acute stomach trouble has been attributed to some food that was either bad or badly prepared when the cause of the trouble was the fact that a cocktail had been taken just prior to eating oysters. some of the possibilities of dining in san francisco may be understood when we tell you of a progressive dinner. we had entertained one of the exposition commissioners from a sister state and he was so well pleased with what he had learned in a gastronomic way that he said to us: "the governor of my state is coming and i should like to give him a dinner that will open his eyes to san francisco's possibilities. would it be asking too much of you to have you help me do it?" "we shall be glad to. what do you want us to do?" "take charge of the whole business, do as you please and go as far as you like." "that is a wide order, general. what is the limit of price, and how many will be in the party?" "just six. that will include the governor and his wife, you two and myself and wife. let it be something unusual and do not let the cost interfere. what i want is something unusual." it has been told us that when the governor got back home he tried to tell some of his friends about that dinner, but they told him he had acquired the california habit of talking wide. this is the way we carried out the dinner, everything being arranged in advance: at 6:30 we called at the rooms of the governor in the palace hotel and had served there dry martini cocktails with russian caviar on toasted rye bread. an automobile was in waiting, and at seven o'clock we were set down at felix's, in montgomery street, where a table was ready for us and on it were served salami of various kinds, artichokes in oil and ripe olives. then came a service of soup, for which this restaurant is famous, followed by a combination salad, with which was served a bottle of pontet canet. the automobile carried us then over to broadway and at the fior d'italia our table was waiting and here we were served with sand-dabs au gratin, and a small glass of sauterne. all the haste we made was on the streets, and when we finished our course at the fior d'italia we whirled away over toward north beach to the gianduja, where had been prepared especially for us tagliarini with chicken livers and mushrooms, and because of its success we had a bottle of lacrima christi spumanti, the enjoyment of which delayed us. again in the automobile to coppa's where chicken portola was served, with green peas. accompanying this was a glass of krug, and this was followed by a glass of zabaione for dessert. back again to the heart of the city and we stopped at raggi's, in montgomery street near commercial where we had a glass of brandy in which was a chinotti (a peculiar italian preserved fruit which is said to be a cross between a citron and an orange). then around the corner to gouailhardou & rondel's, the market cafe, where from a plain pine table, and on sanded floor, we had our coffee royal. as a fitting climax for this evening we directed the chauffeur to drive to the cliff house, where, over a bottle of krug, we talked it all over as we watched the dancing and listened to the singing of the cabaret performers. this dinner, including everything from the automobile to the tips cost but fifteen dollars for each one in the party. something about cooking cooking is sometimes a pleasure, sometimes a duty, sometimes a burden and sometimes a martyrdom, all according to the point of view. the extremes are rarities, and sometimes duty and burden are synonymous. in ordinary understanding we have american cooking and foreign cooking, and to one accustomed to plain american cooking, all variants, and all additions of spices, herbs, or unusual condiments is classed under the head of foreign. in the average american family cooking is a duty usually considered as one of the necessary evils of existence, and food is prepared as it is usually eaten--hastily--something to fill the stomach. the excuse most frequently heard in san francisco for the restaurant habit, and for living in cooped-up apartments, is that the wife wants to get away from the burden of the kitchen and drudgery of housework. and like many other effects this eventually becomes a cause, for both husband and wife become accustomed to better cooking than they could get at home and there is a continuance of the custom, for both get a distaste for plainly cooked food, and the wife does not know how to cook any other way. yet when all is considered the difference between plain american cooking and what is termed foreign cooking, is but the proper use of condiments and seasoning, combined with proper variety of the food supply from the markets. herein lies the secret of a good table-proper combination of ingredients and proper variation and selection of the provisions together with proper preparation and cooking of the food. we have met with many well educated and well raised men and women whose gastronomic knowledge was so limited as to be appalling. all they knew of meats was confined to ordinary poultry, i. e., chickens and turkeys, and to beef, veal, pork, and mutton. of these there were but three modes of cooking--frying, stewing and baking, sometimes boiling. their chops were always fried as they knew nothing of the delicate flavor imparted by broiling. in fact their knowledge was confined to the least healthful and least nutritious modes of preparation and cooking. not only is this true of the average american family, but their lack of knowledge of the fundamentals of cooking and food values brings about a waste largely responsible for what is called the "high cost of living." it is a trite, but nevertheless true saying that a french family could live well on what an american family wastes. waste in preparation is but the mildest form of waste. waste consequent upon lack of knowledge of food values is the waste that is doubly expensive for it not only wastes food but it also wastes the system whose energy is exhausted in trying to assimilate improper alimentation. it is a well recognized medical fact that much of the illness of americans arises from two causes, improper food and improper eating methods. in europe this fact was recognized and generally known so long ago that the study of food values and preparation for proper assimilation is one of the essential parts of every woman's education, and to such a degree has this become raised to a science that schools and even colleges in cooking are to be found in many parts of england, france and germany. francatelli, the great chef who was at the head of queen victoria's kitchen, boasts proudly of his diploma from the parisian college of cooking. the united states is now beginning to wake up to the fact that the preparation of food is something more than a necessary evil, and from the old cooking classes of our common schools has developed the classes in domestic science, that which was formerly considered drudgery now being elevated to an art and dignified as a science. in europe this stage was reached many generations ago, and there it is now an art which has elevated the primitive process of feeding to the elegant art of dining. in san francisco probably more than in any other city in the united states, not even excepting new orleans, this art has flourished for many years with the result that the average san franciscan is disappointed at the food served in other cities of his country, and always longs for his favorite restaurant even as the children of israel longed for the flesh pots of egypt. one needs to spend a day in the italian quarter of san francisco to come to a full realization of the difference between the requirements of even the poorest italian family and the average american family of the better class. we need but say that we have been studying this question for nearly twenty years yet even now we meet with surprises in the way of new delicacies and modes of using herbs and spices in food preparation. if we were to attempt even to enumerate the various herbs, spices, flavorings, delicacies, and pastes to be found in a well regulated italian shop it would take many pages of this book, yet every one of these articles has its own individual and peculiar use, and the knowledge of these articles and how to use them is what makes the difference between american and foreign cooking. each herb has a peculiar quality as a stomachic and it must be as delicately measured as if it were a medicine. the use of garlic, so much decried as plebeian, is the secret of some of the finest dishes prepared by the highest chefs. it must not be forgotten that in the use of all flavors and condiments there may be an intemperance, there lying the root of much of the bad cooking. garlic, for instance, is a flavor and not a food, yet many of the lower class foreigners eat it on bread, making a meal of dark bread, garlic and red wine. it is offensive to sensitive nostrils and vitiates the taste when thus used, but when properly added to certain foods it gives an intangible flavor which never fails to elicit praise. what is true of garlic is also true of the many herbs that are used. it is easy to pass from a rare flavor that makes a most savory dish to a taste of medicine that spoils a dinner. with the well-known prodigal and wasteful habits of america the american who learns the use of herbs usually makes the initial mistake of putting in the flavoring herbs with too lavish a hand, and it is only after years of experience that a knowledge of proper combinations is obtained. visitors have often expressed wonder at the variety of foods and delicate flavors in san francisco restaurants, and possibly this brief explanation may give some comprehension of why san franciscans always want to get back to where they "can get something to eat." told in a whisper "surely the old bohemians of san francisco did not spend all their time in restaurants. how did they live when at home?" this is what was said to us one day when we were talking about the old days and the old people. indeed they did not live all their time in restaurants. some of the most enjoyable meals we have eaten have been in the rooms and apartments of our bohemian friends, and these meals were prepared generally by each one present doing his or her part in making it a success. one would make the salad, another the main dish, and others do various forms of scullery work, and in the end we would have a meal that would often put to blush the efforts of many of the renowned chefs. many people who come to san francisco will wish to conserve their finances as much as possible, and they will wish to enjoy life in their apartments. there are also many people who live in san francisco who need a little advice on how to get the best out of life, and we are going to whisper a few words to all such as these we have mentioned. you can be a bohemian and have the very best sort of living in your own room for less than half the money it will take to live at the hotels and restaurants, and we are sure many of you would like to know something about how to do it. it is not necessary to confine yourself to the few things in your limited experience. if you are going to be in san francisco for more than a week, you will find that a little apartment, furnished ready for housekeeping, will give you opportunity to be independent and free. you will get your own breakfasts, when and how you want them. your luncheons and dinners can be gotten in your rooms or at the restaurants just as you are inclined. you will find delight and education in visiting the markets, and the foreign stores where all the strange and unusual foods of all nations are to be found. you will discover better articles at less prices at the little italian, french, mexican or chinese stores and stalls than can be had in the most aristocratic stores in the city. above all you will find a joy of invention and will be surprised at the delectable dishes you can prepare at a minimum of cost. when you visit san francisco you are desirous of so arranging your finances that you may see the most for the least outlay of money. after a strenuous day of sight-seeing you will scarcely feel like getting up a good meal, consequently then you will follow the ideas suggested in this book and visit the various restaurants, thus obtaining a variety both in foods and in information of an educational nature. but sometimes you will not be tired, or you will wish to get up a little late supper after theatre, and it is then that you will be glad of the opportunity afforded by having your own kitchen arrangements so that you can carry out your tastes, and cook some of the strange and new foods that you have discovered in your rambles through the foreign quarters. take the simple matter of sausage, for instance. ordinarily we know of but three kinds--pork sausage, frankfurter and bologna--neither very appetizing or appealing, except sometimes the pork sausage for breakfast. over in the little italian and french shops you will find some of the most wonderful sausages that mind can conceive of. some of these are so elaborate in their preparation that they cost even in that inexpensive part of the city, seventy cents a pound, and the variety is almost as infinite as that of the pastes. in the mexican stores you will find a sausage that gives a delightful flavor to anything it is cooked with, and it is when you see these sausages that your eyes begin to be opened. you now take cognizance of many things that heretofore escaped your observation. you see new canned goods; a wonderful variety of cheeses; strange dried vegetables and delicacies unheard of; preserved vegetables and fish and meats in oil; queer fish pickled and dried. you begin to learn of the many uses of olive oil in cooking and in food preparation. you see the queer shapes of bread, and note the numerous kinds of cakes and pastry that you never saw or heard of before. you see boxes of dried herbs, and begin to realize why you have never been able to reproduce certain flavors you have tasted in restaurants. you see strange-looking, flat hams, and are told that they are italian hams, and if you buy some you will find that they cut the ham the wrong way, and instead of slicing it across the grain they cut in very thin slices down the length of the bone. their flavor is more delicious than that of any ham you have tasted since you used to get the old-time, genuine country smoked hams. but if you investigate a little deeper you will learn that these hams were not put up in italy at all, but that it is a special brand that is prepared in virginia for the italians. in the french stores you will find preserved cockscombs, snails, marvelous blood sausages with nuts in them, rare cheeses, prepared meats in jellies, and hundreds of delicacies unknown to you. you can spend days in these stores, finding something new all the time. we have been going there for years and still run across new things. remember that to the people of the latin quarter these things are all usual consequently they think you know as much about them as they do, and will volunteer no information regarding them. possibly they will smile at your ignorance when you ask them questions, but do not hesitate to ask, for they are courteous and that is the only way you can find out things, and learn what all these new edibles are and what they are good for. there is no greater possibility of interest than is to be found in the stores of san francisco's latin quarter, and we mean by this the stores that cater to the people of the quarter. in stores and restaurants frequented by americans they cater to american tastes and lose much of the foreign flavor. it is also well to bear in mind that it is not in the largest stores that you find the greatest variety when it comes to odd and new goods. a little shop, barely large enough to turn around in between counter and wall, may have enough of interest to entertain you for half an hour, and here the prices will be remarkably low, for these people have so little of the outside trade that they have not learned to add to their prices when they see an american face coming. what is true of the stores is also true of the vegetable stands, the meat shops, the fish stalls, and bakeries. here you will find better and fresher food supplies than in any of the similar places in other parts of the city, and the price is generally one-third less. the high cost of living has not reached this thrifty people with their inborn knowledge of the values of foods. they live twice as well as the average american family at half the cost. they combine knowledge of food values with the art of preparation and have a resultant meal that is tasty, full flavored, and nourishing at a minimum of expense. perhaps you want a meal. your thoughts at once run to steaks and chops, and fried potatoes. nothing but a porterhouse or tenderloin steak or a kidney chop will do. it is the most expensive meat and you think that of course it is the best and most nourishing. if the knowledge of food values were with you, you would get the less expensive and more nourishing cuts. a flank steak, perhaps, prepared en casserole, and you would have a fine dish for half the money. as it is in meats so it is in all foods. for ten cents two people can have a dinner of tagliarini that is at once nourishing and satisfying in flavor. of course all this requires knowledge, but that is easily acquired, and it adds to the zest of life to know that you can do that which lifts eating from the plane of feeding to that of dining; that you can change existence into living. all because you dare to break away from conventionalities which make so many people affect ignorance of how to live because they imagine it is an evidence of refinement. if they but knew it, their affectation and their ignorance is the hall mark of low caste. now about this whisper: we have a friend who has a little apartment where he has kept bachelor's hall for many years. here some of our most pleasant evenings have been spent, and we never fear to go on account of the possibility that he may be embarrassed or inconvenienced through lack of something to eat or drink, for he is never at a loss to prepare something dainty and appetizing for us, and it really seems, sometimes, that he makes a meal out of nothing. often charlie telephones us that he has discovered a new dish and hurries us over to pass judgment on it. and, by the way, many of the good dishes of bohemia are the result of accident rather than design. out of nothing it is surprising what a good meal you can get up sometimes when "there's not a thing in the house to eat." let us give you an example. one evening two of our young friends came over to tell us their sweet secret, and with them was another young lady. while we were talking it over and making plans for the wedding another friend dropped in because he said our "light looked inviting." an hour or so of talk and then one of us signaled to the other and received the shocking signal back, "there's not a thing to eat in the house." this called for an investigation of the larder in which all joined with the following result: item--two cans of reed birds from china, each containing twelve of the little birds as large as your thumb. item--one egg. other items--one onion, two slices of dry bread, one green pepper, rather small, one dozen crackers. item--one case of imported italian vin d'oro spumanti. item--six hearty appetites to be appeased. the gentleman who saw our light saw another, and rushed off to a barber shop, and got four more eggs. barbers use eggs, and they must be fresh ones, in shampooing, and our friend remembered it. the two young ladies and the young man prepared the table, and the other lady and the two gentlemen set about getting a meal. one of us made an omelet of the five eggs, the onion and the green pepper, with crumbs of bread, and this is the recipe: omelet a la peruquier take five eggs and beat until very light. roll two slices of dried bread to crumbs and mix with the beaten eggs. chop fine one onion and one green pepper, season with salt and pepper. pour a tablespoonful of olive oil in an omelet pan and in this fry the peppers and onion to a light brown. when ready turn into this the beaten eggs, and cook until done. follow the rule of never disturbing a cooking egg or a sleeping child. serve on a hot dish. take two cans of chinese reed birds, open them and take therefrom the two dozen birds contained therein. in a hot frying pan place the birds in the grease that comes around them and heat them through. toast twelve square crackers and on each place two reed birds, and serve two on each of six hot plates. with both the omelet and the reed birds serve vin d'oro. paste makes waste in an italian grocery store we noticed a great variety of pastes in boxes arranged along the counter and began counting them. the proprietor noticed us and, with a characteristic shrug of his shoulders, said: "that is but a few of them. we have not room to show them all." in response to our inquiry regarding the number of kinds of paste made by italians he said there were more than seventy-five. ordinarily we think of one--spaghetti--or possibly two, including macaroni. if our knowledge goes a little farther we think also of tagliarini, which is the italian equivalent of noodles, as it is made with eggs. in new york we were much impressed with the stress they laid on the serving of spaghetti, and one restaurant went so far as to advertise dinners given "under the spaghetti vine." it appears that this is the only paste they know anything about. after one eats tagliarini or ravioli one feels like paraphrasing the darkey and saying, "go way spaghetti, yo done los' yo tase." then comes tortelini which, like ravioli, combines paste with meat and spinach. these may be considered the most prominent of the pastes, the others being variants in the making and cutting, each serving a special purpose in cooking, some being for soups, others for sauces and others for dressing for meats. it is more than probable that the great variety comes from individual tastes in cutting or rolling. all italian restaurants serve the paste as a releve rather than as an entree, which it usually follows, preceding the roast in the dinner. as a separate and distinct dish it can well be made to serve as a full meal, especially when tagliarini is prepared after the following recipe: tagliarini des beaux arts cook one pound of tagliarini in boiling water twenty-five minutes, then draw off the water. to the tagliarini add a handful of mushrooms which have been sliced and fried in butter. then add three chicken livers which have been chopped small and fried, one sliced truffle, one red pepper chopped fine and a little parmesan cheese. make a brown sauce of one-third beef broth thickened with melted butter and flour and two-thirds tomato sauce, and pour this over the tagliarini. sprinkle with the parmesan cheese and serve very hot from a chafing dish. (by oliver, chef of the restaurant des beaux arts, paris.) in san francisco one finds both the imported and the domestic paste, and frequently one hears the assertion that the imported is the better. this idea is born of the thought that all things from europe are better than the same made in america. in fact the paste that comes from italy is neither so good in taste, nor is it so clean in the making. we have visited a number of paste factories in san francisco and have found them all scrupulously clean, with the best of materials in the composition of the pastes. one often wonders how the pastes came to be so many and how they received their names. names of some of them are accidents, as is illustrated by macaroni. according to an italian friend who vouches for the fact, it received its name from an expression of pleasure. "macari" means "fine, excellent," and the superlative is "macaroni." a famous italian gourmet constantly desired new dishes to please his taste, and one day his chef carried to him something that was unusual. the gourmet tasted it, cried out "macari!" tasted again, threw out his arms in delight and cried "macaroni!" "what is the name of this wonderful dish?" "you have named it. it is macaroni." tips and tipping tipping is variously designated. some say it is a nuisance and should be abolished. some call it an outrage and ask for legislative interference. some say it is an extortion and refuse to pay it. some say it is a necessary evil and suffer it. the wise ones look at it a little differently. possibly it is best explained or excused, whichever way you wish to call it, by one of gouverneur morris's characters in a recent story, who says: "whenever i go anywhere i find persons in humble situations who smile at me and wish me well. i smile back and wish them well. it is because at some time or other i have tipped them. to me the system has never been an annoyance but a delightful opportunity for the exercise of tact and judgment." we look upon tipping as a part of expense to be calculated upon, necessary to insure good service, not only now but in the future, and it should always be computed in the expense of a trip or a dinner. tipping, to our minds, is the oil that makes the wheels of life run smoothly. the amount of the tip is always a matter of individual judgment, dependent upon the service rendered, and the way it is rendered. the good traveler wants to tip properly, neither too little nor too much, thereby getting the best service, for in the last analysis the pleasure of a trip depends upon the service received. american prodigality and asininity is responsible for much of the abuse of tipping. too many americans when they travel desire to appear important and the only way they can accomplish this is by buying the subserviency of menials who laugh at them behind their backs. a tip should always depend upon the service rendered. we make it a rule to withhold the tip from a careless or inconsiderate waiter, and always add to the tip a word of commendation when there has been extra good service. the amount of the tip depends, first on the service, second on the amount of the bill, and third, on the character of the place where you are served. when we order a specially prepared dinner, with our suggestions as to its composition and service, we tip the head waiter, the chef, the waiter and the bus boy. we have given dinners where the tips amounted to fully half as much as the dinner itself, and we felt that this part of the expense brought us the greatest pleasure. it is impossible to make a hard and fast rule regarding how much to give a waiter. each person must use his or her own judgment. if you are in a foreign country you might do as we did on our first trip to paris. we wanted to do what was right but not what most americans think is right we were at a hotel where only french were usually guests, and in order to do the right thing we took the proprietor into our confidence and explained to him our dilemma. we asked him whom to tip and how much to give, and he got us out of our difficulty and we found that the tips amounted to about as much for one whole week as we had been held up for in one day at the waldorf-astoria. the mythical land notwithstanding the fact that webster gives no recognition in his dictionary to the land of bohemia or the occupants thereof, the land exists, perhaps not in a material way, but certainly mentally. some have not the perception to see it; some know not the language that admits entrance; some pass it by every day without understanding it. yet it as truly exists as any of the lands told of in our childhood fables and fairy stories. the old definition of bohemian was "a vagabond, a wayfarer." possibly that definition may, to a certain extent, be true of the present-day bohemian, for he is a mental vagabond and a mental wayfarer. in our judgment the word comes from the french "bon homme," for surely the bohemian is a "good man." whatever may be the derivation the fact remains that not to all is given the perception to understand, nor the eyes to see, and therein lies one of the dangers of writing such a book as this. if you read this and then hurry off to a specified restaurant with the expectation of finding the bohemian atmosphere in evidence you are apt to be disappointed, for frequently it is necessary to create your own bohemian atmosphere. then, too, all nights are not the same at restaurants. for instance if you desire the best service afforded in any restaurant do not select saturday or sunday night, but if you will lay aside your desire for personal comfort in service, and wish to study character, then take saturday or sunday night for your visit. it is very possible that you will think the restaurant has changed hands between friday and saturday. on saturday and sunday evening the mass of san francisco's great cosmopolitan population holds holiday and the great feature of the holiday is a restaurant dinner, where there is music, and glitter, and joyous, human companionship. at such times waiters become careless and sometimes familiar. cooks are rushed to such an extent that they do not give the care to their preparation that they take pride in on other nights, consoling themselves frequently with the thought that the saturday and sunday night patrons do not know or appreciate the highest form of gastronomic art. remember, also, that the world is a looking glass. smile into it and it smiles back; frown and you get black looks. in bohemia we sometimes find it well to overlook soiled table napery, sanded floor or untidy appearance. of course this is not in the higher class of restaurants, but there are times and places when you must remember you are making a study of human interest and not getting a meal, and you must leave your fastidiousness and squeamishness at home. it takes some time to get well within the inner circle of bohemianism, but after you have arrived you have the password and all doors are open to you. if our friends think of a new story they save it up until our next coming and tell us something that always has a bearing on bohemia. for instance, how few of us know the origin of the menu card. it seems to be a natural thing, yet, like all things, it had a beginning, and this is the way it began (according to a good friend who told it to us): frederick the great was a lover of good eating and his chef took pride in providing new and rare dishes for his delectation. but it frequently occurred that the great ruler permitted his appetite to overcome his judgment, and he would eat so heartily of the food first set before him that when later and more delicious dishes came to the table he was unable to do them justice. to obviate this he ordered his chef to prepare each day a list of what was to be served, and to show their rotation during the meal, and in compliance with this order the first menu card was written. to frederick the great is also attributed the naming of the german bread now called pumpernickel. according to one of our italian friends the story runs this way: frederick wished some bread and his chef sent him in a loaf that was of unusual color and flavor. it did not please the king and he was not slow to express his disapproval. he owned a horse named nicholas but commonly called "nicho!" and when the chef appeared before him to receive his censure for sending in distasteful bread, frederick threw the loaf at his head, exclaiming, "bon pour nichol." from this it received its name which has become corrupted to "pumpernickel." after the doors are open to you, you will find not only many new stories, but you will learn of customs unusual and discover their origin dating back to the days whose history remains only in folk lore. you will be let into family secrets of the alien quarters, and will learn of hopes, aspirations, and desires, that will startle you with their strangeness. you will find artists, sculptors, and writers of verse in embryo, and if you remain long enough in the atmosphere you may see, as we have, some of these embryonic thinkers achieve fame that becomes nation wide. it is said of the islands of the south seas that when one eats of certain fruit it creates such a longing that the mind is never content until another visit is made. san francisco's bohemia lays no claim to persuasive fruit, but it is true that when one breathes in the atmosphere of this mythical world it leaves an unrest that is only appeased by a return to where the whispering winds tell of enchanted land where "you get the best there is to eat, served in a manner that enhances its flavor and establishes it forever in your memory." appendix how to serve wines a few hints regarding the proper serving of wines may not be amiss, and we give you here the consensus op opinion of the most noted gourmets who have made a study of the best results from combinations. never drink any hard liquors, such as whisky, brandy, gin, or cocktails, with oysters or clams, as it is liable to upset you for the rest of the evening. with hor d'ourves serve vermouth, sherry, marsala or madeira wine. with soup and fish serve white wines, such as rhein wine, sauterne or white burgundy. with entrees serve clarets or other red wines, such as swiss, bordeaux, hungarian or italian wines. burgandy may also be served at any of the later courses. with roasts serve champagne or any of the sparkling wines. with coffee serve kirch, french brandy or fine champagne. after coffee serve a liqueur. never serve more than one glass of any liqueur. the following wines may be considered the best types: amontillado, montilo and olorosa sherries. austrian burgundy is one of the finest wines, possessing rich flavor and fine perfume. other burgundies are: chablis: a white burgundy, dry and of agreeable aroma. chambertin: a sound, delicate wine with a flavor resembling raspberry. clos de vogeot: similar to chambertin, and often called the king of burgandy. romanee: a very rare and costly wine of rich, ruby color, with a delicate bouquet. clarets are valued for their flavor and for their tonic properties. some of the best are: chateau grille: a desert wine of good flavor and fine aroma. chateau lafitte: has beautiful color and delicate flavor. chateau la rose: greater alcoholic strength and of fine flavor. chateau margaux: rich, with delicate flavor and excellent bouquet. pontet canet: a heavier wine with good bouquet and fine flavor. st. julien: a lighter claret with good bouquet. german wines are of lighter character, and are generally termed rhein wines. the best varieties are: hochheimer: a light, pleasing and wholesome wine. brauneberger: a good variety with pleasing flavor and aroma. dreimanner: similar to brauneberger. deidesheimer: similar to brauneberger. graffenberg: light and pleasant. good aroma. johannisberger schloss: one of the best of the german wines. rudesheimer schloss: in class with johannisberger. italian wines are mostly red, the most noted in california being chianti, and its california prototype. tipo chianti, made by the asti colony. lacrima christi spumanti: the finest italian champagne. dry and of magnificent bouquet. vin d'oro spumanti: a high-class champagne. sweet and of fine bouquet and flavor. lacrima christi: a still wine of excellent flavor and bouquet. malaga: a wine of high repute. sweet and powerful. a peculiar flavor is given to it through the addition of a small quantity of burned wine. marsala: is a golden wine of most agreeable color and aroma. sauterne: is a white bordeaux, a strong luscious wine, the best known varieties being: chateau yquem: remarkable for its rich and velvety softness. barsac: rich and good. chateau filhot: of rich color and good flavor. chateau latour blanche: a white sauterne of exquisite bouquet. haut sauterne: soft and mild. of good flavor. vin de graves: good and strong. good aroma and flavor. vintage years have much to do with the quality of wines. the best vintage years are as follows: champagnes: 1892. rhein and moselle: 1893. burgandy: 1892, 1899 and 1904. claret: 1898 and 1904. port: 1896 and 1904. sherry: 1882, 1890, 1898 and 1900. a good bohemian dinner sometimes people desire to give a dinner and are at loss as to the proper time to serve wines. the following menu will give some ideas on the subject: menu gibson cocktail canape norwegian (serve these before entering dining room) artichoke hearts in oil ripe olives celery amontillado sherry oysters on half shell bisque of ecrevisse chablis, or white sauterne sand-dabs edward vii sliced cucumbers, iced escargot francais chateau lafitte cassolette of terrapin, maryland romanee tagliarini des beaux arts punch pistache cigarettes alligator pears with cumquats, french dressing chicken portola krug private cuvee brut creamed new potatoes celery victor french peas zabaione reina cabot coffee royal cigarettes grand marnier in our travels through bohemia it has been our good fortune to gather hundreds of recipes of new, strange and rare dishes, prepared by those who look farther than the stoking of the physical system in the preparation of foods. some of these are from chefs in restaurants and hotels, some from men and women of the foreign colonies and some from good friends who lent their aid in our pleasurable occupation. that we cannot print them all in a volume of this size is our regret, but another book now in preparation will contain them, together with other talks about san francisco's foreign quarters. from our store we have selected the following as being well worth trying: onion soup cut four large onions in large pieces and put them in six ounces of butter with pepper and salt. slowly stew this in a little beef stock and a little milk, stirring constantly, for one hour. add more stock and milk and let cook slowly for another hour. in a tureen place slices of bread sprinkled with two tablespoonfuls of parmesan cheese. beat the yolks of four eggs and mix them with a tablespoonful of the soup and pour this over the bread and cheese. cover this for five minutes and then pour over it the rest of the soup. creole gumbo soup take two young chickens, cut in pieces, roll in flour and fry to light brown. take the fried chicken, a ham bone stripped of meat for flavor, a tablespoonful of chopped thyme, of rosemary, two bay leaves, a sprig of tarragon and boil in four quarts of water until the meat loosens from the bones. slice and fry brown two large onions and add two heaping quarts of sliced okra and one cut up pod of red pepper. stir all over the fire until the okra is thoroughly wilted then remove the larger bones and let cook three quarters of an hour before serving. half an hour before serving add a can of tomatoes or an equal quantity of fresh ones, and a pint of shrimps, boiled and shredded. have a dish of well boiled and dry rice and serve with two or three tablespoonfuls in each soup plate. oyster salad to a solid pint of oysters use a dressing made as follows: beat well two eggs and add to them half a gill each of cream and vinegar, half teaspoonful mustard, celery seed, salt each, one-tenth teaspoonful cayenne, and a tablespoonful of butter. put all in a double boiler and cook until it all is as thick as soft custard (about six minutes), stirring constantly. take from the fire. heat the oysters in their own liquor to a boiling point then drain and add the dressing, mixing lightly. set away in cold place until needed. italian salad soak two salt herrings in milk over night and then remove the bones and skin and cut up in small pieces. cut in small pieces one and one-half pounds each of cold roast veal and cold boiled tongue and add to these and the herrings six boiled potatoes, half a dozen small cucumber pickles and two small boiled beets, all cut up, and two raw apples, three boiled carrots and one large boiled celery root, all minced. mix all the above in salad bowl and pour over it mayonnaise dressing. garnish the tops with hard boiled eggs, sliced, and capers, and ripe olives from which the stones have been removed. garnish the bowl with parsley and in the center put hard boiled eggs stuffed with capers. solari's crab louis take meat of crab in large pieces and dress with the following: one-third mayonnaise, two-thirds chili sauce, small quantity chopped english chow-chow, a little worcestershire sauce and minced tarragon, shallots and sweet parsley. season with salt and pepper and keep on ice. soles with wine take fillets of sole and pound lightly with blade of knife then soak them two hours in beaten eggs seasoned with salt and pepper. when ready to cook roll them in bread crumbs and fry in olive oil. take a little of that oil and put in another pan with a tablespoonful of butter and season with salt and pepper and again cook fish in this, adding half a glass of dry white wine. sprinkle with chopped parsley and let cook five minutes. sprinkle with parmesan cheese and put slices of lemon around it. serve on hot plates. grilled mushrooms skin and remove stalks from large fresh mushrooms and lay on a dish with a little fine olive oil, pepper, and salt, over them for one hour. broil on a gridiron over a clear sharp fire and serve them with the following sauce: mushroom sauce mince the stalks or any spare pieces of mushrooms fine, put in a stewpan with a little broth, some chopped parsley, young onions, butter and the juice of a lemon, or instead of the latter the yolk of an egg beaten up in cream. beat all together and pour around the mushrooms. italian turta cut very fine the tender part of one dozen artichokes. take one loaf of stale bread crumbs, moisten and squeeze, and add three tablespoonfuls of grated cheese, three cloves of garlic, bruised, one onion chopped fine, several sprigs of parsley chopped fine, a little celery and half a cup of olive oil. mix all together thoroughly with plenty of pepper and salt and make into a loaf. bake slowly forty-five minutes. oeuffs au soliel poach eight fresh eggs then take them out and place in cold water until cool; lay them for a quarter of an hour to marinade in a glass of white wine with sweet herbs. dry on a cloth and dip in a batter of flour mixed with equal quantities of ale and water to the consistency of double cream. fry to light brown. eggs with wine put three cupfuls of red wine into a casserole and add three tablespoonfuls of sugar, rind of half a lemon, raisins, and sweet almonds, blanched and chopped. when the wine boils break the eggs into it as in poaching eggs. let them cook well and then put in serving dish. add one tablespoonful of flour to the wine and cook to a cream then pour over the eggs. italian risotto soak two level teacups of rice. mash two cloves of garlic and mix with a little minced parsley. soak a dozen dried mushrooms in a little water until soft, then chop fine and drain. cover the bottom of a saucepan with olive oil, place over the fire until quite hot, then put in the garlic, parsley, and mushrooms, add half a can of tomatoes and cook half an hour. drain the rice and put in a saucepan, adding a little broth, half a cup at a time, to keep from burning, and add, stirring constantly, the other ingredients, cooking all together until the rice is done. salt to taste; sprinkle with parmesan cheese. scallops of sweetbread parboil the sweetbreads and then glaze in reduced allemande sauce. dip in bread crumbs and fry in butter until a light brown. when done dish in close order and fill center with toulouse ragout, as follows: toulouse ragout prepare half a dozen fine, large cockscombs, two dozen button mushrooms, small pieces of sweetbreads and a proportionate quantity of truffles. place all in a stewpan and add a small ladleful of drawn butter sauce, and the juice of a lemon. cook a few minutes. lamb chops marinade soak kidney lamb chops in the following mixture for twelve hours and then broil: four tablespoonfuls olive oil, one tablespoonful tarragon vinegar, one small sliced onion, one mashed clove of garlic, one broken up bay leaf, twelve whole black peppers, six cloves, one saltspoon of salt, two teaspoonfuls dried thyme, strips of parsley and lemon peel. spanish chicken pie cut up a chicken and boil until tender. cut up and fry in chicken fat two onions, two green peppers, stirring in one and one-half tablespoonfuls of flour. have ready five tomatoes, stewed, and put in two dozen ripe olives with a small clove of garlic, mashed. grate seven large ears of corn, season with salt and put a layer in a greased baking pan, then chicken, then the other ingredients, with a little of the gravy. stir all together and bake until brown. chicken jambalaya cut a young chicken into small pieces and stew until tender, having the meat covered with the broth when done. remove the meat, drain and fry to light brown with two slices of onion. put in the chicken, onion, and one hundred california oysters, back into the broth and season with salt, pepper, juice of a lemon, bruised clove of garlic, chopped green pepper, and a pinch of red pepper. let all come to a boil. wash and dry two cups of rice and put into the soup and cook until thoroughly done and moderately dry (twenty-five minutes). serve hot or cold. quajatale en mole this is mexican turkey in red pepper, a favorite banquet dish. cut a young turkey into small pieces and boil with shallots and salt. take half a pound of red peppers, scalded and seeded, and grind fine with black peppers, celery seed, cloves, allspice, and mustard (about half a teaspoonful of each) and add to this some of the broth in which the turkey was cooked. put a pound of lard in a skillet and, when boiling, put in the mixture with the turkey and let cook ten minutes, sending it to the table hot. delmonico raisin sauce brown butter in a skillet and stir in a teaspoonful of flour, forming a smooth paste. add one cup of hot soup stock, stirring constantly. while boiling put into this a handful of raisins, handful of blanched almonds, pounded, half a lemon, sliced thin, a few cloves, a pinch of cinnamon, and a little horseradish. fine for roast beef. poulet a la napoli cut and trim a chicken as for fricassee. take the wings, drumsticks, thighs and two pieces of the breast and steep them in cold water half an hour. drain and wipe dry and dust over with flour and set aside. take the rest of the chicken with the giblets and chop small. with water let this simmer for two hours, making a strong broth with a little veal (two ounces or more). slice an onion into rings which place in the bottom of a stewpan with an ounce of butter. to this add the meat and giblets and a pint of white broth. let all simmer but not boil or let color. over this pour common broth until covered and bring slowly to boiling point. add a small bouquet of herbs and simmer for an hour, then strain. thicken a little and then simmer in this the stalks and peelings of a quarter of a pound of mushrooms and the chicken that was previously prepared and dusted with flour. when done strain them and drain the chicken. strain the sauce and thicken with flour until it is of the consistency of a rather thin batter. dip the pieces of chicken into the batter until well coated and set aside until it is cold. then dip the chicken into well-beaten eggs and cover with bread crumbs. let set and then repeat. in hot olive oil fry the chicken until a golden brown. serve on a napkin and garnish with parsley and potatoes duchesse. cook the peeled mushrooms in the remaining sauce before the last thickening, and serve in gravy boat to pour over the chicken. zabaione beat together, hard, for six minutes, six eggs and four teaspoonfuls of powdered sugar in a double boiler and place over a gentle fire, never ceasing to whip until the contents become stiff enough to sustain a coffee spoon upright in the middle. while whipping add three wine-glassfuls of marsala and one liqueur glass of maraschino brandy. pour into tall glasses or cups and serve either hot or cold. peaches a la princesse halve six fine peaches, not too ripe, and place in saucepan with concave side up. take one peach, peeled, and mince with a dozen macaroons, adding the yolk of an egg and half an ounce of sugar. mix all well together and with this fill the half peaches. moisten all with half a cup of white wine and sprinkle with sugar. bake in a hot oven ten minutes and pour over zabaione and serve. this will make a most delicious dessert dish. sultana roll add the beaten yolks of seven eggs to one pint of boiling milk, one cup of sugar, one-half teaspoonful of vanilla, one-quarter teaspoonful of almond extract. when thick add two and a half cups of thick cream. cool and freeze. line the bottom of a mold with sultana raisins which have been soaked in sherry wine twenty-four hours. put a layer of frozen cream, then raisins, continuing until all is used. pack in ice and salt two hours and serve with caramel sauce. caramel sauce butter the inside of a saucepan. put in two ounces of unsweetened chocolate and melt over hot water. add two cups of light brown sugar and mix well. add one ounce of butter and half a cup of rich milk. cook until mixture forms a soft ball when tested in cold water. flavor with vanilla and pour, while hot, over each service of the roll. it immediately hardens, forming a delicious caramel covering to the ice cream. welsh rarebit take one pound of mild american cheese and put in saucepan. add five wineglassful of old ale, place over the fire and stir until it is thoroughly blended and melted. pour this over slices of delicately browned toast, serving hot. coffee royal take of the best mocha coffee one part, of the best java coffee two parts. put six tablespoonfuls of the mixture into a bowl and add an egg, well beaten. stir the mixture five minutes. add half a cup of cold water, cover tightly and let stand several hours. put into a coffeepot the coffee mixture and add four large cups of boiling water, stirring constantly. let it boil briskly for five minutes only then set on the back of the stove five minutes. before serving add a small tablespoonful of pure french brandy to each cup. sweeten to taste. reina cabot mix at table and serve on hot, toasted bent's biscuit. take a quarter of a pound of ripe, dark roquefort cheese and rub with a piece of butter the size of a walnut until smooth, adding a teaspoonful of worcestershire sauce and a wineglassful of sherry, with a pinch of paprika, rubbing until it is smooth. this is best mixed in shallow bowl or soup plate. virginia egg nog beat separately the yolks and whites of ten eggs, the yolks to a soft cream. to the beaten yolks add one pound of granulated sugar, beating until fully blended and very light. let one quart of fresh milk come to a boil and pour over the yolk of egg and sugar, stirring constantly until well blended. to this add one gill of french brandy or one-half pint of good whisky. on top of this place the beaten white of egg and grated nutmeg. serve either hot or cold. mint julep bruise several sprigs of mint in a mixing glass with pulverized sugar. fill the glass with ice and pour over it a jigger of whisky. let stand for ten minutes and then put in a dash of jamaica rum. dress with sprigs of mint, and sprinkle with powdered sugar. serve with straws. index bills of fare beefsteak spanish celery victor chicken, country style in the shell jambalaya leon d'oro a la napoli pie (spanish) portola chili rienas clam fritters chowder coffee royal crab louis stew dessert (italian) egg nog (virginia) eggs, spanish with wine des soliel fish: soles with wine sole edward vii sand-dab fillet, cold fritto misto lobster a la newburg lamb chops marinade mussels mariniere mushrooms, grilled mint julep menu (model) oysters a la catalan a la poulette omelette peaches a la princesse planked fillet mignon polenti quajatole en mole rice, spanish milanaise italian riena cabot salad, italian palace grill oyster sauer braten sauce, delmonico raisin caramel mushroom scrapple shrimp creole, antoine snails bordelalse soup: bisque of crawfish creole gumbo onion sultana roll sweetbreads scalloped turta (italian) toulouse ragout tamales tagliarini des beaux arts terrapin a la maryland wines, how to serve welsh rarebit zabaoine restaurants blanco's bonini's barn buon gusto castilian coppa's fashion, charlie's felix fior d'italia fly trap frank's fred solari's gianduja hang far low heidelberg inn hof brau hotel st. francis jack's jule's la madrelina leon d'oro luna's mint negro's odeon palace hotel poodle dog poodle dog--bergez-frank's portola-louvre rathskeller shell fish grotto solari's tait's techau's vesuvius old time restaurants bab's baldwin hotel bazzuro's bergez california house call captain cropper campi's christian good cliff house cobweb palace delmonico el dorado house frank's gobey's good fellows' grotto hoffman house iron house johnson's oyster house jack's louvre ma tanta manning's marchand's marshall's chop house martin's maison doree nevada new york old louvre perini's pierre poodle dog pup peter job palace of art pop floyd reception sanguinetti's tehama house three trees tortoni thompson's viticultural zinkand's note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustration. see 43584-h.htm or 43584-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/43584/43584-h/43584-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/43584/43584-h.zip) transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). [_"mary lou! mary lou! are you alive?" max cried._ (page 110) (the mystery of the secret band)] the mary lou series the mystery of the secret band by edith lavell the saalfield publishing company akron, ohio new york the mary lou series by edith lavell the mystery at dark cedars the mystery of the fires the mystery of the secret band copyright, mcmxxxv the saalfield publishing company printed in the united states of america _contents_ chapter page i. a real detective 11 ii. the job 26 iii. the book club 38 iv. a midnight visitor 54 v. another robbery 68 vi. saturday afternoon 78 vii. the abandoned house 92 viii. knocked out 110 ix. lunch at the bellevue 120 x. in the dead of night 132 xi. bail 150 xii. detective gay arrives 164 xiii. a prisoner in the dark 178 xiv. the secret band 194 xv. christmas morning 210 xvi. two captures 220 xvii. a sad story 231 xviii. conclusion 246 chapter i _a real detective_ mary louise stamped the snow from her feet and removed her goloshes on the porch. whistling the christmas carol her class had just sung at school, she opened the door of her house and stepped inside. her mother was sitting in an armchair in the living room, sewing. she looked up with a smile at her daughter. "how did your entertainment go?" she inquired. "swell!" replied mary louise enthusiastically. "the seniors were great. you should have seen max!" "i'd like to have seen mary louise gay," mused her mother. "but this snow--and your father had the car----" "oh, i wasn't so hot," laughed mary louise modestly. "i'll tell you who was the star of the afternoon--little rosemary dotts. she was so funny. she forgot all of her piece except the second line--'i'm going to have plum pudding!' well, she said that once, and then she stared around at the audience and repeated it. and still she couldn't think of any more, so she said it again, and rubbed her fat little tummy as she repeated it. well, she kept that up until i thought we'd just pass out laughing at her. honestly, the tears were rolling down my cheeks. her teacher had to come up to the platform and take her away." "that must have been funny," agreed mrs. gay. "well, i guess you're thankful that it's all over. how do you like this weather for your vacation?" mary louise's brown eyes sparkled with pleasure. "it's keen!" she exclaimed. she executed a little dance step in her joy. "two whole weeks with nothing to do but coast and skate and dance!" "and eat and sleep once in a while." "oh yes, of course. especially eat. what would christmas be without eating?" "what are you going to do now?" inquired her mother. "go coasting. max and norman are bringing the bobsled over in ten minutes, and jane and i are supposed to be ready." "you better hurry, then. get something to eat first. and--i forgot to tell you--your father wants to see you at half-past five this afternoon. be sure to be home in time. he said he wanted to 'consult' you." "about somebody's christmas present? i thought all our christmas shopping was finished last week." "it was. this hasn't anything to do with presents, but it concerns your christmas vacation, i believe," replied mrs. gay. "oh, that sounds exciting!" exclaimed mary louise. mr. gay was a detective on the police force, and, knowing his daughter's keen interest in the solution of crimes, he sometimes discussed his cases with her. already she had shown marked ability in the same line herself by unraveling two baffling mysteries the preceding summer. she ran out into the kitchen and poured out a glass of milk for herself and cut a piece of chocolate cake. this brisk weather certainly made her feel hungry, and the refreshments tasted good. then she dashed upstairs to change into her "snow suit," a long-trousered costume that happened to be popular with the older girls at the moment. when she was all ready she opened her side window and whistled to her chum, jane patterson, who lived across the snow-covered lawn in the house next door. "yo, jane!" she called. immediately a corresponding window flew up, and a youthful face appeared at the enclosure. "ready!" was the reply. "the boys there yet?" "i think i hear them," returned mary louise. "come on over." the windows were slammed down simultaneously, and the two girls dashed downstairs to their porches. before they had finished putting on their goloshes, the boys were at the gays' house. "left the sled at the gate," announced max miller, mary louise's especial boy-friend in riverside. "do you think the snow's packed hard enough?" demanded jane. "hope so," returned max, with a grin. "the kids were sledding last night over near cooper's woods, so they ought to have made a track. anyhow, we can have some fun. you've just got to be outdoors, weather like this." they made their way across the yard, chatting about the school entertainment, their dates for the next two weeks, and the fun which christmas always brought them. when they reached the hill where the coasting was the best, near riverside, they found many of their other high-school friends, and for two hours they alternately rode down the steep incline at a breathtaking speed and then trudged slowly back to the top. the sun was setting, and the afternoon was gone before they knew it. "oh, i must go home!" exclaimed mary louise, glancing at her wrist-watch in amazement. "it's only five o'clock," returned max complacently. "you don't eat at your house before six-thirty, do you?" "come on, mary lou!" called jane. "all aboard!" her chum shook her head. "i can't, jane. i've got to be home by five-thirty." "why the rush?" demanded max. "i have to see my father. he left word with mother for me to be there." "oh, you can see him at supper," observed jane lightly. "you don't want to break up the party, do you?" "no, of course not. no need for that at all. i'll just run along by myself. you people take some more rides." "nix," answered max loyally. "you're not going home alone past these woods. if you have to go, mary lou, i'll go too." "oh, we might as well all go," said jane. "i suppose it wouldn't hurt to be on time for a meal once in a while. still, i don't see what all the fuss is about." max looked straight into mary louise's eyes, a serious expression on his face. "mary lou," he asked, "you're not doing any more detective stuff, are you? surely last summer was enough!" the girl laughed. "yes, it was plenty. haven't i been pretty good all fall? never tried to listen in on any of dad's cases or hunt for clues!" "i should think you'd be cured," remarked jane. "the whole town could burn down before i'd go through an experience like yours last summer, to discover a criminal. and if it hadn't been for max and norman----" "i owe them my life!" said mary louise, half seriously and half smilingly. but in her heart she felt a deep sense of gratitude to her two youthful rescuers. "max could use it," remarked norman slyly. "i'll say i could," muttered the other young man fervently. "but you really don't think you'll do dangerous things again, do you, mary lou?" he asked eagerly. "you'll leave the solving of mysteries and crimes to your father hereafter, won't you?" mary louise's eyes twinkled. "i'm not making any rash promises. it sort of gets into the blood, max. there's no other thrill like it. i'd rather solve a mystery than eat.... but i really don't think there is anything for me to solve now. so you can put your mind at rest." "i'll feel safer after this talk with your father is over," returned the young man. they came to a hill, and the subject was forgotten as they all piled on the sled and rode down together. it was only a little past five-thirty when mary louise opened the door of her house. her father was already there, beside the roaring logs in the fireplace, comfortably smoking. mr. gay was a tall, impressive-looking man, with a determined jaw which announced to the world that he usually accomplished whatever he set out to do. he was proud of his daughter's detective work that summer, and delighted to have her follow in his footsteps, though he wished he might keep her always from the more gruesome features in the pursuit of crimes and criminals. "hello, mary lou!" he called, gazing admiringly at her rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes. "did you have a good time?" "wonderful!" she replied, hanging up her snowflaked coat. "i'm sorry to be late, dad, but i had a hard time getting the others home." "that's all right, daughter. it won't take long for me to tell you what i have in mind. it may take longer for you to decide upon your answer." mary louise sat down opposite him and waited expectantly, not saying another word. "there is a small hotel for women in philadelphia," he began. "it is a pretty up-to-date place, though they try to keep their rates down, because it is endowed, and supposedly was started for girls in moderate circumstances. they have been having some trouble lately, valuables have been stolen--and they are practically sure that none of the servants is guilty. so they want a detective." "a detective?" repeated mary louise breathlessly. "you mean----" "yes, i mean you, mary lou. the proposition was put up to me, and naturally i can't handle it myself. i was to find them a woman detective for a week or so, and i suggested you. the woman in charge is delighted. she said a young girl like you could work better than anyone else because no one would suspect you of being a detective. and you could have a room near hers, under her protection, you see. "now the great question is: would you want to give up your holiday for this purpose? all those engagements you have--all the fun you have planned with your young friends? christmas day alone in a strange city? would it be worth it to you?" it did not take mary louise a moment to make her decision. "i'd love it, dad!" she cried ecstatically. "but i shouldn't know how to go about it," she added hesitatingly. "what to do--how to begin." "mrs. hilliard--she is the hotel manager--would give you all the facts," explained her father. "i'd go with you and get you started. but you must consider carefully, mary lou. think of your friends and your mother and your own pleasures. you can let me know tomorrow." mary louise nodded solemnly. "i know, daddy. but this seems like the chance of a lifetime. because you see i mean to be a detective when i graduate from high school. this is something definite to go on--a real experience, which i can make use of when i apply for a job." "yes, of course. and, by the way, there is a salary attached. you are to get twenty-five dollars a week, and an extra bonus if you get any of the lost valuables back." "oh, daddy!" the exclamation was almost a whisper, so awed was mary louise at the thought of actually earning money in the work that she loved best in all the world. "when would i start?" she asked. "i could take you with me to philadelphia tomorrow morning. but that wouldn't give you much time to write notes to your friends and pack your things. i suppose you'd have a lot of engagements to break." "yes, but they don't matter." "don't you want to think it over another day? i could come back and take you after the weekend." "no, daddy, there's not a question of doubt in my mind. i want to try it and start as soon as possible. some of the crowd will be at jane's tonight, and i can tell them and phone to the others. i'll pack my clothes before i go. have you told mother yet?" "no, i haven't. i thought there was no use stirring her up if you didn't care to undertake it. but now we'll have to break the news to her, if you're sure." "you tell her, daddy!" urged mary louise. "it will be easier." "all right, i will," he promised. a voice sounded from the kitchen. "mary louise, could you do an errand for me? you'll just have time before supper." "yes, mother," replied the girl, jumping to her feet. then in a whisper to her father she added, "tell her while i'm gone." picking up her coat again, she ran out into the kitchen. "i want you to take this basket of jellies and fruit cake over to old mrs. detweiler," said mrs. gay. "i think it would be nice for them to have the things earlier this year, because they have so little at christmas time." "yes it would, mother," agreed the girl absently. "ask them whether they've heard anything from margaret," added mrs. gay. "maybe she's coming home for christmas." "she wasn't home all summer, was she, mother?" "no. and they didn't hear from her, either. they're terribly worried. i can't see why margaret detweiler would do a thing like that, when her grandparents have been so good to her all her life. why, mrs. detweiler wore the same dress for five years just so she could put margaret through high school. and the girl always seemed so grateful and affectionate, too." "maybe something happened to her," suggested mary louise. "surely they would have heard if it had.... well, run along, dear. and come right back, because dinner is practically ready." mary louise pulled on her beret and her goloshes and went out into the snow again. it was entirely dark now, but the stars were shining, and the air was just cold enough to be invigorating. how good it was to be young and lively and happy! how sorry she felt for this poor old couple whom she was visiting, missing their granddaughter so dreadfully. but perhaps everything was all right. maybe margaret detweiler was coming home for christmas. the small brick house where the old couple lived was only a few blocks from mary louise's home. half walking, half running, the girl covered the distance in less than ten minutes. she saw a low light in the living room and knocked at the door. both of the detweilers were well over seventy, and they lived modestly but comfortably on a small pension which mr. detweiler received. it had been sufficient for their needs until the death of margaret's parents obliged them to take care of their only grandchild. but they had gladly sacrificed everything to give margaret an education and a happy girlhood. she was older than mary louise by three or four years, so that the latter had never known her well. but she had always seemed like a sweet girl. mr. detweiler opened the door and insisted that mary louise come inside. both the old people loved mrs. gay and enjoyed the wonderful presents of her own making she sent every christmas. they were profuse in their thanks. "you must take off your things and get warm before you start out again," urged mrs. detweiler. "i'm really not a bit cold," replied mary louise. "and mother told me to come right back, as supper will be waiting. but she wanted me to ask you whether you had heard anything from margaret." tears came to the old lady's eyes, and she shook her head. "not a thing since last christmas," she answered sadly. "you know she didn't come home then, but she wrote to us and sent us a box of lovely presents. expensive things, so i knew she must be doing well. she had a position in a harrisburg store at first, you know, and then she told us she had gotten a fine job in a philadelphia store. that was where the last letter came from--the last we ever received from her!" "didn't you write to her?" asked mary louise. "yes, of course we did. but the letter was returned to us." "what store was she working in? i am going to philadelphia for the christmas holidays, and i might be able to find her." "i'm not sure. but the package was marked 'strawbridge and clothier' on the box. did you ever hear of that store?" "yes, i did. and i'll go there and make inquiries for you, mrs. detweiler." the old lady seized mary louise's hand gratefully. "oh, if you could only find her, mary louise," she exclaimed, "we'd be the happiest couple alive!" "i'll do the best i can," promised the girl as she turned to the door. she ran all the way home, eager to find out what her mother was going to say in reply to her father's startling proposition about her christmas vacation. chapter ii _the job_ if mrs. gay did not like the idea of losing her daughter for two weeks, at least she kept the feeling to herself. she congratulated mary louise heartily on being chosen for a difficult piece of work. "you're a lucky girl!" cried freckles, mary louise's young brother. "wish i was old enough to take the job!" "you couldn't take this one, son," his father reminded him, "because it's a woman's job. a man would be out of place in a woman's hotel. but mary lou can go about unnoticed--people will think she's just a guest." "twenty-five bucks a week!" repeated freckles. "what are you going to do with all that money, sis?" "i don't know. wait and see if i earn it. but if i do, we'll all have something nice out of it." "i wasn't asking for it!" protested the boy. "no, i know you weren't. but wait, and we'll see." she turned to her mother. "the detweilers haven't heard a thing from margaret, mother. not since they received a box last christmas from philadelphia. but i promised to try to hunt her up for them." "oh, i feel so sorry for them!" exclaimed mrs. gay. "i do hope that nothing has happened to margaret." "so do i. but, anyhow, that will give me two jobs in philadelphia." "yes," agreed her father, "and you can give that as your reason for being in philadelphia--to the other guests at the hotel--if you care to." "that's an idea," said mary louise. "and maybe this is the more important of the two. i'm sure margaret detweiler is more precious to her grandparents than money and valuables to the women at that hotel." though her mother accepted the situation calmly--owing to her father's persuasion, no doubt--mary louise found her best friends less agreeable. jane raised a howl of protest when she heard of the plan, and max miller looked so crushed and unhappy that for a moment or two mary louise even considered the idea of giving the whole thing up. "i asked you two months ago to go to the senior dance during christmas week," he said. "and you promised me faithfully, mary lou!" "i know, max. but i couldn't foresee anything like this coming up." "it spoils my whole vacation. it spoils my whole senior year, because this is the biggest affair we have.... in fact, it spoils my whole life!" "now, max, be reasonable! we'd have only a few dances together--you're class president, don't forget, and you'll need to perform your social duties--and any other girl will do as your partner." "no other girl will do at all," he protested stubbornly. "i won't take anybody else. i'll go stag. i'd stay home entirely if i weren't president!" "well, maybe i'll have the whole mystery solved in the week before christmas, and get home in time for the dance," remarked mary louise optimistically. "more likely you'll stay a week overtime," muttered the young man. "or maybe take on the job for good and never come back to riverside at all." mary louise laughed. "you certainly can dish out gloom when you want to, max! you don't suppose my parents would allow me to leave high school and take a regular job when i'm only sixteen, do you? i shan't be seventeen till next spring, you know." but max refused to be consoled, and jane patterson upheld him in his attitude. it was ridiculous, foolhardy, dumb, silly--every adjective she could think of--to go to a strange city and be all alone during christmas week when you could be having a perfectly wonderful time in riverside. "you'll get to be a dried-up old maid by the time you're twenty-five," she told her chum. "and what good will your career be to you then?" "lots of good," returned mary louise complacently. "if i'm going to be an old maid, i'll certainly want a career. but i don't see why a career should interfere with marriage. i'll have plenty of time to have it first." "all the men will be married by that time." "i'll take a chance," laughed mary louise. nothing anybody said could stop her. mary louise was more thrilled than she had ever been in her life, and she meant to put her whole soul into this job. not only for her own sake, but for her father's, as well. in her two previous experiences, personal inclination had made her unravel the mysteries, but now she felt that her father's reputation was involved. if he recommended someone who was incompetent, a failure would reflect upon him. oh, she must succeed--if it were humanly possible! she left the party early that evening and went home to finish packing her suitcase. immediately after breakfast the next morning she and her father took the train to philadelphia. the snow had ceased falling, but the country was still covered with white. the sun shone, and the landscape was lovely. mary louise had never been to philadelphia before, and she watched everything eagerly as she approached the terminal. it was a big city, in comparison with riverside or even harrisburg. but not so big as new york, which she had visited several times. "where is the hotel, daddy?" she asked as they left the train. "and what is its name?" "it is up near the parkway, and it is called 'stoddard house,' because a wealthy woman by the name of stoddard left some money in her will to build it and help keep it up. it is a very attractive place." "i wonder how many rooms it has," said his daughter. "not so many as you might expect, because i understand the whole first floor is planned for the girls' social uses. a card room, several small rooms for the girls to entertain callers, a library, a larger reception room for dancing, and the dining room are all part of the plan. but you'll soon go all over the place and see for yourself." mary louise's eyes sparkled. "it is going to be thrilling, dad!" she said. "i hope you don't run into any danger," he remarked a little apprehensively. "the philadelphia police will have your name on file--i saw to that--so the minute you call for help you can get it. and don't hesitate to phone me long distance any time you need me. i'll give you my list of addresses for the week. don't stop for expense--we can't consider money in cases like this." mary louise nodded proudly. never in her life had she been so happy. she walked along beside her father with her head high and her eyes shining. her only misgiving, as they approached the hotel, was caused by her extreme youth. she hoped fervently that nobody would guess her age. the hotel was an attractive place. set back from the street by a small terrace, its trim brick walls and white-painted doorway and windows looked cozy and home-like. what a nice place to live, mary louise thought, if you weren't lucky enough to have a home of your own! how thankful she was that the place wasn't gloomy and tumbledown like dark cedars, where she had made her first investigations as an amateur detective! nobody would be telling her that ghosts haunted the walls of stoddard house. her father opened the door for her, and she preceded him into the lobby. it was rather small, as lobbies go, with only one counter-desk, one lounge, and a couple of elevators, which you worked yourself, at the side. but doors opened out from the lobby on all sides, revealing glimpses of numerous attractive reception rooms beyond. mr. gay nodded to the girl at the desk and inquired for mrs. hilliard. in a couple of minutes a stout middle-aged woman appeared and smiled pleasantly at him. he introduced mary louise. "let's get back into my office where we can talk undisturbed," suggested mrs. hilliard, leading the way out of a door and along a hall to another smaller room. "now sit down and i'll tell you all about our difficulties." mr. gay and his daughter made themselves comfortable, and mary louise took out her notebook. the same notebook which she had made so valuable on two previous occasions. "last september was the first time we ever had any trouble at all," began mrs. hilliard. "we lost a complete set of silverware--a dozen each of knives, forks, and spoons. but as these were only plated, the loss did not run into a great deal of money, so we didn't make much fuss. i supposed that one of the maids stole them--a waitress who left the next day to be married. "but i must have been mistaken, for more things disappeared after she left. a very unusual vase we had in the library, quite valuable too, for it had belonged in the stoddard family. that made it look as if the thief were a connoisseur. "the matron and i were watching the help carefully, and we felt sure that none of them was responsible. we hadn't many guests at the time--there are only about a dozen who live here permanently. and there happened to be only a couple of transients." "what are 'transients,' mrs. hilliard?" asked mary louise, who was unfamiliar with the term. "they're the people who stop in for a day or two--or even a week--and don't stay permanently," explained the other. "i should think they'd be the people who would be most likely to steal," observed mary louise. "because they could get away with it more easily." "i thought so too, at first. but when things kept right on being stolen, and the same transients never came back, it began to look to me as if one of the permanent lodgers were responsible.... these two girls--i have forgotten their names--were here when the silverware and the vase disappeared, but they were not here in october when our watches were taken." "how many watches?" asked mary louise. "four--including my own!" "and were there any transients here at that time?" "just one. a chorus girl named mary green. she stayed a couple of days and then said her show was closing up." the young detective wrote all these facts into her notebook and asked whether that was all. "not quite," replied mrs. hilliard. "last friday miss violet granger had a valuable oil painting stolen from her room, and a purse containing fifty dollars.... so you see the situation has become pretty serious. two of our regular guests have moved away because of it, and others have threatened to do so if anything else is stolen." she looked doubtfully at mary louise. "i'm sure i don't know how you would go about an investigation like this," she said. "but perhaps you do. are you willing to try it?" "of course i am!" cried the girl eagerly. "it's just the kind of thing i love. i've put down everything you said, mrs. hilliard, and i'm all ready to go to work now. i want to see the hotel and meet the guests as soon as possible." "i think mary louise had better keep secret the fact that she is spying on them," put in mr. gay. "just let them think that she is a young friend of yours, mrs. hilliard, visiting you for her christmas vacation. as a matter of fact, she wants to look up a young girl from riverside, whose whereabouts have been lost by her relations. but use your own discretion, mrs. hilliard." "i will, mr. gay," agreed the woman. "and i will take good care of mary louise for you," she added. "that's right. no late hours--or being out alone at night, mary lou. don't forget that this is a big city, and girls can easily get lost." "i'll be careful, daddy," she promised. mr. gay kissed his daughter good-bye, and mary louise and mrs. hilliard took the elevator to the second floor. "there are ten rooms on each floor," the manager explained. "the fourth floor belongs to the help, and i have my own little three-room apartment at the back. "the third floor is reserved for our permanent guests. we have thirteen of them now--some two in a room, some alone. "our second floor is principally for transients, although sometimes guests prefer to live there permanently. one woman named mrs. macgregor, a wealthy widow, likes her room and bath so much that she has decided to keep it indefinitely. but most of the guests on the second floor come and go.... "and now, my dear, here is your room. i was going to take you into my own apartment at first, but i decided that would be too far away from everybody. here you can mix more with the other guests. of course, whenever you get lonely, you can come up with me. i have some nice books, if you care to read in the evening, and a radio. and perhaps you brought your knitting?" "i forgot all about that," replied mary louise. "but of course i do knit, and i can easily buy some wool and some needles." mrs. hilliard opened the door of the room that was to be mary louise's and handed her the key. "now i'll leave you to rest and unpack," she said. "perhaps you can come down early before dinner to meet some of the girls in the reception room. the younger ones usually play the radio and dance a little before dinner." "i'll be there!" returned mary louise joyfully. chapter iii _the book club_ mary louise was a little awe-struck as she sat down alone in her new bedroom. the first time she had ever been away from home by herself, without any friends! alone in a big city--working on a job! it seemed to her that she had suddenly grown up. she couldn't be the same care-free high-school girl who had gone coasting only yesterday afternoon with her friends. a momentary sensation of depression took hold of her as she thought of jane and the boys and the informal party she was missing that evening. it would be wonderful if jane could be with her now, sharing her experiences as she always had, helping her to solve this mystery. but such a thing was impossible, of course. jane wouldn't want to give up the christmas gayety at riverside, and besides, this was a real job. you couldn't bring your friends along on a real job as if it were only play. then she thought of that other riverside girl alone in this big city. margaret detweiler, the girl who had so mysteriously disappeared. what could have happened to her? suppose something like that should happen to mary louise! "i'm positively getting morbid," she thought, jumping up from the chair on which she was seated and beginning to unpack her things. "i'd better get dressed and go down and meet some of the young people. i'll never accomplish anything by mooning about like this." she unpacked her suitcase and hung her clothing in the closet. what a neat little room it was, with its pretty maple furniture and white ruffled curtains! so different from the common, ugly boarding-house bedroom! she was lucky to have such a nice place to live in. and mrs. hilliard was certainly a dear. she found the shower bath down the hall, and feeling refreshed, slipped into a new wine-red crãªpe, which her mother had bought her especially for the holidays. it was very becoming, and her eyes sparkled as she ran down the steps to the first floor. no use bothering with elevators when she had only one flight to go. mrs. hilliard was at the desk, talking to the secretary, who was putting on her hat and coat. "oh, mary louise," she said, "i want you to come here and register and meet miss horton. this is miss gay," she explained, "a young friend of mine. she is visiting me for the holidays, and i forgot to have her register when she came in. but as she is using room 206, and not my apartment, i think she had better register." mary louise nodded approvingly and wrote her name in the book. "you have never come across a girl named margaret detweiler, have you, miss horton?" she asked. "i want to find her if i can while i am in philadelphia." the secretary shook her head. "no, i don't think so. you might look through the book, though. i can't remember all the transients who have stopped here at stoddard house." "naturally," agreed mary louise, and she turned the pages eagerly. but of course she did not find the name. coincidences like that don't often happen, and besides, she reasoned, if she did find it, it wouldn't do her much good. that wouldn't tell her where margaret was now. "come into the music room with me," said mrs. hilliard. "i see one of our newest arrivals here--a young girl who came only last week. she can't be more than nineteen or twenty. i think you'd like each other." the girl, an attractive brunette with a gay manner and a little too much lipstick, was standing beside the radio, turning the dials. she looked up as mrs. hilliard and mary louise entered the room. "miss brooks, i want you to meet a friend of mine--miss gay," said mrs. hilliard. "perhaps i'd better say 'pauline' and 'mary louise,' because i know you young people don't bother with last names." the girls smiled at each other, and the manager went towards the door. "would you be good enough to take care of mary louise--introduce her to any of the other guests who come in--miss brooks? i have to go back to the desk, for the secretary has gone home." "certainly," agreed pauline immediately. she turned on some dance music. "what do you say we dance?" she asked mary louise. "and does everybody call you by both names?" "most people shorten it to 'mary lou.' yes, i love to dance. that's a dandy fox trot." the girls stepped off, pauline talking gayly all the time, asking mary louise all sorts of questions: where she was from, how long she was going to stay, and so on. mary louise answered pleasantly, happy to have found a new friend. it wouldn't be so bad without jane, now that she had found a girl near her own age in philadelphia, although she thought that pauline was probably nearer twenty-five than twenty. middle-aged people like mrs. hilliard weren't so good at guessing young people's ages, unless they had children of their own. "i wish i could take pauline into my confidence," thought mary louise, "and have her help me the way jane did. it would be so much nicer." but she knew that would not be wise: her father and mrs. hilliard wanted her to keep her job a secret. however, she did make it a point to ask pauline a few questions in return for those she had answered. not that she was interested in pauline as a suspect--the girl had only arrived last week, mrs. hilliard said--but because she really wanted a young companion while she was in this strange city. "my parents are dead," pauline told her. "i have a rich aunt who usually stays at the ritz when she's in philadelphia, but i don't care enough about her to live with her. i sort of flit from place to place, and write fashion articles for the magazines whenever my income runs short. i have a pretty good time." "have you ever stayed at stoddard house before?" asked mary louise. "no, i usually avoid women's places like y. w. c. a.'s and girls' clubs," was the reply. "but this sort of looked different to me, and i thought i'd give it a try. it's pretty good, don't you think?" "i like it very much." by this time half-a-dozen people had entered the room, and two more couples were dancing. suddenly mary louise felt bewildered. how could she possibly get to know so many people in the short space of two weeks and hope to find the thief? the music changed, and the other dancers left the room. apparently the dining-room doors were open. "gosh, i couldn't introduce you to any of those women, mary lou," said pauline. "i don't know any of their names." "oh, that's all right," agreed the young detective. "i'm not feeling a bit lonely." "let's go eat--or are you supposed to wait for mrs. hilliard?" "no, she told me not to. she's such a busy person, she has to snatch her meals whenever she can. but i'll be with her in the evenings." "exciting life!" observed pauline. "maybe i can rake up a date for you later. i've got one myself for tonight, and i'll sound ben out. if he can get hold of another fellow for tomorrow night----" "oh, i don't think i better make any plans," interrupted mary louise. "though i do appreciate it a lot, pauline. but you see i am mrs. hilliard's guest. i have to consult her." "o.k." the two girls went into the dining room, an attractive place, with tables for two and four persons, and chose one of the smaller ones. "we don't want any of the old dames parking with us," observed pauline, glancing at a couple of elderly women just entering the room. "they cramp my style." "rather," laughed mary louise, though she secretly wished she might meet some of the "old dames," as pauline called them. any one of them might be the thief. pauline brooks was very different from the girls of riverside--not nearly so refined, mary louise thought--but she was a gay companion and made witty remarks about everything. no doubt she was a clever writer. just as the girls finished their excellent dinner, mrs. hilliard came into the room. pauline stood up. "i'll be running along, mary lou," she said. "now you have company i better leave you and get dressed." mary louise smiled. "have a good time--and i'll see you tomorrow." "not too early!" warned pauline. "i'll probably be dancing till the small hours tonight." she left the room, and mrs. hilliard sat down in her place. "will you stay here with me while i eat my dinner, mary louise?" she asked. "yes, indeed," replied the girl. "and did you enjoy your dinner?" "it was wonderful! just like a fine hotel." "i think stoddard house is a fine hotel--on a small scale, of course.... and now i have a suggestion to offer for tonight," she continued as she ate her dinner. "some of the regular guests here have a book club which meets once a week. i seldom go to the meetings--i never seem to have time--but i thought i could take you tonight, and in that way you would get acquainted with some of these people. though i don't suppose you'll find the person we're looking for among them. thieves aren't often book lovers." "but it will help me to get the people sorted out, and i am so at sea," said mary louise. "i think it is a fine idea, mrs. hilliard. what time does the club meet?" "seven-thirty. but we'll go to my room first, and you can copy down the names of all the guests, and their room numbers." "oh, that's great!" she cried, thankful to be getting at something definite to start with. as soon as mrs. hilliard finished her dinner she and mary louise took the elevator to the fourth floor and walked down the long corridor to the back of the hotel. here was mrs. hilliard's own private apartment, a cozy suite of three rooms and a bath. mary louise settled herself comfortably in an armchair and took out her notebook. "do you want the names of the maids?" asked mrs. hilliard as she picked up some papers from her desk. "no, not yet," replied the girl. "you believe in their innocence, so i think i'd rather study the guests first." mrs. hilliard handed her a paper, a methodical list of the bedrooms on the second and third floors, and mary louise copied it, just as it was, into her notebook: "second floor: room 200 pauline brooks. 202 may and lucy fletcher. 204 206 mary louise gay. 208 201 mrs. b. b. macgregor. 203 205 anne starling. 207 209 third floor: room 300 miss henrietta stoddard. 302 mrs. weinberger. 304 miss hortense weinberger. 306 dorothy semple. 308 miss hastings. 301 ruth and evelyn walder. 303 305 mrs. moyer. 307 309 miss violet granger." "you have quite a lot of empty rooms, haven't you, mrs. hilliard?" inquired mary louise, when she had finished her copy. "yes. it's always dull at this time of year. and we never are very full. after all, it's rather expensive, with wages on the scale they are now." "how much do you charge?" "fourteen dollars a week. but that doesn't cover our expenses." "no, i'm sure it doesn't. everything is lovely--i didn't tell you how much i like my room--and the food couldn't be better." "well, we have an income from the stoddard estate which helps to pay expenses," mrs. hilliard explained. "there is a woman here named miss henrietta stoddard," observed mary louise, looking at her list. "is she any relation of the founder?" "yes, she is her niece. old mrs. stoddard provided in her will that henrietta should be allowed to live here free all her life, as long as she was single or a widow." "how old a woman is she?" "about forty-five now, i should judge. and very bitter. she expected to inherit her aunt's money, and she even tried to break the will. she hasn't any money--i think she does odd jobs like taking care of children and doing hand sewing for her spending money and her clothing." "hm!" remarked mary louise. mrs. hilliard smiled. "i know what you are thinking--and i kind of think so myself. that miss stoddard is the thief. but you'd never believe it to look at her. she's prim and proper and austere." "you never can tell," said mary louise. "no, that's true.... well, you'll have a good chance to judge for yourself tonight. miss stoddard is the one who is in charge of the book club. there is a library fund in the endowment, and these women decide upon what to buy." "tell me which of these guests belong to the club," urged the girl. "all the regular residents belong, except miss violet granger. she is an artist--she draws for magazines and for an advertising firm--and she always keeps apart from the other guests. she is the one from whom the oil painting and the fifty dollars were stolen." mary louise nodded and put a check beside miss granger's name. "now," she said, "i ought to check the names of all the other people who have had valuables stolen. who else was there?" "well, as i told you, the hotel itself lost the silverware and the chinese vase. then there were four watches stolen--my own, mrs. weinberger's, and the two walder girls.... by the way, they are lovely girls, mary louise--they've lived here a couple of years, and i know their families--i'm sure you're going to like them.... "and the final--at least, i hope it's the final robbery--was the painting and the money from miss granger's room. but i have a feeling that isn't the end, and the guests are all nervous too. it's hurting our business--and--making my own job seem uncertain." mary louise closed her notebook thoughtfully and sighed. "i'll do the best i can, mrs. hilliard," she promised solemnly. ten minutes later they took the elevator to the first floor, and mrs. hilliard led the way into the library. it was a cheerful room with an open fireplace, a number of comfortable chairs and built-in bookcases around the walls. miss henrietta stoddard, a plain-looking woman with spectacles, sat at the table on one side, with a pile of books and a notebook beside her. she was talking to an elderly woman and a younger one. mrs. hilliard introduced mary louise. "mrs. weinberger and miss weinberger," she said, and mary louise immediately placed them as the mother and daughter who lived in rooms 302 and 304. the daughter was complaining to miss stoddard. "i don't see why we can't have some more exciting books," she said. "something a little more youthful." miss stoddard drew the corners of her severe mouth together. "we buy just what the club votes for," she replied icily. "because the younger members never come to put in their votes!" returned the younger woman petulantly. "i asked the walder girls to come to the meeting tonight, but of course they had dates." she turned eagerly to mary louise. "you can put in a vote, miss gay!" she exclaimed. "will you suggest something youthful?" mary louise smiled. "i shan't be here long enough to belong to the club," she answered. "i'm just visiting mrs. hilliard for the vacation." "you're a schoolgirl?" "yes. a junior at riverside high school." "never heard of it," returned miss weinberger, abruptly and scornfully. "i'm afraid it's not famous--like yale or harvard," remarked mary louise, with a sly smile. miss weinberger went on talking to the others in her complaining, whining tone. mary louise disliked her intensely, but she didn't believe she would ever steal anything. "what time is it?" demanded miss stoddard sharply. "i don't know. my watch was stolen, you know," replied mrs. weinberger, looking accusingly at mrs. hilliard, as if it were her fault. "you never heard anything about those watches, did you?" inquired miss stoddard. "no," replied the manager, keeping her eyes away from mary louise. "there was a night watchman that night, but he said he didn't see any burglar or hear any disturbance." "the night watchman couldn't watch four watches," mary louise remarked facetiously. "yes, there were four stolen," agreed mrs. weinberger. "i suppose mrs. hilliard told you?" mary louise flushed: she must be more careful in the future. "i think that bleached-blond chorus girl took them," observed miss weinberger. "she was here then and left the next day. that name of hers was probably assumed. 'mary green!' too common!" mary louise wanted to write this in her notebook, but caution bade her wait till the meeting was over. the door opened, and an old lady came in, leaning on her cane. she was past eighty, but very bright and cheerful, with beautiful gray hair and a charming smile. mrs. hilliard sprang up and offered her the best chair in the room and introduced mary louise to her. her name was mrs. moyer. now the meeting began: the guests returned the books they had borrowed and discussed new ones to purchase. at half-past nine a maid brought in tea and cakes, and the evening ended sociably. thankful to slip off alone to write her observations in her notebook, mary louise went to her own room. chapter iv _a midnight visitor_ mary louise put on her kimono and stretched herself out comfortably on her pretty bed, with her notebook in her hands. what a lovely room it was! what a charming little bedside table, with its silk-shaded lamp, its dainty ice-water jug--and its telephone. for that convenience especially she was thankful: she'd far rather have a telephone than a radio. little did she realize how soon she was to find that instrument so useful! she opened her notebook at the page upon which she had written the guests' names, and counted them. fourteen people besides herself, and of that number she had met only five. rather a slow beginning! "if i only had jane here, she'd know everybody in the place by now," she thought wistfully. "jane is clever, but she does jump at conclusions. maybe i'm better off alone." she glanced at the notebook again and resolved not to bother yet with the names of people she hadn't met. she'd concentrate instead upon the five that she did know. she began at the beginning with the girl with whom she had danced and eaten supper. "pauline brooks couldn't be guilty," she decided. "because she came to stoddard house only a few days ago for the first time. after the first two robberies had taken place. so she's out.... "now i'm not so sure about miss henrietta stoddard. she might even believe she had a right to steal things, because she was cheated out of her inheritance. yes--i'll watch miss stoddard carefully. "next those two weinberger women. hardly possible, when the mother lost her own watch. of course, thieves sometimes pretend to have things stolen, just to establish their innocence, the same way murderers often wound themselves--for alibis. but, just the same, i believe those women are honest. they're pretty well off, too, to judge from their clothes and their jewelry." she came to the last person she had met--the old lady who had come to the book-club meeting with a cane--mrs. moyer. mary louise's face broke into a smile. nobody in her right senses could suspect a person like that! that was all. except the secretary, miss horton, whom she had met at the desk. mary louise closed the notebook and put it on the table beside her. that was enough for tonight; now she'd try to get some sleep. she put out the light and opened the window. snow still covered everything except the streets and the sidewalks, and the moon shone over the roofs of the buildings beyond. right below her side window was a fire escape, which made her feel somehow safe and secure. it was not nearly so quiet here as in riverside; automobile horns honked now and again, and the sound of trolleys from the street in front was plainly heard. but mary louise was not worried about the noise, and a few minutes after she was in bed she was sound asleep. how many hours later she was awakened by a dream about margaret detweiler, mary louise had no way of knowing, for she had left her watch on the bureau. she thought she had found margaret alone in an empty house, cold and starving to death, and she was trying to remember just what principles of first aid to apply, when she awoke and found it was only a dream. but something, she realized instantly, had awakened her. something--somebody--was in her room! her first sensation was one of terror. a ghost--no, a gypsy, perhaps--who would clap a gag over her mouth and bind her hand and foot! but before she uttered a sound she remembered where she was and why she was there. a delirious feeling of triumph stole over her, making her believe that success was at hand for her in her sleuthing. if this person were really the stoddard house sneak thief, mary louise could lie still and watch her, for the room was light enough from the moon and the street lamps to show up the intruder quite plainly. ever so cautiously, without turning her head or making any kind of sound, she rolled her eyes toward her bureau, where she could sense the intruder to be. her reward was immediate: she saw a short person in dark clothing standing there, carefully picking up some object. "my purse--and my watch!" mary louise thought grimly. the little engraved watch her father had given her last christmas. the figure turned around and silently crept towards the door. but sudden, swift dismay took possession of mary louise, making her tremble with fear and disappointment. the thief was not a woman, whom she could hope to identify as a guest at stoddard house. he was a man! he turned the key in the lock so quietly that only the tiniest click could be heard. then, just as softly, he closed the door again and vanished into the hall. mary louise gasped audibly with both relief and disappointment. relief that he was gone, disappointment that he was a common, ordinary burglar whom she could not hope to catch. nevertheless, she meant to do what she could, so she turned on her light and reached for the telephone beside her bed. in another moment she had told her story to the police, and, so perfect were their radio signals, in less than five minutes one of their cars stood at the door of the hotel. meanwhile, mary louise had hastily thrown on a few clothes and run down the stairs to warn the night watchman. the halls were lighted all night, as well as the lobby of the hotel; she did not see how the burglar could escape without attracting the watchman's notice. she found him quietly smoking a pipe on the doorstep. he said he had seen nobody. "i think the burglar came in through the window from the fire escape," mary louise said. "don't see how he could," returned the man. "i've been around there at the side for the last half hour. nobody came along that alley." baffled, mary louise summoned mrs. hilliard on the house phone, and by the time she stepped out of the elevator the two policemen had arrived. "the thief must be hiding somewhere in the building," concluded mary louise. "waiting for a chance to slip away." "we'll have to make a search," announced mrs. hilliard. "you guard the doorway and the stairway, mike," she said to the watchman, "and one of you officers go around the first floor and see whether the windows are all securely locked--in case the burglar escaped through one of them. then the other officer can come with miss gay and me while we search the floors above." immediately the plan was put into effect, and the searchers began on the second floor, looking first in the corridors and closets and empty rooms, then knocking at the doors of the guests' rooms. pauline brooks' door was the first they went to, and here a light shone under the cracks. "sorry to disturb you, miss brooks," called mrs. hilliard, "but a sneak thief has gotten into the hotel, and we want to find him. may we come in?" "just a minute," replied the girl. "till i put on my bath robe. i was out late--at a dance, and i'm just undressing now." "what time is it, anyway?" asked mary louise. "you see, my watch was stolen." "it's only a few minutes after one," replied the policeman. a moment later pauline unlocked the door, and the three people entered. the room was very untidy: clothing had been flung about everywhere, and two open suitcases occupied the chairs. "look in the closet," advised mrs. hilliard. "there's nobody there," answered pauline. "i've just been in it. but you might look under the bed. that's where men always hide in the bedroom farces." "you wouldn't think this was a 'bedroom farce' if you'd just lost your watch and your purse," remarked mary louise sharply. "i'm sorry, mary lou," apologized pauline. "you see, i didn't know that _you_ were the victim." "we've got to get along," interrupted the officer. "there's nobody here--i'm sure of that." they passed on to the other rooms, waking up the guests when it was necessary, apologizing, explaining--and finding nobody. in only two of the rooms besides pauline's had they found lights burning. miss granger, the artist, was still working on some drawings she was making for a magazine, and miss henrietta stoddard, who explained that she was "such a poor sleeper," was reading a book. but both these women said that they had heard no disturbance. when the search was completed and the group returned to the first floor of the hotel, the watchman and the officer had nothing to report. the windows on the ground floor were all securely locked, the latter announced, and the former said that no one had escaped by the front door or the fire escape. "it's either an inside job or your young friend dreamed it," one of the policemen said to mrs. hilliard. "it couldn't be an inside job," returned the manager. "for there isn't any man who lives in the hotel." "and i didn't dream it," protested mary louise. "because my watch and my purse are gone, and my door was unlocked. i locked it myself when i went to bed last night." "well, we'll keep an eye on the building all night," promised the policeman as he opened the door. "let us know if you have any more trouble." when the men had gone, mrs. hilliard persuaded mary louise to come to her apartment for the rest of the night. she had a couch-bed in her sitting room which she often used for her own guests. mary louise agreed, but it was a long while before she fell asleep again. she kept listening for sounds, imagining she heard footsteps in the hall, or windows opening somewhere in the building. but at last she dozed off, and slept until mrs. hilliard's alarm awakened her the next morning. "you had better go down to the dining room for your breakfast, mary louise," said the manager. "i just have orange juice and coffee, up here--if i go into the dining room i am tempted to overeat, and i put on weight." "all right," agreed mary louise. "i want to go to my room for fresh clothing anyway--i just grabbed these things last night in a hurry.... mrs. hilliard, what do you think of last night's occurrence?" "i don't know what to think. i was convinced that all our robberies before this were inside jobs, because our watchman was so careful. but now i don't know. of course, this may be something entirely different. we'll see if anything happens tonight. you're sure it was a man, mary louise?" "positive. he wore a cap pulled down over his head, and a mask over his eyes. he had on a dark suit--sneakers, too, for i couldn't hear him walk." "did he have a gun?" "i don't know, because i pretended to be asleep, so he didn't need to defend himself. he got out so quickly. where could he have vanished to?" mrs. hilliard shook her head with a sigh. "i haven't the slightest idea," she said. "of course, he might have had an accomplice," mused mary louise. "some woman may have let him out her window to the fire escape. still, the watchman was keeping his eye on that...." mary louise's tone became dreary. "i guess i'm not much use to you, mrs. hilliard. i don't think i ought to take the salary." "you mean you want to go home, mary louise?" "oh no! i wouldn't leave now for anything. but i mean i probably shan't be any help in finding a thief like that. so i oughtn't to accept any pay." "don't worry about that," returned mrs. hilliard, patting mary louise's arm affectionately. "you just do the best you can. nobody can do more. i'd really like it proved that none of our guests is the thief. i'd much rather find out that it was a common burglar." reassured, mary louise went to her own room and dressed. by the time she reached the dining room the guests who held positions had already eaten their breakfasts and gone, and the others, who had nothing to do all day, had not yet put in an appearance. it was only a little after eight, but the dining room was deserted. "i wish i had somebody to talk to," she thought sadly as she seated herself at a little table by a window. the sunlight streamed in through the dainty ruffled curtains, there were rosebuds in the center of her table, and a menu from which she could order anything she wanted, but mary louise was not happy. she felt baffled and lonely. she ordered grapefruit first, and just as she finished it, mrs. weinberger came into the room. she made her way straight to mary louise's table. "may i sit with you, miss gay?" she asked. "my daughter won't eat breakfast for fear of gaining a pound, and it's so lonesome eating all by yourself." mary louise smiled cordially. "i think so too, mrs. weinberger," she replied. "i'll be delighted to have you." "do you feel nervous after last night? it must have been terrible to be right in the room when the burglar got in. i was away when my watch was stolen." "tell me about it, mrs. weinberger," urged mary louise. "i was over in mrs. moyer's room," the woman explained, after she had given her order to the waitress, "and my daughter went out of my room and couldn't remember whether she locked the door or not. anyway, i discovered that my watch was gone when i was dressing for dinner." she sighed. "it was very valuable--a present from my late husband." mary louise had an inspiration. "i believe i'll visit some pawnshops today, to ask about mine," she said, "and i can inquire about yours at the same time, if you want me to, mrs. weinberger." "yes, indeed! but i am afraid it is too late now. mine was an old-fashioned watch--we used to wear them pinned on our dresses, with a brooch. mine had seven diamonds on it in front, and my initials 'e. w.' in tiny pearls on the back." "did you advertise?" "yes, of course. but nothing came of it. my daughter thinks that transient guest--a chorus girl named mary green--stole it. we tried to trace her, but we couldn't find her name with any of the theatrical companies in town at the time." "she never came back here to stoddard house?" "oh no." "and were the other watches stolen the same day?" "yes. mrs. hilliard's was taken during the supper hour, but she had laid it down on the desk, so that was her own carelessness. but the walder girls had theirs taken while they were asleep--just as yours was." "what were theirs like?" "plain gold wrist-watches, with their initials--r. w. and e. w. their names are ruth and evelyn." "well, i'll do what i can," concluded mary louise. "and now let's talk about something pleasant." so for the rest of the meal she and mrs. weinberger discussed books and the current moving pictures. chapter v _another robbery_ mary louise had three separate plans in view for the morning. first, she would visit as many pawnshops as possible in the vicinity and ask to see their displays of watches. second, she meant to go to strawbridge and clothier's department store and find out whether margaret detweiler had worked there, and why and when she had left. and third, she wanted to find some pretext to call on miss henrietta stoddard in her own room and observe her closely. as she walked out of the dining room she met mrs. hilliard going towards her little office on the first floor. "could i see you for a moment, mrs. hilliard?" she inquired. "certainly, my dear. come into the office with me." mary louise followed her into the room, but she did not sit down. she knew how busy the hotel manager would be on saturday morning. "i have decided to visit some pawnshops, mrs. hilliard," she said. "i have my own watch to identify, and i got a pretty good description of mrs. weinberger's today. but i want you to tell me a little more about the other things that were stolen." "the silverware had an ivy-leaf pattern, and the initials 's. h.'--for stoddard house--engraved on it," replied the woman. "the vase was an old chinese one, of an odd size, with decorations in that peculiar red they so often use. i believe i can draw it better than i can describe it. but i feel sure you'd never find it in a pawnshop. whoever stole that sold it to an antique dealer." however, she picked up her pencil and roughly sketched the vase for mary louise, giving her a good idea of its appearance. at the same time she described the painting which had been stolen from miss granger's room--an original by the american artist whistler. mary louise wrote all these facts in her notebook and kept the drawing. "that's fine, mrs. hilliard," she said as she opened the door. "i'm going out now, and i'll be back for lunch." "good-bye and good luck!" mary louise went to her room, and from the telephone book beside her bed she listed the addresses of all the pawnshops in the neighborhood. this was going to be fun, she thought--at least, if she didn't lose her nerve. she hesitated for a few minutes outside of the first shop she came to. the iron bars guarding the window, the three balls in the doorway, seemed rather forbidding. for mary louise had never been inside a pawnshop. "i can say i want to buy a watch," she thought. "i do, too--i certainly need one. but i'm afraid i'd rather have a brand-new ingersoll than a gold one that has belonged to somebody else. still, i don't have to tell the shopkeeper that." boldly she opened the door and went in. she had expected to find an old man with spectacles and a skullcap, the typical pawnbroker one sees in the moving pictures. but there was nothing different about this man behind the counter from any ordinary storekeeper. "good-morning, miss," he said. "what can i do for you today?" "i want to look at ladies' watches," replied mary louise steadily. the man nodded and indicated a glass case on the opposite side of the shop. mary louise examined its contents intently. "the fact is," she said, "my own watch was stolen. i thought maybe it might have been pawned, and i'd look around in the shops first, before i buy one, in the hope of finding it." "recently?" "yes. last night." the man smiled. "if it had been pawned last night or this morning, you wouldn't find it offered for sale yet. we have to hold all valuables until the time on their tickets expires." "oh, of course! how stupid of me.... well, could you tell me whether any ladies' watches have been pawned here since midnight last night?" "yes, we've taken in two," replied the man graciously. "and i don't mind showing them to you. i'm not in league with any thieves. i'm an honest man." "i'm sure of it," agreed mary louise instantly. but she was disappointed upon sight of the watches. neither of them was hers, nor did either remotely resemble mrs. weinberger's or any of the other three stolen from stoddard house. "thank you ever so much," she said finally. "i think i'll look around a little more and ask about my own, and if i can't find it, i may come back and buy one of yours. several of those you have are very pretty." thoroughly satisfied with her interview, she walked down the street until she came to another shop. it was on the corner of an alley, and just as she approached the intersection she noticed a woman in an old-fashioned brown suit coming out of the side door of the pawnshop. the woman glanced about furtively, as if she did not care to be seen, and caught mary louise's eyes. with a gasp of surprise, the girl recognized her immediately. it was miss henrietta stoddard! before mary louise could even nod to her, the woman had slipped across the street and around the corner, lost amid the saturday morning crowd that was thronging the busy street. mary louise repressed a smile and entered the pawnshop by the front door. she repeated her former experience, with this difference, however: she did not find the shopkeeper nearly so cordial or so willing to co-operate. finally she asked point-blank what the woman in the brown suit had just pawned. "i can't see that that's any of your business, miss," he replied disagreeably. "but i will tell you that it wasn't a watch." mary louise wasn't sure that she believed him. but there was nothing that she could do without enlisting the help of her father. she visited four other shops without any success, and finally decided to abandon the plan. it was too hopeless, too hit-or-miss, to expect to find those watches by that kind of searching. far better, she concluded, to concentrate on observing the actions of the people at stoddard house. especially miss henrietta stoddard herself! so she turned her steps to the big department store where she believed margaret detweiler had worked till last christmas and inquired her way to the employment office. the store was brilliantly decorated for christmas, and crowds of late shoppers filled the aisles and the elevators, so that it was not easy to reach her destination. nor was the employment manager's office empty. even at this late date, applicants were evidently hoping for jobs, and mary louise had to sit down and wait her turn. it was half an hour later that she found herself opposite the manager's desk. mechanically a clerk handed her an application to fill out. "i don't want a position," mary louise said immediately. "i want to see whether i can get any information about a girl named margaret detweiler who, i think, worked in your store up to last christmas. would it be too much trouble to look her up in your files? i know you're busy----" "oh, that's all right," replied the manager pleasantly, and she repeated the name to the clerk. "you see," explained mary louise, "margaret detweiler's grandparents haven't heard from her for a year, and they're dreadfully worried. margaret is all they have in the world." the clerk found the card immediately. "miss detweiler did work here for six months last year," she stated. "in the jewelry department. and then she was dismissed for stealing." "stealing!" repeated mary louise, aghast at such news. "why, i can't believe it! margaret was the most upright, honest girl at home; she came from the best people. how did it happen?" "i remember her now," announced the employment manager. "a pretty, dark-eyed girl who always dressed rather plainly. yes, i was surprised too. but she had been ill, i believe, and perhaps she wasn't quite herself. maybe she had doctor's bills and so on. it was too bad, for if she had come to me i could have helped her out with a loan." "was she sent to prison?" asked mary louise in a hoarse whisper. oh, the disgrace of the thing! it would kill old mrs. detweiler if she ever found it out. "no, she wasn't. we found the stolen article in miss detweiler's shoe. at least, one of the things she took--a link bracelet. we didn't recover the ring, but a wealthy woman, a customer who happened to be in the jewelry department at the time, evidently felt sorry for miss detweiler and offered to pay for the ring. we didn't let her, but of course we had to dismiss the girl." "you haven't any idea where margaret went--or what she did?" "only that this woman--her name was mrs. ferguson, i remember, and she lived at the benjamin franklin hotel--promised miss detweiler a job. so perhaps everything is all right now." "i hope so!" exclaimed mary louise fervently. and thanking the woman profusely she left the office and the store. but she had her misgivings. if everything had turned out all right, why hadn't margaret written to her grandparents? who was this mrs. ferguson, and why had she done this kindness for an unknown girl? mary louise meant to find out, if she could. she inquired her way to the benjamin franklin hotel and asked at the desk for mrs. ferguson. but she was informed that no such person lived there. "would you have last year's register?" she asked timidly. she hated to put everybody to so much trouble. the clerk smiled: nobody could resist mary louise. "i'll get it for you," he said. after a good deal of searching she found a mrs. h. r. ferguson registered at the hotel on the twenty-third of the previous december, with only the indefinite address of chicago, illinois, after her name. margaret detweiler did not appear in the book at all: evidently she had never stayed at the benjamin franklin hotel. with a sigh of disappointment, mary louise thanked the clerk and left. nothing had been gained by that visit. "it must be lunch time," she decided, after glancing in vain at her wrist, where she was accustomed to wear her watch. "i guess i'll go back to the house." the minute she entered the door of stoddard house, the most terrible commotion greeted her. a woman's shriek rang through the air; someone cried out, "catch her--she's fainted!" the elevator doors slammed, and people appeared from everywhere, in wild confusion. mary louise dashed through the door to the desk just in time to see mrs. macgregor, the wealthy widow who lived in room 201, drop down on the bench beside the elevator. women pressed all around her prostrate figure: guests, maids, mrs. hilliard, and the secretary, miss horton, who offered a glass of water to the unconscious woman. but nobody seemed to know what it was all about. presently mrs. macgregor opened her eyes and accepted a sip of the water. then she glared accusingly at mrs. hilliard. "i've been robbed!" she cried. "five hundred dollars and a pair of diamond earrings!" chapter vi _saturday afternoon_ "do you feel any better now, mrs. macgregor?" inquired mrs. hilliard, as the stricken woman sat upright on the bench. "better!" she repeated angrily. "i'll never feel better till i get my money back again." mary louise repressed a smile. macgregor was a scotch name. "now, tell us how it happened," urged mrs. hilliard. "when did you first miss the money?" "just a few minutes ago, when i came out of my bath." she became hysterical again. "lock the doors!" she cried. "search everybody! call the police!" mary louise caught mrs. hilliard's eye. "shall i?" she asked. mrs. hilliard nodded. "and tell the janitor to lock the doors and station himself at the front to let the guests in who come home, for the girls will be coming into lunch from work. today's a half holiday." by the time mary louise had returned, she found the crowd somewhat dispersed. the servants had gone back to their work, but several new arrivals had joined mrs. hilliard and mrs. macgregor. the two walder girls, about whom mary louise had heard so much, were there, and mrs. hilliard introduced them. they were both very attractive, very much the same type as mary louise's own friends in riverside. much more real, she thought, than pauline brooks, with her vivid make-up and her boastful talk. "that is a great deal of money to keep in your room, mrs. macgregor," evelyn walder said. "especially after all the robberies we've been having at stoddard house." "that's just it! it was on account of these terrible goings-on that i took the money and the diamonds from a little safe i have and got them ready to put into the bank. somebody was too quick for me. but i'm pretty sure i know who it was: ida, the chambermaid!" "oh, no!" protested mrs. hilliard. "ida has been with me two years, and i know she's honest." "send for her," commanded mrs. macgregor. while they were waiting for the girl to appear, mrs. macgregor explained more calmly just what had happened. "i had the money and the diamonds in a bag on my bureau," she said. "i was running the water in my bathroom when i heard a knock at the door. i unlocked it, and ida came in with clean towels and a fresh bureau cover. while she was fixing the bureau cover, i hurried back to the bathroom, put the towels away, and turned off the water. my bath salts fell out of the closet when i opened the door to put the towels away, so i was delayed two or three minutes gathering them up. i heard ida go out and close the door behind her, and i got into my bath. when i came back into the bedroom, my bag was gone." "but you didn't scream immediately," observed mrs. hilliard. "you must have waited to dress." "i had dressed in the bathroom, before i knew the bag was stolen." "wasn't anybody else in your room all morning, mrs. macgregor?" mary louise couldn't help asking. "only miss stoddard. she had gone out to buy me some thread--she does my mending for me--and she stopped in on her return from the store and took some of my lingerie to her room." at this moment the chambermaid, a girl of about twenty-two, approached the group. either she knew nothing about the robbery, or else she was a splendid actress, for she appeared entirely unconcerned. "you wanted me, mrs. hilliard?" she inquired. "listen to the innocent baby!" mocked mrs. macgregor scornfully. ida looked puzzled, and mrs. hilliard briefly explained the situation. the girl denied the whole thing immediately. "there wasn't any bag on the bureau, mrs. macgregor," she said. "i know, because i changed the cover." "maybe it wasn't on the bureau," admitted mrs. macgregor. "but it was somewhere in the room. you're going to be searched!" the girl looked imploringly at mrs. hilliard, but the latter could not refuse to grant mrs. macgregor's demand. "i can prove i didn't take any bag," said ida. "by miss brooks. i went right into her room next and made her bed. she can tell you i did. she was just going out--i'm sure she'll remember." "is miss brooks here?" "i think she left the hotel about fifteen minutes ago," stated miss horton, the secretary. "before mrs. macgregor screamed." "well, we can ask her when she comes back," said mrs. hilliard. "where were you, ida, when i sent for you?" "still in miss brooks' room," replied the girl tearfully. "i was running the vacuum cleaner, so i never heard the disturbance." mrs. hilliard turned to mrs. macgregor. "if ida did steal your bag," she said, "she would have to have it concealed on her person. mary louise, you take ida to my apartment and have her undress and prove that she isn't hiding anything." without a word the two girls did as they were told and took the elevator to the fourth floor. mary louise felt dreadfully sorry for her companion, who by this time was shaking and sobbing. she put her arm through ida's as they entered mrs. hilliard's apartment. "you know, ida," she said, "if you did do this it would be lots easier for you if you'd own up now. the police are bound to find out anyhow, sooner or later." "but i didn't, miss!" protested the other girl. "i never stole anything in my life. i was brought up different. i'm a good girl, and my mother would die if she knew i was even accused of stealing." instinctively mary louise believed her. nevertheless, she had to do as she was told, and she carefully made the search. but she found nothing. satisfied, she took the girl back to mrs. hilliard. the police had already arrived, and more of the hotel guests had returned. miss stoddard was sitting beside mrs. macgregor, and mary louise longed to suggest that she--or rather her room--be searched. however, the police attended to that. one officer took each floor, and everybody's room was systematically gone through. but the valuable bag could not be found. the doors of the hotel were unlocked, and everybody was allowed to go in and out again as she pleased. mary louise watched eagerly for pauline brooks, hoping that she would prove ida's alibi, but miss brooks did not return. undoubtedly she had a date somewhere--a lively girl like pauline could not imagine wasting her saturday afternoon on "females," as she would call the guests at stoddard house. the dining-room doors were thrown open, and mary louise and mrs. hilliard went in to their lunch together. the older woman seemed dreadfully depressed. "mrs. macgregor is leaving this afternoon," she said. "and the weinbergers go tomorrow. if this keeps up, the hotel will be empty in another week.... and i'll lose my position." "oh, i hope not," replied mary louise. "everybody can't leave because things are stolen, for there are robberies everywhere. the big hotels all employ private detectives, and yet i've read that an awful lot of things are taken just the same. some people make their living just by robbing hotel guests. so, no matter where people go, they run a risk. even in homes of their own." "yes, that's true. but stoddard house has been particularly unlucky, and you know things like this get around." "i'm going to do my best to find out who is the guilty person," mary louise assured her. "and this morning's robbery ought to narrow down my suspects to those who were at the house at the time. at least, if you can help me by telling me who they are." "yes, i think i can. besides mrs. macgregor and myself, there were only miss stoddard, the two weinbergers, mrs. moyer, and miss brooks. all the rest of the guests have positions and were away at work." mary louise took her notebook and checked off the list. "that does make it easier, unless one of the help is guilty. they were all here at the time.... but of course the thief may be that same man who stole my watch." "yes, that's possible, especially if he is an accomplice of one of the guests--of miss stoddard, for instance." "yes. i've been thinking about her. she was in mrs. macgregor's room, you know." but mary louise did not tell mrs. hilliard about seeing miss stoddard sneaking out of the pawnshop. "you better go to a movie this afternoon, mary louise, and forget all about it for the time being," advised the manager. "shan't i ask the walder girls to take you along? they usually go to a show." "no, thanks, mrs. hilliard. it's very thoughtful of you, but i want to go back to the department store and make another inquiry about the lost girl i'm trying to trace. i'd like a chance to talk to miss stoddard too, and to pauline brooks when she comes back. maybe she saw the thief, if she came out of her room when ida said she did." "well, do as you like. only don't worry too much, dear." mary louise finished her lunch and went out into the open air again. now that she was becoming a little more familiar with the city, she thought she would like to walk along chestnut and walnut streets, to have a look at the big hotels and the expensive shops. the downtown district was thronged with people, shopping, going to matinã©es, hurrying home for their weekend holiday; the confusion was overwhelming after the quiet of riverside. but mary louise enjoyed the excitement: it would be something to write home about. at broad and walnut streets she stopped to admire the ritz hotel, a tall, imposing building of white stone, where pauline brooks had said that her aunt usually stayed when she was visiting philadelphia. what fun it would be to have luncheon or tea there some day! if only she had somebody to go with. perhaps pauline would take her, if she asked her. mary louise wanted to be able to tell the riverside girls about it. half a block farther on she saw pauline herself coming towards her, accompanied by a stout, stylishly dressed woman and a very blond girl of her own age. "that must be pauline's aunt," mary louise thought, noticing what a hard, unpleasant face the woman had, how unattractive she was, in spite of her elegant clothes. "no wonder pauline doesn't want to live with her!" "hello, pauline!" she said brightly. it was wonderful to meet somebody she knew in this big, strange city. pauline, who had not noticed mary louise, looked up in surprise. "oh, hello--uh--emmy lou," she replied. mary louise laughed and stood still. "we've had all sorts of excitement at stoddard house, pauline. i want to tell you about it." the woman and the blond girl continued to walk on, but pauline stopped for a moment. "you mean besides last night?" she asked. "yes. another robbery. mrs. macgregor----" "tell me at supper time, emmy lou," interrupted pauline. "these people are in a hurry. i've got to go." mary louise was disappointed; she did so want to ask pauline whether ida's story were true. now she'd have to wait. she continued her walk down walnut street until she came to ninth, then she turned up to market street and entered the department store where she had made the inquiries that morning concerning margaret detweiler. there were not so many people visiting the employment manager that afternoon as in the morning: perhaps everybody thought saturday afternoon a poor time to look for a job. mary louise was thankful for this, and apologized profusely for taking the busy woman's time again. "i couldn't find anybody by the name of ferguson at the benjamin franklin hotel now," she said, "or any trace of margaret detweiler at all, there. but after i left the hotel it occurred to me that if you would give me the address that margaret had while she was working here, i might make inquiries at the boarding house, or wherever it was that she lived. they might know something. do you think that would be too much trouble?" "no trouble at all," replied the woman pleasantly. she told the clerk to look in the files again. the address was a number on pine street, and mary louise asked where that street was located, as she copied it down in her notebook. "not far away," was the reply. "you can easily walk there in a few minutes." she gave mary louise explicit directions. it was a shabby red-brick house in a poor but respectable neighborhood. a colored woman answered mary louise's ring. "nothing today!" said the woman instantly, without giving mary louise a chance to speak first. "i'm not selling anything," replied the girl, laughing. "i wanted to ask the landlady here about a girl named margaret detweiler who used to live here. could you ask her to spare me a minute or two?" "all right," agreed the servant. "come in." she ushered mary louise into a neat but gloomy parlor, and in a couple of minutes the landlady appeared. "i understand you want to ask me about miss detweiler?" she inquired. "yes," answered mary louise. "i am trying to find her for her grandparents. the employment manager of the department store said she lived here. is that correct?" "yes, it is. miss detweiler lived here for about five months. she seemed like a nice quiet girl, with no bad habits. she paid regular till the last month she was here, when she took sick and had to spend a lot of money on medicines and doctor's bills. then, all of a sudden, she slipped away without payin' her bill, and i never saw her again." "she owes you money?" demanded mary louise. "no, she don't now. a couple of weeks after she left, she sent it to me in a registered letter. so we're square now." "didn't she send her address?" "no, she didn't." "where was the letter postmarked?" "center square. a little town up the state." "do you still have the envelope?" "no, i haven't. but i remember the name, because i used to know folks at center square." "didn't margaret say anything in her letter about how she was getting on or what she was doing?" asked mary louise. "there wasn't any letter. just a folded piece of paper." "oh, that's too bad! and what was the date?" "sometime in january. let's see, it must have been near the start of the month, for i remember i used some of that money to buy my grandson a birthday present, and his birthday's on the seventh." "well, i thank you very much for what you have told me," concluded mary louise. "maybe it will lead to something. i'll go to center square and make inquiries. you see," she explained, "margaret detweiler's grandparents are very unhappy because they haven't heard from her, and i want to do all in my power to find her. margaret is all they have, and they love her dearly." the woman's eyes filled with tears. "and may you have good luck, my dear child!" she said. chapter vii _the abandoned house_ when mary louise returned to the hotel, she found everything quiet. she went immediately to the fourth floor; mrs. hilliard was in her sitting room, knitting and listening to the radio. "has anything happened since i left?" asked the girl eagerly. "no," replied the manager. "except that another guest has departed. your friend pauline brooks came back, packed her bag, paid her bill, and left. of course, she was only a transient anyway, but the hotel is so empty that i was hoping she would stay a while." "i met her on the street with her aunt," mary louise said. "but she didn't have time to talk to me. did you question her about ida's story?" "yes, and she said it was true that ida did come into her room to make the bed at that time, because she, miss brooks, had slept late. but she didn't know how long the maid had stayed because she left the hotel before mrs. macgregor discovered her loss and screamed. so it is possible that ida went back into mrs. macgregor's room." "personally i believe the girl is innocent," stated mary louise. "so do i. as i said, she has been with me two years, and i have always found her absolutely trustworthy. it probably was a sneak thief. the police are on the lookout for somebody like that." "did you talk to miss stoddard?" "no, i didn't. she went out this afternoon." "she'll bear watching," remarked mary louise. "i think so too," agreed the other.... "now, tell me what you did with yourself this afternoon." mary louise related the story of her visit to margaret detweiler's former boarding house and the scant information she had obtained. "is center square far away?" she asked. "oh, a couple of hours' drive, if you have a car. but do you really think it would do you any good to go there? the girl was probably only passing through and stopped at the postoffice to mail her letter to the landlady." "yes, i am afraid that is all there was to it. but i could at least make inquiries, and after all, it's the only clue i have. i'd never be satisfied if i didn't do the very best i could to find margaret for her grandparents." mary louise stayed a little longer with mrs. hilliard; then she went to her own room to dress for dinner. but suddenly she was terribly homesick. jane and the boys would be coasting all afternoon, she knew, for there would still be plenty of snow left in the country, and there was a dance tonight at another friend's. max would be coming for her in his runabout; she would be wearing her blue silk dress--and--and----her eyes filled with tears. wasn't she just being terribly foolish to stay here in philadelphia, missing all those good times? and for what? there wasn't a chance in the world that she'd discover the thief, when even the police were unsuccessful. "but i'll never learn to be a detective until i try--and--learn to accept failures," she told herself sternly, and she knew that, all things considered, she had not been foolish. it might be hard at the time to give up all the fun, but in the long run it would be worth it. she ought to be thanking her lucky stars for the chance! somewhat reassured, she dressed and went downstairs to the reception room, where the radio was playing. she found the two walder girls, whom she had met at noontime when mrs. macgregor raised the commotion. mary louise greeted them cordially. "it's beginning to rain," said evelyn walder, "so sis and i thought we'd stay in tonight and try to get up a game of bridge. do you play, mary lou?" "yes, indeed," replied mary louise. "i love it. whom shall we get for a fourth? mrs. hilliard?" "mrs. hilliard doesn't like to play, and besides, she has to get up and answer the telephone so much that she usually just knits in the evenings. maybe we can get one of the fletcher girls." "no, i heard lucy say that they had a date," returned ruth walder. mary louise looked disappointed; she was so anxious to meet all the guests at stoddard house. she had an inspiration, however. "how about miss stoddard?" she asked. "does she play?" the other two girls looked at mary louise in amazement. "sure, she plays bridge," replied evelyn. "but we don't want her! if you don't mind my slang, i'll say she's a pain in the neck." mary louise smiled: she thought so too. "mrs. weinberger is nice, even if she is a lot older than we are," observed ruth. "and she loves to play, because her daughter goes out every saturday night with her boy-friend, i think." the others agreed to this suggestion, and mrs. weinberger accepted the invitation immediately. so the evening passed pleasantly, but mary louise did not feel that she had learned anything of value to her job. the party broke up about ten-thirty; mary louise went to her room and took out her notebook. "it's getting so confusing," she mused. "so many things stolen, so many people involved. these two robberies since i came--the one in my room last night, and mrs. macgregor's today--make five in all. i wonder if they could all have been done by the same person. maybe--maybe it's a secret band of some kind! with miss henrietta stoddard as its leader!" her one determination, when she awakened the next morning, was to have a talk with miss stoddard. accordingly, after breakfast she asked mrs. hilliard how that could best be arranged. "miss stoddard always goes to christ church," was the reply. "why couldn't you plan to go with her?" "that's a wonderful idea, mrs. hilliard! i always did want to visit christ church--we read so much about it in history." "i'll ask her to take you with her," offered the manager, "when she comes out of the dining room." the arrangement was easily made, and a couple of hours later mary louise met miss stoddard in the lobby of the hotel. today the spinster was not wearing the shabby brown suit; indeed, she looked quite neat and stylish in a dark blue coat trimmed with fur. the rain had washed most of the snow away, and the sun was shining, so both mary louise and miss stoddard thought it would be pleasant to walk down to second and market streets, where the historic church was situated. for a while they talked of its significance in colonial philadelphia, and miss stoddard promised to show mary louise the pew in which george washington and his family had worshiped. it was miss stoddard, however, who gave the conversation a personal turn. "you saw me come out of that pawnshop yesterday, didn't you, miss gay?" she inquired. "i wanted to ask you not to say anything about my visit to mrs. hilliard or to any of the other guests." "but it is nothing to be ashamed of, miss stoddard," protested mary louise. "lots of people pawn things." "i know. but not women of my type, usually. i'm rather hard pressed for money now, so i sold an old brooch of my mother's. it didn't bring much." mary louise nodded and looked at her companion. but she could not tell whether she were telling the truth or not. "then," continued miss stoddard, "my visit might look suspicious to some people--after all these robberies at the hotel." "yes, i suppose that's true." "but it really proves my innocence, because if i had taken all that money of mrs. macgregor's i shouldn't be rushing to a pawnshop now to get a little more." that was a good point; mary louise had not thought of it before. "who do you think did all the stealing, miss stoddard?" she asked point-blank. "the weinberger girl! i suppose you'd call her a woman, but she seems like just a girl to me. she and the young man she goes with are in league together. i think he's out of work, and the two of them have been planning to get married. so they've been stealing right and left." "even her own mother's watch?" "yes, even that." mary louise was silent. it was an entirely new idea to her. yet it was possible; the weinbergers had been at stoddard house ever since the things began to be stolen. if hortense weinberger were going to marry this young man of hers, she could use the silverware, the vase, and the painting in her new house or apartment. the watches could be pawned, and the money would be enough to keep the young couple for a while.... yes, the explanation was logical. "i have reason to believe that this couple will elope tonight," announced miss stoddard. mary louise's eyes opened wide with excitement. "if that man is the thief, and if i can see him to identify him," she said, "maybe that will solve the mystery. you remember, miss stoddard, a man stole my watch. he was short and of slight build--but of course i couldn't see his face. is miss weinberger's friend like that?" "i don't know. i never saw him. but i overheard a phone call, and hortense weinberger said she'd slip out about eleven tonight. could you be watching then?" "yes, yes!" cried mary louise joyfully. oh, suppose it were true, and she could identify the man! wouldn't it be too wonderful? "i think you're terribly clever, miss stoddard," she said, "if you really have found the solution. it will mean so much to mrs. hilliard. she has been worried to death." they had been so interested in their conversation that they did not realize how near they were to the church. in another minute they were walking reverently into the old building, and for the next hour and a half, robberies and mysteries were forgotten in the solemn beauty of the service. nor did they refer to the subject afterwards, but walked back to the hotel talking about historic philadelphia. mary louise went to her room after dinner and wrote down everything miss stoddard had said about hortense weinberger. the explanation was so plausible that she could hardly wait for the evening to come, with her chance to identify her own particular burglar. if he were the man who had entered her room, the whole thing would be solved and she could go home for christmas! oh, how glad she was that she had had that talk with miss stoddard! in the midst of her daydreams a knock sounded at the door. a maid handed her a card with the name "max miller" engraved on it. mary louise let out a wild whoop of joy and, not waiting to explain, dashed past the maid and down the steps to the lobby. and there he was. good old max--looking handsomer than ever! mary louise could have hugged him in her delight. "max! you angel!" she cried. "how did you know i'd be so glad to see you?" "because i knew how glad i'd be to see you," he replied, still holding onto her hand. mary louise withdrew it laughingly. "women talk," she reminded him, glancing about her. "o.k.," he grinned. "how are you? solved your mystery yet?" "oh no. i've had my own watch and five dollars stolen--that's all!" "and you call this a good time! well, mary lou, you certainly can take it.... but haven't you had enough, little girl? please come home with me!" mary louise's eyes flashed in anger. "is that what you came here for, max miller?" she demanded. "no--oh, no! i didn't expect you'd come home. i just wanted to see you, so i drove down. started early this morning. now let's go places and do things!" "where? you can't do much in philadelphia on sunday." "anywhere. we can take a drive and have our supper at some nice place away from this henhouse." "now, max----" "get your coat and hat. there's a good girl." "but, max, you must be sick of driving. and if you expect to start back tonight----" "i don't. i'm staying over at the y.m. for a couple of days. so i can watch you. now, don't get excited! i have your parents' consent. in fact, they thought it was a bully idea. you may be a wonderful detective, mary lou, but just the same you're a darned pretty girl. and pretty girls alone in strange cities...." "i have mrs. hilliard," she reminded him. "yes, i know. that's what makes it _look_ all right. but it doesn't make you safe, just the same. you could easily be kidnaped." "you're not going to follow me everywhere i go, are you?" she asked, in concern. "no. just keep an eye on you for a couple of days. and maybe help you a bit. with a car at your disposal, you may be able to clear up things quicker and go home in time for the senior prom. that's my little scheme, in a nutshell." "it will be wonderful," agreed mary louise. "i'll admit there have been moments when i've been homesick, max." her eyes brightened. "i know where i want to go this afternoon! to center square." "where's that?" "i don't know. out in the country somewhere--you can look it up on your map." "o.k. i'm ready, mary lou. the car is at the door. run up and get your hat and coat. wrap up warmly. it's a lot warmer, and most of the snow's gone, but you know my runabout isn't like a heated limousine." in five minutes she was back again, looking very pretty in her squirrel coat, with its matching toque. leaving word for mrs. hilliard that she would not be back for supper, she got into the car with max. as the couple started, mary louise explained why she wanted to go to center square: that her project had nothing to do with the thefts at the hotel but was the hope of tracing margaret detweiler. and she told her companion the facts she had learned about the girl. "i'm even more anxious to find her than to solve the mystery at stoddard house," she said, "because of those two old people. it's just too dreadful for them." max nodded. he knew the detweilers and felt extremely sorry for them. everybody in riverside liked them and pitied them in their distress. "i just can't bear to tell them that margaret was dismissed from the department store for stealing," she added. "i wouldn't," advised max. "better tell them nothing at all than that. it wouldn't help any and would only cause them unhappiness." mary louise asked about everything that had happened at riverside since she had left. it had been only two days, but it seemed like an age. max described the party the night before, but it was a poor affair without mary lou, according to his idea, and he had left early so he could get off at daybreak this morning. the day was clear and warm, and except for the slush on the roads the drive was delightful. the young people were happy to be together again and enjoyed every minute of it. it was already dusk of the short winter day when they arrived at center square and stopped at the country hotel. "we're going to want dinner in an hour or so," max told the clerk. "but first we want to see whether we can locate a girl who was here late last winter. did a young woman named margaret detweiler ever register here?" the clerk obligingly looked through his book. but the name was not there. "she's tall and slender and very dark," said mary louise. "has wavy hair and an olive complexion." the clerk shook his head. "no, i don't remember seein' anybody like that around. not many strangers come here--except automobile parties sometimes, stoppin' to eat." "are there any empty houses she might have rented?" was mary louise's next question. "none rented as i know of. there's some abandoned houses around, places where people sometimes come just for the summer." "where?" the clerk gave the directions. "now one more question. where does the postmaster live? for of course the postoffice is closed on sunday." "sure it's closed. but the postmaster lives right over top of it. across the street a way from here." mary louise and max went there next and were fortunate enough to find the man at home. when mary louise told him about the registered letter and described the girl, he said he believed he did remember. so few people came to the little country town; still fewer registered letters. but margaret hadn't stopped in a car, he thought--she had walked from somewhere. no, he was positive she hadn't been boarding with any of the folks around, or he'd have heard of it. well, that was something definite! maybe she was hiding in one of those empty houses the clerk had spoken of, to escape from the police. max turned his car off the main highway into a little dirt road, almost impassable with its slush and snow. he stopped in front of the first empty house which the clerk had described. it was dark and forlorn. "there would be some sort of light if anybody were living there," observed max. "you can't tell," replied mary louise. "if margaret were hiding, she'd be careful about lights. let's get out and look." "but why should she hide? didn't you tell me the employment manager promised not to send her to jail?" "yes, but you don't know what crimes she's committed since. if she were behaving herself, wouldn't she have written to her grandparents? either she's dead or she's doing something wrong." they waded through slush over their shoe-tops but could see no signs of any life. mary louise decided to try another house. "it's a wild theory, mary lou, but you're the doctor," agreed max. "so long as my bus'll run, i'm game." "you are a sport, max! i don't know what i'd do without you." "men are helpful sometimes, aren't they?" "i guess they're absolutely necessary," replied mary louise modestly. "i never seem to be able to get along without them." "that's the proper attitude for a girl," he answered gayly. farther along the road they stopped in front of another empty house. it was situated at the top of a steep incline and almost completely surrounded by trees. "can you climb that hill, max?" she asked. "i can try--if you think there's any use," he replied. it was a difficult task, for the driveway was so covered with slush that it was hard to tell which was road and which was field. but max made it in low gear, and they came to a stop in front of a barn, under a big tree. the house was shabby and unpainted; its windows were covered with boards, and its heavy doors without glass. mary louise shuddered: it reminded her of dark cedars. max turned off the motor and jumped out of the car. "nobody home, i guess," he announced. from her seat in the car mary louise stared at the house, peering into the strip of glass above the boards on the windows. she thought she saw a flicker of light, as if a candle were burning. yes, she was sure of it--and--a face appeared at the window! two frightened eyes looked right into hers. a second later another face appeared, more plainly than the first, for this person evidently had hold of the candle. the first face had vanished, and mary louise saw only that of an exceedingly ugly woman--someone who looked somehow familiar. that very instant the tiny light went out, and at the same moment mary louise sank unconscious in her seat. a stone, hurled from the tree above her, had hit her right on the head! chapter viii _knocked out_ max, who was standing on the ground near by, heard the heavy thud of the stone as it hit the floor of the car. turning about sharply, he saw mary louise slumped in her seat, unconscious from the blow. he flung open the door and jumped in beside her. "mary lou! mary lou! are you alive?" he cried desperately. the girl did not answer. "help! help!" he shrieked, at the top of his lungs. a mocking laugh sounded from the tree above. max looked up, but in the darkness he could see no one. how he wished he had his flashlight! but it was behind in the rumble seat, and he daren't waste a minute; he must get mary lou to a doctor with all possible speed. starting his engine immediately--for there was no reply to his call for help--he circled around the tree and crept cautiously down the slippery hill, praying as he had never prayed before. oh, suppose mary louise were dead! with as much speed as he dared put on, he drove back to the center square hotel. as he came to a stop he felt a little movement beside him, and mary louise raised her head and opened her eyes. "where are we, max?" she asked. "what happened?" "oh, my darling!" he cried, flinging his arm around her shoulders. "you are alive!" the girl managed a feeble laugh. "of course i am. my head hurts dreadfully, though. what happened?" "you were hit by a stone--see it there, on the floor?--from that tree we were parked under. it knocked you out.... now, can you manage to walk up to the hotel, or shall i carry you?" "i can walk," she replied, taking his arm. in the light of the hotel doorway max saw the blood running down her neck. he wiped it with his handkerchief. "can we have a doctor immediately?" he asked the hotel clerk the moment they were inside the door. "yes, there's one in the dining room now, eating his dinner. i'll call him. an accident?" max explained the strange happening at the empty house, but the clerk said he did not know anything about the place. he had not heard of any gangsters in these parts. the doctor came immediately and dressed mary louise's head. the cut was not serious, he assured her; it was not in a vital place. when it was washed and bandaged she was able to eat her dinner with enjoyment. "maybe that first person i saw was margaret detweiler," she said. "i wish i could stay here all night and go investigate tomorrow. but mother wouldn't approve of it." "i should say not!" thundered max. "i'm taking you back to mrs. hilliard tonight, and i think you had better go home to riverside tomorrow." "indeed i won't, max. and that reminds me, i have to be at the hotel tonight at eleven o'clock. i want to spy on an elopement." "elopement! what next?" "well, one of the guests, a miss stoddard, who happens to be a niece of the founder of stoddard house, thinks another guest is eloping tonight. she thinks this couple are responsible for all the robberies at the hotel. you know it was a man who entered my room and stole my watch, so i hoped maybe i could identify this fellow as the burglar. if i could, the mystery would be solved." "and you could go home?" "yes, unless i could find out something more about margaret detweiler. but i wouldn't stay here just on purpose for that. i'd go home and see what i could do from there, with dad's help." "what time is it now, i wonder?" asked max. "we must get back without fail!" "i don't know," replied mary louise regretfully. "i haven't any watch." "i'm going to buy you one for christmas, if i get a check from dad," announced max. "of course, it will be late, but i'll give you your other present first, so you wouldn't mind that, would you, mary lou?" "you'll do nothing of the sort!" protested the girl. "i couldn't accept it. if you get a check from your father it's to buy something for yourself. i'll get an ingersoll tomorrow when i'm in town.... now, what time is it?" "it's half-past eight. if you feel able, i think we better go along, because i don't dare drive too fast on these slippery roads at night." "i'm all right--i only have a headache now. so let's get going." max paid the bill, and they were off. "now, what will your plans be for tomorrow?" he inquired, as they rode along. "i'd like to come out here and visit that empty house with a policeman," she replied. "if it's possible, i will. but of course i have to see what turns up at the hotel. that is my real job: i'm being paid for it, and my father and mrs. hilliard are counting on me to do my best." "i wouldn't care if you never saw center square again," muttered max resentfully. "still, it would be great to catch the guy who threw that rock at you." "and find out whether the girl really was margaret detweiler. yes, and i'd like to see that ugly woman again. i've seen her face before somewhere, but i can't place her. you don't forget a face like that." "there's something crooked about their hiding in that house," remarked max. "yes, of course.... well, to continue with my plans: i'll see what develops tonight. if there really is an elopement, i'll try to identify that man. if he isn't anything like my burglar, i'll believe that miss stoddard is guilty herself and that she just made the whole story up to throw suspicion away from herself." max regarded her admiringly. "you are a pretty clever girl, mary lou," he said. "i do think you'll make a swell detective." "thanks, max. but i'm afraid there's nothing clever about that. it's just using common sense." "well, the good detectives say that's the most important thing: not to let anything escape their notice and to use common sense all the time." they talked of other things for a while, of school and dances and basketball. finally they reached stoddard house, a little after ten o'clock. "oh, i do hope we're in time!" exclaimed mary louise. they found the hotel almost deserted. mrs. hilliard was sitting in a chair, knitting. nobody else was around. "did you have a good time, dear?" she asked, after max had been introduced to her. "an exciting time," replied the young man. "mary lou was hit on the head with a stone and knocked out. but detectives have to expect that sort of thing, i suppose." "sh!" warned the girl. "nobody except mrs. hilliard is supposed to know i'm acting as detective." "i didn't k-n-o-w that!" apologized max, in the tone of joe penner. mrs. hilliard looked troubled. "tell me what happened," she urged. briefly mary louise related the story, and the good woman was relieved to hear that the blow was not serious. she was thankful, too, that the job at stoddard house had not been responsible for it. "are the weinbergers still here?" was mary louise's next question. "mrs. weinberger is. but her daughter went out early this afternoon, and i don't think she came back. her mother was in a great stew at supper time. you would think from the way she carries on that her daughter was a girl in her teens instead of a woman of twenty-eight or so." a look of disappointment crossed mary louise's face. "i must see miss stoddard," she announced. "max, you wait here with mrs. hilliard till i come back, because i may need you. i shan't be gone long." she ran off and took the elevator to the third floor and knocked at miss stoddard's door. "who is it?" was the query. "mary louise gay. may i come in, miss stoddard?" the woman turned the key in the lock and opened the door. she was dressed in a kimono and slippers. "you're too late, miss gay," she said. "miss weinberger has already eloped. i'm sure of it. i saw her get into a taxi this afternoon, and one of the maids came out and brought her her suitcase. she probably had hidden it somewhere from her mother. she's probably married by now--and run off with all the money and jewelry from stoddard house!" "oh!" gasped mary louise in dismay. "why wasn't i here! did you see the man, miss stoddard?" "no--unless he was the taxi driver. but i didn't even get a good look at him." "probably she was to join him somewhere. he wouldn't risk coming near the house in broad daylight if he was the burglar who entered my room." "no, that's true." "if hortense weinberger really is married," said mary louise, "don't you suppose her mother will hear about it tomorrow? and if i keep in touch with her mother, i ought to see the man when he comes back from the honeymoon." "mrs. weinberger was planning to leave stoddard house tomorrow," returned miss stoddard. "yes, i know. but this may alter her plans. and besides, she will surely give her forwarding address to mrs. hilliard. she has no reason to hide; she doesn't have any idea that her daughter or her husband is suspected of stealing." "i hope you're right, miss gay.... now, tell me what happened to your head." "i was riding in an open car, and a stone fell out of a tree and hit me," she answered simply. the older woman pulled down the corners of her mouth and looked doubtful. "of course, she's thinking i'm just a wild young girl," mary louise concluded. but it really didn't matter in the least to her what miss stoddard chose to believe about her. "well, i must get to bed, miss stoddard," she said aloud. "so good-night." "good-night," returned the other, carefully locking the door after mary louise went out. a moment later the girl joined mrs. hilliard and max on the first floor. "miss stoddard thinks miss weinberger eloped this afternoon," she announced. mrs. hilliard laughed incredulously. "old maids love to imagine romances," she said. "well, we'll see.... now, don't you think you had better go to bed?" she asked mary louise in a motherly way. "yes, i do," agreed the girl, "max, if you're still here, i'd be glad to have you come to lunch with me tomorrow. we're allowed to have men to meals, aren't we, mrs. hilliard?" "certainly, dear." "nix on that!" protested the young man immediately. "can you imagine me--one lone fellow--in that dining room full of dames? looking me over and snickering at the way i wear my hair or tie my shoes? nothing doing! i'll call for you at one, mary lou, and we'll go out somewhere to lunch." "o.k.," agreed the girl, smiling. "see you then!" chapter ix _lunch at the bellevue_ mary louise slept late the following morning. the dining-room doors had been closed for an hour when mrs. hilliard finally came into her room. "what time is it, mrs. hilliard?" she inquired, opening her eyes and staring at the bright sunlight pouring through the windows. "it's almost eleven o'clock. i thought you had better sleep this morning, mary louise, on account of your head. how do you feel?" "oh, i'm all right, mrs. hilliard, thank you. but this is no time for anybody with a job to get up! i'll get fired." the woman laughed. "my dear, you are doing all that anybody could do, i believe. i am afraid the situation is hopeless. mrs. weinberger moved out this morning." "did she hear from her daughter?" "yes, she had a telegram. she is married and has gone to new york for a honeymoon over christmas." "how did her mother take it?" "very badly. she seemed all cut up about it. the man has a job as a taxi driver, and though mrs. weinberger has never met him, she is sure he is a rough, uneducated fellow." "miss stoddard thinks he is our thief," announced mary louise. "she believes he has been working with miss weinberger's help." mrs. hilliard's eyes opened wide in astonishment. "that might be possible," she said. "yes. you remember it was a man who entered my room friday night. and with miss weinberger to watch out for him, he could have sneaked into 'most any of the rooms. that's the theory i wanted to work on today. where did mrs. weinberger go?" "to the bellevue--temporarily. she said that she'd find something cheaper later on and send me her forwarding address. but she will stay at the big hotel for a few days, till her daughter comes back." "then i'm going to go see her there. isn't there something she left that i could take over to her, to use for an excuse?" "a special-delivery letter arrived a few minutes ago. i was going to send it over this afternoon by one of the maids." "let me take it! and i'll have max take me there to lunch so i can say i was coming to the hotel anyway. where is it?" "broad and walnut--right across the street from the ritz carlton. your friend will probably know.... now, you get dressed, mary louise, and come over to my apartment for a cup of coffee. you must have something before you leave." "thanks very much, mrs. hilliard. if it isn't too much trouble." she was ready before one o'clock, her bandage entirely covered by her hat, and was waiting downstairs in the lobby for max when he arrived. "you're looking fine today, mary lou!" he exclaimed admiringly. "how's the head?" "oh, it's all right. max, could we go to the bellevue for lunch? and will you please let me pay the bill--out of my salary? because it's on account of the job that i want to go there." "sure we can go," he replied. "but nix on the bill. unless you eat everything on the bill of fare." "i know, but it's a big hotel, and it may be dreadfully expensive." "we'll see," he agreed. max left his car in an open-air garage near the hotel, and the two young people entered together. mary louise thought it was a lovely place, and she pressed max's arm jubilantly. what fun it was to have a companion! she wouldn't have enjoyed lunching there alone at all, but having max made it seem like a party. the hotel was quite crowded, probably with numerous vacation guests and christmas shoppers, and the young couple made their way slowly to the dining room. in the passageway they suddenly came upon pauline brooks with another girl--the same blond girl she had been with on walnut street the preceding saturday noon. "pauline!" exclaimed mary louise. "how are you?" pauline turned around, and seeing mary louise's handsome companion her smile included him. mary louise introduced max, and pauline in turn introduced the cute little blond as miss jackson. the girl immediately began to roll her eyes at max. "i was so disappointed that you moved away from stoddard house," said mary louise. "i didn't like the atmosphere," replied pauline. "too much stealing. i was afraid i wouldn't have anything left if i stayed." "but you didn't lose anything, did you?" asked mary louise. "no, but i wasn't taking any chances. besides, it's a lot more comfortable here." "here? i thought you were at the ritz?" pauline laughed. "i was. but my aunt went out to the country, so i moved over here. like it better." "i see." suddenly a thought came to mary louise: that woman whom she had seen in the empty house--her face looked like pauline's aunt! that was the person she had reminded her of! "is your aunt's place at center square?" she inquired. mary louise thought she saw pauline start at the question, but she answered it carelessly enough. "it's not in any town," she said. "just in the country.... well, i'll be seein' you." she started away. "wait a minute," begged mary louise. "did you girls ever meet a girl named margaret detweiler, from riverside? i am trying to find her for her grandmother." "margaret detweiler--yes----" began miss jackson. but pauline interrupted her. "you're thinking of margaret lyla, blondie," she corrected. "we don't know any margaret detweiler." "that's right," agreed the other girl, in obvious confusion. mary louise sighed: she had probably been mistaken. and it was all so mixed up, anyhow. her memory of the night before, of those two faces at the window, was already growing vague. she and max went on into the dining room. "some high-steppers," remarked max. "not your type, mary lou." "i don't care for the little blonde," agreed mary louise. "but i did sort of like pauline brooks. she was my first friend here in philadelphia, and she seemed awfully sociable." "i don't like her," said max emphatically. of course, mary louise was flattered, and she smiled contentedly. "well, you needn't worry--she'll never be one of my best friends," she said. the waiter led them to a table with a pretty bouquet on the shining white linen cover, and mary louise felt almost as if she were at a party. an orchestra was playing, and there were many people dancing. everything here spoke of gayety and life: no wonder pauline brooks referred the bellevue to stoddard house. but she must be very rich to be able to stay here. "a big city is grand, isn't it?" she remarked to max, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "sometimes," he admitted. "but it can be an awfully lonely place too, mary lou. it all depends on who is with you." and his eyes told her who the person was whom he preferred. "yes, i guess you're right, max. i was lonely--and it was wonderful of you to come. i wish you could stay the whole time here with me." "i'm supposed to go back tonight, or tomorrow morning early at the latest. but i could break that on one condition." "what's that?" demanded mary louise. he lowered his voice to almost a whisper. "mary lou, you know how much i care for you. you know i've adored you since the first minute i met you. there's never been anybody else. let's get married--now--today--and keep it secret till i graduate in june. then----" the waiter approached diplomatically. mary louise picked up the menu in confusion. she had never dreamed max would suggest such a thing. why, she had no idea of getting married for years and years! "i'll take this special luncheon," she said, noticing that its cost was moderate. "i will too," added max, anxious to get rid of the waiter. "what do you say, mary lou? will you?" his voice was so eager that the girl was deeply touched. "oh no, max. i couldn't. i don't love you--or anybody--that way yet. and i couldn't deceive my parents or let you deceive yours." "we might just tell our fathers and mothers," he suggested. "no, no, i couldn't. let's don't even talk about it. i'm here in philadelphia on a detective job, and i mean to give it my very best. i'll be sorry to have you go home, but maybe it will be better. i'll work harder if i haven't anybody to play around with. now--what would you say to a dance while we wait for our first course?" the couple glided off to the music, and more than one person in that big dining room noticed the graceful, handsome pair and envied them their happiness. when they came back to their seats their soup was ready for them. "here come your friends," remarked max, as pauline brooks and her blond companion entered the dining room. "and take a look at the fellows they have with them!" "i don't like their looks," announced mary louise emphatically. "neither do i, needless to say. just goes to show you what kind of girls they are.... mary lou, i want you to drop that brooks woman. she might get you into harm. promise me!" "no need to promise," laughed mary louise. "i'll probably never see her again now that she's moved away from stoddard house." mary louise ate her luncheon with keen enjoyment. there was nothing like going without breakfast, she said, to give you an appetite for lunch. "do you think there's any chance of your getting home for christmas?" asked max wistfully. "no, i don't believe so," she replied. "i try not to think about it. it will be my first christmas away from home, the first time i ever didn't hang up my stocking. but, max, if i could solve this mystery for mrs. hillard, it would be worth ten christmas stockings to me. i just can't tell you what it means." "yes, i realize that. but it doesn't seem right. the fun at home--visiting each other's houses after dinner, and the christmas dance at the country club! gosh, mary lou, i just can't bear it!" "why, max, i'll be the homesick one--not you," she reminded him. her eyes traveled around the room while they were waiting for their dessert, and she caught sight of mrs. weinberger, eating a lonely lunch in a corner by a window, looking as if she didn't care whether she lived or died. mary louise felt dreadfully sorry for her; she was glad to have an excuse to go to speak to her after lunch. she took max over and introduced him. mrs. weinberger acknowledged the introduction, but she did not smile. she looked as if she might never smile again. "yet how much gloomier she would be if she knew we suspected her daughter and her husband of those crimes!" thought mary louise. "i have a special-delivery letter for you, mrs. weinberger," she said. "i was coming here for lunch, so mrs. hilliard asked me to bring it over to you." "thank you," replied the woman, taking the letter and splitting the envelope immediately. "you heard that my daughter is married, miss gay?" "yes, mrs. hilliard told me." mary louise longed to ask when the honeymooners would be back, but she hesitated because mrs. weinberger looked so gloomy. the woman drew a snapshot from the envelope. "why, here is their picture!" she exclaimed. "and--he's positively handsome!" eagerly she handed the photograph to mary louise, anxious for the girl's good opinion of the new son-in-law. what an opportunity for the young detective! mary louise's fingers actually trembled as she took hold of the picture. but all her hopes were dashed to pieces at the first glance. the man was as different from mary louise's burglar as anyone could possibly be. six feet tall and broad-shouldered, he was smiling down tenderly at his new wife, who was at least a foot shorter. "he's charming, mrs. weinberger," she tried to say steadily. "may i offer my congratulations?" the older woman straightened up--and actually smiled! "he is a civil engineer," she read proudly. "but he couldn't get a job, so he's driving a taxi! well, that's an honest living, isn't it?" "i should say so!" exclaimed max. "you're lucky you don't have to support him--as so many mothers and fathers-in-law have to nowadays." mary louise was pleased for mrs. weinberger's sake but disappointed for her own. miss stoddard was all wrong: the solution was incorrect. and she was just as much at sea as ever! "there's your friend pauline brooks," remarked mrs. weinberger. "and--look who's with her!" "that's a friend of hers--a miss jackson," explained mary louise, as the two girls, with their boy-friends, got up to dance. "miss jackson nothing! that's mary green--the chorus girl who was staying at stoddard house when my watch was stolen. i'd like to have a talk with that young woman. but i suppose it wouldn't do any good." mary louise's eyes narrowed until they were only slits; she was thinking deeply. mary green--alias miss jackson! the next step was to find out whether pauline brooks too had a different name at this hotel! maybe at last she was on the right track. chapter x _in the dead of night_ "how about a movie?" suggested max, as the young couple left the hotel dining room. "oh no, max," replied mary louise. "no, thanks. i have to work now. i'm going to stay right here." "in the hotel? doing what?" "some investigating." "you think that young man is guilty? he looked honest to me." "no, i don't believe he's guilty. i--i'll explain later, max, if anything comes of my investigations.... now, run along and do something without me." "can i see you tonight?" "i could probably go to an early show with you after dinner. i'm not sure, so don't stay in philadelphia just on account of that. i mean, if you want to start back home." "i'm going to start home at daylight tomorrow, morning," replied the young man. "so i'll surely be around tonight. at stoddard house soon after seven." "all right, i'll see you then. and thanks for a lovely lunch, max. it's been wonderful." the young man departed, and mary louise hunted a desk in one of the smaller rooms of the bellevue--set aside for writing. she placed a sheet of paper in front of her and took up a pen, as if she were writing a letter. but what she really wanted to do was to think. "i was wrong twice," she reasoned. "first in suspecting miss stoddard, then in believing miss weinberger guilty. i'll go more carefully this time. "if my very first guess was right--that the transient guests were stealing the valuables from stoddard house--i must begin all over again. mrs. hilliard said there were two girls staying at the hotel for a day or so when the silverware and the vase were stolen.... are these girls in league with mary green and pauline brooks? are they all members of a secret band of thieves? that's the first question i have to answer." she frowned and opened her notebook. why hadn't she gotten the names of those girls from mrs. hilliard's old register? the second crime--the stealing of the watches--she could pin on mary green, alias "blondie jackson." now for the last three robberies. they had all taken place while pauline brooks was at stoddard house! mary louise considered them separately. pauline could have stolen miss granger's money and her picture, but it was a man who entered mary louise's bedroom on friday night and who took her watch and her money. was one of those young men whom pauline was dining with today an accomplice? if so, how did he escape from the hotel? out of pauline's window? finally, she thought over the circumstances of mrs. macgregor's robbery, and she almost laughed out loud at her own stupidity. pauline had left her own room as soon as the maid came in to clean it; she had slipped into mrs. macgregor's room and stolen the bag containing the valuables and had left the hotel immediately, before mrs. macgregor came out of her bath. why hadn't she thought of that explanation before? the solution seemed logical and plausible, yet how, mary louise asked herself, could she prove her accusations? none of these girls had been caught in the act; probably none of them still possessed the stolen articles, and the money had not been marked in any way or the serial numbers taken. this fact was dreadfully discouraging. if mary louise could not prove the girls' guilt, she could do nothing about it. she couldn't even assure mrs. hilliard that there would be no more robberies at stoddard house, because she could not know how many members of this gang there were, and the manager could not suspect every transient guest who came to the hotel. no, she concluded, there was nothing to do but try to catch them in a new crime. if they really made it their business to rob hotels, they would probably carry out some plan here at the bellevue tonight. mary louise's only course was to watch them. with this determination in mind, she went to the clerk's desk in the lobby. "could i see the manager?" she inquired. the man looked at her quizzingly, wondering whether mary louise was a patron of the hotel or a society girl who wanted to collect money for something. "are you a guest at the hotel, miss?" he asked. "or have you an appointment?" "no to both questions," she replied. "but i am a private detective, and i want to consult him about something." "o.k.," agreed the clerk. "what name, please?" "mary louise gay." the clerk reached for the telephone, and in another minute he told mary louise where to find the manager's office. she followed his directions and walked in bravely, hoping that the man would not think she was dreadfully young. "i am staying at a small hotel for women called stoddard house," she began, "to investigate a series of robberies which they have had there. the philadelphia police have my name, and if you wish to identify me, please call mr. lestrange." "i will take your word for it, miss gay," replied the man, smiling. "these robberies have always occurred when there was a transient guest at the hotel," she explained. "the last series, while i was at the place, led me to suspect a certain girl; the series before that led other people to suspect another girl. i find these two girls are living here now at the bellevue--they seem to go from one hotel to another, for they were at the ritz only last saturday. they evidently use different names. i should like to meet your hotel detective, explain the case to him, and get permission to watch these two young women." the manager did not appear as surprised as mary louise expected him to be. but she could not know how common hotel robberies were at the present time. "i will send for our detective," he said. "you have my permission to go ahead--under his orders, of course." "oh, thank you!" cried mary louise, delighted that so far it had been easy. the manager sent for the detective, a nice-looking man of about thirty. he introduced him as mr. hayden, and repeated mary louise's story. "what would your plan be, miss gay?" asked the detective. he treated her respectfully, as if she were indeed a real member of the profession, and mary louise felt proud and happy. "first of all, i want to find these girls' names on the hotel register and see what names they are using. then i want, if possible, to engage a room near theirs and listen for them all night. and third, i want you, or one of your assistants, mr. hayden, to be right there in readiness, in case they do anything tonight." "you haven't evidence enough to convict them of the robberies at stoddard house?" asked mr. hayden. "oh no. i may be entirely mistaken. it is only a clue i am going on. but i believe it is worth following up." "what do you say, hayden?" inquired the manager. "i'm glad to help," replied the younger man. "i'll be on duty tonight, anyhow, and i'd enjoy the investigation. nothing is lost, even if nothing does happen." "then let's go have a look at the register," suggested mary louise. "better send for it," said the detective. "arouse no suspicions." the book was brought to them, and mary louise looked carefully for the names of pauline brooks and mary green. but she did not find them. she did, however, find the name of mary jackson, and with it a name of catherine smith, both of whom had arrived that day and engaged a room together on the sixth floor. "those must be the girls," she concluded. "room 607. what's the nearest room you can give me?" the manager looked in his records. "609 is moving out tonight. would that be time enough--or do you want it now?" "no, that's plenty of time. and another thing, can you tell me where mrs. weinberger's room is? i met her at stoddard house, and she would be a sort of chaperon for me." "her room is on the tenth floor," was the reply: "1026." "thanks. then put me down for 609, and i'll phone mrs. weinberger this afternoon. i'll come back early this evening, and i'll ask mrs. weinberger to meet me in one of the reception rooms. then, could you come there too, mr. hayden?" the man nodded, smiling. how correct this girl was about everything! "then i believe it's all arranged," said mary louise, rising. "i'll go back to stoddard house. and if you have a chance, mr. hayden, will you keep your eye on these girls we're suspecting?" "but i don't know them," he reminded her. "i'd forgotten that! well, let me describe them. maybe if you visit the sixth floor, you will see them go in and out." she went on to tell him that pauline brooks--or catherine smith, as she called herself here--was a striking brunette, and that her companion, mary green--or mary jackson--was noticeably blond; that both girls were short and slender and wore fur coats and expensive jewelry; that both were as little like the typical sneak thieves as could possibly be imagined. as mary louise walked along the street she decided not to tell mrs. hilliard any of the details of her plans or who the girls were that she was watching. if nothing came of her theory, she would feel foolish at having failed the third time. besides, it wasn't fair to the girls to spread suspicion about them until she had proved them guilty. she stopped at a jewelry store and purchased a small, cheap watch, which she put into her handbag. then she went back to the hotel. immediately upon her arrival at stoddard house she called mrs. weinberger on the telephone; then, assured of her coã¶peration, she went to mrs. hilliard's office. "i have decided to spend the night at the bellevue," she said. "mrs. weinberger is going to be my chaperon." the manager looked doubtful. "but i promised your father i'd keep you right here with me," she objected. "i know, but this is important. i think i'm on the track of a discovery. and mrs. weinberger has promised to look after me." "does she know that you suspect her daughter, mary louise?" "no, because i don't suspect her any longer. or her new husband either. my clues point in another direction. this time i'm not going to say anything about them till i find out how they work out." "i suppose it will be all right, then," agreed mrs. hilliard reluctantly.... "what are your immediate plans, dear?" "i'm going to sleep now till six o'clock, because it's possible i may be awake most of the night. i'll have my dinner here with you then, or with the walder girls, and after that i'm going to a show with max. about nine-thirty i'll get to the bellevue--mrs. weinberger is going to wait up for me and go to my room with me." "i'm afraid something may happen to you!" protested the good woman. mary louise laughed. "mrs. hilliard, you aren't a bit like an employer to the detective she has hired. instead, you treat me like a daughter. and you mustn't. i shan't be a bit of use to you if you don't help me go ahead and work hard." "i suppose you're right, mary louise," sighed mrs. hilliard. "but i had no idea what a lovable child you were when i told your father i didn't mind hiring anybody so young as long as she got results." "i only hope i do!" exclaimed mary louise fervently. she went to her own room, packed only her toilet articles in her handbag--for she had no intention of going to bed that night--and lay down for her nap. it was dark when she awakened. dressing hurriedly, and taking her hat and coat with her, she met the walder girls in the lobby and accepted their invitation to eat dinner with them. immediately afterwards max arrived at the hotel, and the young couple went directly to a movie. when it was over, the young man suggested that they go somewhere to eat and dance. mary louise shook her head. "i'm sorry, max--i'd like to, but i can't. this is all i can be with you tonight. i want you to take me to the bellevue now. i'm spending the night there." "what in thunder are you doing that for?" he stormed. "please calm down, max!" she begged. "it's perfectly all right: mrs. weinberger is going to meet me and look after me. but i'd rather you didn't say anything about it to mother--i can explain better when i get home." "still, i don't like it," he muttered. nevertheless, he took her to the hotel and waited with her until mrs. weinberger came downstairs. "don't forget to be back home for the dance a week from tonight, mary lou!" he said at parting. mary louise turned to mrs. weinberger. "have you seen the girls--pauline brooks and mary green?" she asked. she had explained over the telephone why she wanted to stay at the bellevue. "no, i haven't," replied the older woman. "but then, i have been in my own room." "how late do you expect to stay up tonight, mrs. weinberger?" "till about eleven, i suppose." "will you bring your knitting or your magazine to my room till you're ready to go to bed?" "certainly--i'll be glad to have your company, my dear." mr. hayden, the hotel detective, stepped out of the elevator and came to join them. "there's a sitting room on the sixth floor," he said. "suppose i go there about midnight, miss gay? i'm going to have a nap now, but my assistant is in charge, and if you need him, notify the desk, and he'll be with you immediately. is that o.k.?" "perfectly satisfactory," agreed mary louise. taking the key to her room, she and mrs. weinberger went up together. pauline's room was apparently dark, but mary louise left her own door open so that mrs. weinberger could watch for the girls. she herself took up a position where she could not be seen from the doorway. she turned on the room radio, and a couple of hours passed pleasantly. at eleven o'clock mrs. weinberger decided to go to her own room and go to bed. when she had gone, mary louise turned off the light and the radio and closed her door. pulling a comfortable chair close beside the keyhole, she sat down to wait and to listen for pauline's and mary's return. the elevators clicked more frequently as midnight approached; more and more guests returned to their rooms. mary louise watched them all until she saw pauline brooks and mary green come along the passageway. they were in high spirits, laughing and talking noisily without any regard for the sleepers in the hotel. even through the thick walls, mary louise could hear them as they prepared for bed. but in half an hour all was quiet. both girls were asleep, no doubt--and mary louise believed that she had had all her trouble for nothing. she sighed and dozed in her chair. however, she was not used to sleeping sitting up, and every little noise in the hall aroused her attention. she heard a man come along at two o'clock, and another at half-past. and a little after three she identified the muffled sound of the door of the next room opening! leaning forward tensely, she glued her eye to the keyhole. two young men emerged from the girls' room and staggered about unsteadily, as if they were drunk. two very small men, who somehow looked more like masqueraders than real men, although they were correctly dressed, except for the fact that they wore their caps instead of hats and had not taken them off in the hotel. in spite of their apparently intoxicated condition they walked silently across the hall to room 614. very cautiously one of them took a key from his pocket, and after a moment or two, he opened the door. both young men entered the room, but mary louise saw that they did not turn on the light as they went in. "there's something queer about that," she thought. and then she remembered the burglar who had entered her own room at stoddard house and had stolen her watch. he was very like these young men--short and slight and wore a cap. perhaps these were pauline's accomplices! cautiously she moved her chair aside and slipped out of her room. in another moment she had reached the sitting room where mr. hayden, the detective, was dozing over a newspaper. "come with me!" she said briefly, leading him to room 614. "i saw two young men enter this room a couple of minutes ago." the detective knocked gently on the door. there was no reply. he knocked again. the startled voice of a man called out, "what do you want?" "i'm the hotel detective," answered mr. hayden. "i'm sorry to disturb you, but please open the door." a light flashed on in the room, and an elderly man, now clad in his dressing gown, admitted mary louise and mr. hayden. "this young lady thinks she saw two young men come in here five minutes ago," explained the latter. "were you asleep, sir?" "yes," was the reply. "your knock waked me up." "then, if you don't mind, we'll search the room. have you anything valuable here?" "i certainly have! a wallet with five hundred dollars, and a set of diamond shirt studs." mr. hayden went straight to the closet and turned on the light. feminine giggles greeted his action. "don' be mad at us, mishter!" pleaded a girl's voice. "we jus' had a leetle too mush likker, and we wanted to get some shirt studs for our costumes. we're goin' to a nish party, dreshed up like men!" mr. hayden smiled and pulled out the two "young men" from the closet. as he snatched off their caps, mary louise recognized them instantly. pauline brooks and mary green! "pauline!" she cried. "emmy lou!" in her surprise, pauline forgot to act drunk. but the next moment she remembered. "pleash let us go, mishter," she pleaded, taking hold of mr. hayden's coat collar. "was only jus' a prank----" "prank nothing!" cried mary louise. "and these girls aren't intoxicated, either, mr. hayden." "no, i don't believe they are," agreed the detective. he turned to the owner of the room. "suppose you check up on your valuables, sir, while i call the police." "you're not going to send us to jail!" protested pauline, in a perfectly normal tone. "but we haven't stolen anything." "you stole plenty at stoddard house," mary louise couldn't help saying. pauline regarded her accuser with hatred in her eyes. "so you're the one who's responsible for this!" she hissed. "nasty little rat! and i thought you were a friend of mine!" mary louise laughed. "i'll be a friend when you and your gang give back all the stolen articles and money," she replied. the elderly man who lived in the room interrupted them. "two studs are missing," he announced. "i found the wallet with my money in it on the floor. yet it was carefully put away last night." "take off your shoes, pauline!" ordered mary louise. "that's the place to find missing diamonds." the girl had to obey, and the studs fell out on the floor. "it's enough," concluded mr. hayden. "here comes my assistant. you girls will come with us till the police arrive." "not in these clothes!" objected mary green. "yes, just as you are." he turned to the man. "and now, good-night, sir." "good-night, and thank you a thousand times!" was the reply. "thank miss gay," amended mr. hayden. "it was her work." tired but satisfied, mary louise went back to her own room, and, removing only her shoes and her dress, she slept soundly for the rest of the night. chapter xi _bail_ mary louise did not awaken until nine o'clock the following morning. a pleasant glow of triumph suffused her; she was experiencing her first thrill of professional success. but the occurrence of the preceding night was only a partial victory, she reminded herself; the job was just begun. there were more thieves to be caught, and valuables to be recovered. she decided to ring for a breakfast tray in her room. she had often seen this luxury pictured in the movies; now was her chance to try it out for herself. while it was being prepared she took a shower and dressed. ten minutes later the tempting meal arrived. it was fun, she thought, as she poured the coffee from the silver pot, to play being a wealthy lady, but it would be more enjoyable if jane were with her.... however, she had no time now to think of jane or of her friends in riverside; she must concentrate all her mental powers upon the mystery she was trying to solve. these were the hypotheses she meant to build her case upon: 1. pauline brooks and mary green were two members of a secret band of hotel robbers, composed probably of women and girls. 2. pauline's "aunt," as she called her, must be the leader, since she went from hotel to hotel. 3. the two transient guests who had undoubtedly stolen the silverware and the vase from stoddard house were members of the same gang. 4. pauline's "aunt" had a country place where she probably hid the stolen articles until they could be disposed of. now, with these facts in mind, mary louise had several poignant questions to answer: 1. was this country place at center square, and was that woman whom mary louise had seen in the dark pauline's aunt? 2. was margaret detweiler connected with this gang? mary louise remembered that mary green had admitted that she knew margaret and that pauline had instantly contradicted her. it was still rather a muddle, she decided as she finished her breakfast and left the room. she took the elevator to mrs. weinberger's floor and hastily told her the story of the previous night's excitement; then, scarcely waiting for the older woman's congratulations, she hurried down to the manager's office. "the hotel is exceedingly grateful to you for the service you have rendered us, miss gay," said the man. "the least we can do is to present you with a receipted bill for your room and breakfast." mary louise gasped out her thanks: she had never dreamed of a reward. "and what became of the girls?" she inquired. "they are being held under five hundred dollars bail," was the reply. "they won't have any trouble raising that, i'm afraid," said mary louise. "they'll skip and go right on with their old tricks." "perhaps you're right, miss gay." "is mr. hayden here?" she asked. "no, he has gone home," replied the manager. "but he left this memorandum for you in case you want to visit the girls and see whether you can learn anything more about the case you're working on." mary louise put the paper with the address on it in her handbag and hurried back to stoddard house. she found mrs. hilliard in her office on the first floor, planning her work for the day. "i've great news for you, mrs. hilliard!" she cried, carefully closing the door behind her. "i've caught two of the thieves, and you'll never guess who they are!" "no, i won't even try," returned the other. "i'm not much good as a detective. but hurry up and tell me." "pauline brooks and mary green!" "pauline brooks!" repeated mrs. hilliard in amazement. "but tell me how you know!" "the detective at the bellevue and i caught them in men's clothing, trying to rob another guest at the hotel. remember--i thought it was a man who stole my watch, though he did seem awfully small? well, it was pauline, and she was dressed up the same way last night!" "you're the cleverest girl i ever met, mary louise! how did you ever come to suspect those girls?" "i'll tell you the whole story later--when i have more time, mrs. hilliard. i've got to be off now, after some evidence to prove that they were the thieves who did the stealing here. you see, they're in jail now for what they did at the bellevue, but i have nothing to prove they were guilty of the robberies at stoddard house." "but what are you going to do?" "i'm going to try to find the leader of their gang and find the treasure chest. and that reminds me, i want the names of those two transients who were here when you missed the vase and the silverware." mrs. hilliard searched for them in her book, and mary louise copied them, although she had little hope that they would help her. the way these girls changed names with each change of residence made it extremely baffling. "where do you expect to look for the leader of this gang?" asked the manager. "i'm going to drive up to center square again, right now. in a hired 'drive it yourself' car." "isn't that where you got that blow on your head?" "yes, but you needn't worry about me this time, mrs. hilliard. i'm going to get a policeman to go with me to the empty house." "wise girl.... but i believe you'd be wiser still, mary louise, if you just dropped the thing now and went home for christmas. you've certainly earned your pay, and we can feel that our troubles are over. i can give the guests some assurance that they will not be robbed again. won't you go, dear? your family will be wanting you." "oh no, mrs. hilliard--thank you just the same. but i couldn't think of it. i want to recover the stolen goods and get more proof against those two girls. i couldn't give up now!" "well, then, be very careful!" "i'll be back in time for supper," she promised. mary louise went directly to the nearest agency and hired a car. not a new car, but one which ran smoothly and which she found no difficulty in operating. the day was warm for december, and sunny; the snow was gone; it would be jolly to spend the whole day out-of-doors. of course, it would have been nicer if jane or max were with her, but mary louise had so much to think about that she did not mind being alone. wasn't it funny, she mused, that the very first guest she had met at stoddard house had been the guilty person? how thankful she was that she had not given in to that impulse to make pauline brooks her confidante! perhaps, if she had, pauline would not have stolen her watch. yet, without that misfortune, mary louise might never have solved the mystery. she drove along at an even speed, following her map and watching for the landmarks she had noticed on her previous trip. about noon she arrived at the hotel where she and max had eaten dinner on sunday evening, and she drew the car to a stop at its entrance. the same clerk was at the desk; he remembered mary louise and asked immediately how her head was. "it's almost well," she replied. "but i want to visit that house again and find out who lives there and what hit me." "to collect damages?" "no, not specially. but there is something mysterious about that house, and i'd like to see it in broad daylight. this time i want to take a policeman with me. have you any in center square?" "we have a constable. he might be willing to go along." "would you be kind enough to ring him up and ask him to come here while i eat my lunch in the dining room? after all, he has a right to help me find out what hit me." "sure, i will, miss. and he'll be glad to come. he's mighty obliging. besides, he ain't got much to do." mary louise was hungry, and she enjoyed her lunch immensely. the food wasn't dainty like the stoddard house, or fancy, like the bellevue, but it was wholesome and well cooked, and the keen air had given her a good appetite. when she had finished eating and returned to the main room of the little country hotel, she found the officer waiting for her. he was a stout, middle-aged man with a pleasant smile, and he wore a baggy gray suit with a stringy tie. he was very much interested in the story of mary louise's previous visit to center square, and of her reason for wanting to see the ugly woman again who was occupying the house. "of course, what i'm hoping for," concluded mary louise, "is to catch her with the stolen goods and have her arrested. but she may not be the person i'm looking for at all, because i saw her in the dark with only a lighted candle behind her." "what is her name?" "mrs. brooks is the only name i know her by. but i've learned that criminals have half a dozen names, so you can't go by that. there isn't anybody by that name around here, is there?" the man shook his head. "no, there ain't. but let's drive to the house you mean, and i can tell you who owns it. and maybe tell you something about the people that live there." "i don't believe anybody really lives there," replied mary louise. "it's all boarded up." they got into mary louise's hired car, and she turned off the main highway into the dirt road which she and max had explored. here it was difficult for mary louise to find her way, because on the former occasion it had been dark, and snow had covered most of the ground. she drove along slowly, past the empty house they had first visited, until she came to the hill and the place with the steep driveway. she remembered the house now; there was the tree under which max had parked, and the barn beyond. a huge sign bearing the words "no trespassing--private property" had been erected since her former visit. "this place belongs to a mrs. ferguson of baltimore," announced the constable. "she's a widow with two daughters. they never live here, but once in a while she brings a bunch of girls here for a house party. she's wealthy--always comes in a car and brings a couple of servants." "ferguson," repeated mary louise, wondering where she had heard that name before. but she had heard so many new names in the past few days that she could not place it. "could you describe her?" she inquired. "can't say as i could. never saw her close. she dresses stylish, i know that, and has nothin' to do with the country folks around here." mary louise brought the car to a stop and parked it some distance from the house, cautiously avoiding the trees this time. even though she had a constable with her, she wasn't taking any chances of being hit again. "that's the tree we were parked under," she pointed out, "where i got hit in the head." "did you see anybody?" "no. but my friend said afterward he heard somebody laugh. but he couldn't wait to investigate, because he had to get me to a doctor." "maybe it was just a bad boy. we have some young bums around here once in a while." mary louise got out of the car, and the constable followed her, making a tour of the outside of the house, examining the boarded windows, trying the locked doors. apparently it was deserted. "i'd love to get inside," remarked mary louise. "couldn't we break in?" "not without a warrant," replied the officer. "we ain't got any real evidence against this lady. you can't tell what hit you, and besides, you was trespassin' on private property." mary louise sighed. evidently there was nothing she could do here. she might as well go back to philadelphia. it had been rather a useless waste of time, she thought, as she drove along towards the hotel. she had learned only one fact--the name of the owner of that empty house. "ferguson," she kept repeating to herself, wondering where she had heard that name before. and then it came to her--in a flash. ferguson was the name of the woman who had helped margaret detweiler at the department store! mary louise laughed out loud. "so i'm on the track of the wrong mystery," she thought. "oh, well, if i could find margaret detweiler i'd be happier than if i got back all that money stolen from stoddard house. so my day really hasn't been wasted." when she arrived at her hotel she literally smelled christmas in the air. the windows were hung with wreaths; holly and mistletoe and evergreen decorated the rooms on the first floor. everybody seemed to be hurrying around with a pleasant holiday air of excitement, carrying packages and making last-minute plans for the great day. a sudden swift feeling of homesickness took possession of mary louise, a violent desire to be back in her own home in riverside, sharing the happy holiday confusion. for a moment she felt that she would have to go back at any sacrifice. but ambition overcame sentiment. she would not be a quitter, and leave at the most important time. she would see the thing through as she had planned. but there was nothing to prevent her wiring to her father to come and spend part of the holiday with her. especially now that she had something definite to report to him. so she composed a telegram and sent it at once, over the telephone. "have caught thieves," she said, "but cannot recover stolen goods. leader of band at large. please come help me. love--m.l." as soon as the message was sent, she felt better and was as jolly as anyone else at supper. she was helping the walder girls tie up packages and humming christmas carols when a call came for her on the telephone. "maybe it's dad," she said to mrs. hilliard as she came into the manager's office. but it wasn't. it was mr. hayden, calling from the bellevue. "pauline brooks has wired to a mrs. ferguson, hotel phillips, baltimore, maryland," he announced, "asking for five hundred dollars. all she says in her telegram is: 'please send $500 bail,' and signed it 'p.b.' but i thought it might help you to know to whom she wired, miss gay." "i should say it does!" exclaimed mary louise rapturously. "thank you so much, mr. hayden!" she was so happy that she executed a dance. oh, how wonderful that piece of news was! mrs. ferguson! the woman who had helped--or pretended to help--margaret detweiler! the woman who lived at center square! possibly--the same woman whom pauline had called her aunt, by the name of mrs. brooks! everything seemed to be coming untangled all at once. if only mary louise could catch this ferguson woman! but of course she could--with her father's help. thank heaven he would be coming soon! he could fly straight to baltimore and accomplish her arrest. and the mystery--perhaps both mysteries--would be solved! so mary louise went happily to sleep that night, little dreaming that the worst part of her experience lay ahead of her. chapter xii _detective gay arrives_ mary louise awakened the following morning with a delightful sense of expectancy. it was the day before christmas! surely her father would come; he would know how much she wanted him, and her mother would be unselfish enough to urge him to go. he would bring mary louise her christmas presents and take her out to christmas dinner. she dressed quickly and hurried down to the lobby to ask the secretary whether there was any message for her. none had arrived as yet, but by the time she had finished her breakfast it came. "arrive about noon to stay over christmas with you. love--dad," were the precious words she read. her eyes sparkling with anticipation, mary louise ran to mrs. hilliard with her good news. "so you see i don't need to go home," she said. "i can hardly wait till he comes!" "i'm so glad, dear," replied the manager. "you've been an awfully good sport about being away from your family--and now you're getting your reward." "i think i'll put in my time till he arrives by going over to visit my friend pauline brooks," said mary louise. "i'd like to find out whether she obtained her bail yet." "you better be careful," warned mrs. hilliard. "that girl probably hates you now, and if she's free there's no telling what she might do to you!" "i know she hates me. but she can't do a thing. especially with guards all around.... and i'll be back before dad comes. i want to be on the spot to greet him." she put on her hat and coat and went to the address which mr. hayden had written down for her on the paper. she encountered no difficulty in finding her way to the matron who had charge of the women prisoners. "i am mary louise gay," she said. "a private detective in the employ of the manager of stoddard house. i believe that two of your prisoners--pauline brooks and mary green--are guilty of some robberies there, as well as at the bellevue, where they were caught. but i haven't evidence enough to prove my case. i thought if i might talk to these girls----" the matron interrupted her. "you can't do that, miss gay," she said, "because they have already been released on bail, until their case comes up next month." "how did they get the money--it was five hundred dollars, wasn't it?--so soon?" "they wired yesterday to a mrs. ferguson in baltimore. miss brooks received a registered letter this morning, and the girls left half an hour ago." mary louise sighed; it seemed as if she were always too late. why hadn't she come here before breakfast, since she knew from mr. hayden last night that the girls had telegraphed a request for the money? "where did they go?" was her next question. "i don't know. they are to report back here on the morning of january second--or forfeit their bail." "they won't be back," announced mary louise. "five hundred dollars is nothing to them." the matron turned to read a letter; she had no more time to discuss the subject with the young detective. but mary louise lingered. "i just want to ask one more question," she said; "and then i won't take any more of your time. was there a letter from this mrs. ferguson, or did she merely send the money?" "there was a letter. i had it copied, because mr. hayden told me to keep copies of any correspondence these girls had while they were here.... wait a minute--yes, here it is. you may read it for yourself." mary louise took the copy eagerly and read it as quickly as she could. the writing was poor but entirely legible, and the words were spelled right. but the subject matter was so rambling that in certain places she was not sure that she read it correctly. this was the letter which she finally deciphered: _dear girls:_ _you poor girls! meet your misfortune with this $500. u.s. justice is terrible! in what other country would they detain innocent girls?_ _baltimore is where i am now, but i am leaving immediately for a trip to florida. margaret can't go with me on account of school. will you write to her? get her address from the phone book._ _treasure island is playing at the movies, and we liked it a lot. from my observation it is like the book. c.s. enjoyed it thoroughly. and so did i. bring me back the book if you go home for christmas. it was mine anyhow._ _tonight i am packing. baltimore is tiresome, and i'll be glad to leave._ _love,_ _aunt ethel._ "may i make another copy of this letter?" mary louise asked the matron. since it was rather peculiar, it would bear studying. besides, it mentioned margaret, and that might mean margaret detweiler. the matron agreed. "yes, sit down at that desk. or do you want a typewriter?" "well, if you can lend me one," answered mary louise. she had learned typing at school, thinking it would come in handy in her chosen profession. so she typed the letter carefully and put it into her handbag. as she stepped out into the open air again she saw by one of the big clocks on the street that it was only a little past ten. two hours to wait until she saw her father! two hours, with nothing to do. it seemed rather ridiculous that she should be so idle when everybody else was apparently so busy. the throngs of people on the streets rushed along as if there were not a minute to lose. "i can go in here and buy some handkerchiefs for mrs. hilliard for christmas," she thought, as she entered a department store. all the rest of her gifts had been bought and wrapped up long ago; they were piled neatly in a box at home, ready for her mother to distribute to her family and her friends on christmas morning. the organ in the store was playing christmas music; mary louise lingered for a while after she made her purchase to listen to it. she felt very happy because her father was coming. she returned to the hotel about eleven, put mrs. hilliard's gift on her desk and went down to one of the reception rooms to wait for her father. the walder girls came in--they both had a half holiday so that they might start home early--and they said good-bye to mary louise and wished her a merry christmas. the slow hands of the clock crept towards twelve. at five minutes of the hour her father came. mary louise saw him the minute he opened the door and rushed to him as if it had been years, and not days, since their parting. "oh, dad, this is grand!" she cried. "i was so afraid you wouldn't be able to get here. are you very busy?" "no, dear," he replied as he kissed her. "there's a sort of lull in my work now, and i had expected to be home for several days. but now i am at your service. your aunt arrived yesterday to be with your mother over the holidays, so they probably won't miss me much. i want you to tell me everything that has happened so far. max said your watch was stolen, and you were hit on the head by a stone. how is your head now?" "it's all right, daddy. and i bought a cheap watch, so i can get along without my good one, though of course i was especially fond of it. but come into the dining room and let's have lunch while we talk. at least, if you don't mind being the only man with a lot of women. max objected to that." "no, i don't mind," he said. "and i am hungry." when they were seated at one of the small tables and had given their orders, mary louise began to tell her story. "i was robbed that very first night," she said. "of course, it was pretty dark in my room, but not terribly so, for the street lights show up quite well. anyhow, i could see well enough to distinguish a small man, with a cap and a black mask. "well, we had a watchman on guard that night, and the police got here in no time, but nobody saw the burglar get away. i insisted he was hiding in the hotel, but mrs. hilliard had it searched thoroughly, and we couldn't find a man in the place. i didn't dream then that it was a girl masquerading as a man. but that is the explanation: a girl named pauline brooks, who lived right across the hall from me. of course, it was the easiest thing in the world for her to slip back into her own room and take off her disguise." "did you search for the burglar in her room too?" "yes, we went there the very first thing. pauline made us wait a minute or two--she said she had just gotten in from a dance and was half undressed." "and you believed her?" "yes, indeed. we had become quite good friends at supper that night." mr. gay laughed. "but what finally led you to suspect her?" mary louise went on to tell her father in detail about her false suspicions concerning first miss stoddard and then miss weinberger, and described her visit to the bellevue and the catching of pauline brooks and mary green in the very act of stealing. "but that wasn't evidence enough to prove them guilty of the robberies at stoddard house," objected her father. "i know," admitted mary louise. "but i figured out that there is a whole band of these secret hotel thieves, for i'm pretty sure two other members stole some silverware and a vase from stoddard house a while ago. i believe, too, that a woman whom pauline called her aunt is the leader.... and that's what i want you to do, dad. go after her!" "but where is she?" he demanded. "i think she's in baltimore now, at the hotel phillips, because that's where the girls got their money for bail. five hundred dollars. she's planning to go to florida, so you have to hurry." "what could i do with her if i did find her?" inquired mr. gay. "couldn't you arrest her?" "not unless i had some evidence against her." mary louise sighed: it was dreadful, she thought, to know that somebody was guilty and not be able to prove it. but she could see that her father was right. mr. gay was enjoying his lunch. he praised the food and the service to mary louise and exclaimed in surprise that the hotel was not well filled. "it's partly because of these robberies," explained mary louise. "several people have moved out just since i came. no wonder mrs. hilliard is worried." "but she feels encouraged since you found two of the thieves, doesn't she?" "oh, yes, she's tremendously pleased. she told me i had earned my money, and i could go home. but of course i'm not satisfied. the job's only half done." the waitress approached the table, and offered a menu. "i'll take plum pudding," announced mr. gay, "in celebration of the season. how about you, mary lou?" "chocolate sundae," was her inevitable choice. "where," inquired mr. gay, turning to his daughter, "did this aunt of pauline's live when she was in philadelphia?" "she stayed at the ritz." "never at stoddard house?" "oh no." "then we'll make a visit to the ritz after lunch. and i think i will take the two o'clock train to baltimore to see what i can find out about the woman. what does she call herself?" "mrs. ferguson--and sometimes mrs. brooks. possibly there are two different women, but i don't believe so.... but what will you do at the ritz, daddy?" "just make inquiries as to whether anything was stolen while the woman stayed there, and if so, what. that would give me a reason for going after her in baltimore." "that's a great idea, dad!" exclaimed mary louise joyfully. "may i go to the hotel with you?" "of course. now, you run along and get your hat and coat and tell mrs. hilliard where you are going, while i order a taxi." it was not until they were in the cab that mr. gay remembered to ask how mary louise had received the cut on her head. max had not told him much, he explained, because he wanted to keep it secret from mary louise's mother, to save her unnecessary worry. "it was part of my investigation about margaret detweiler," replied the girl, and she hurriedly told her father the reason for her visit to center square and its consequences. "but i feel that in some way the two cases are tied up together," she added, "for the woman who owns the place is named mrs. ferguson, and a face which i saw at the window reminded me of the woman pauline called her aunt. but it's all very confusing." the taxi pulled up at the ritz, and mr. gay and his daughter got out. with his badge, the former had no difficulty in interviewing the hotel detective immediately. he asked whether any money or valuables had been lost at the ritz during the past week. "yes," replied the other, "some money and a valuable bag containing two pearl rings were stolen last friday. but we suspected a chap who called himself a traveling salesman, and we're on his track." "was a mrs. brooks staying here at the time?" "yes. i remember her well. with two nieces." "please describe her," urged mary louise. "she is tall and stout--weighs around a hundred and eighty, i should judge. about fifty years old, with black hair done very severely--looks like a wig. dresses well and wears jewelry. has false teeth and an ugly mouth, but seems a great favorite with young people.... that's about all." "that's enough," said mr. gay. "now, can you tell me just what was stolen?" the detective wrote down the articles on a slip of paper. "a bag containing two pearl rings, and two hundred dollars." the bag was valuable in itself, being made of gold mesh, he told them. "thank you very much," said mr. gay as he pocketed the list. "i'll let you know if i have any success." the taxi was waiting outside the hotel, and mary louise jumped into it first. "i'll ride to the station with you, daddy," she said. "do you think you'll be back tonight?" "maybe," he answered. "but we'll have a fine christmas together tomorrow." he was just in time to catch his train. mary louise watched it pull out of the station and wondered what in the world she would do to pass the afternoon. slowly she walked out to the street and looked at the christmas displays in the shop windows. she had gone about two blocks when she stopped to examine a particularly attractive display, featuring a small, real christmas tree, when she noticed that the shop into whose window she was gazing was a tea room. a cup of hot chocolate ought to taste good, she decided--rich and hot, with whipped cream on the top! so she opened the door and went inside. little did she realize at that moment how thankful she was to be later on for that one cup of chocolate and the plate of little cakes that she ordered! chapter xiii _a prisoner in the dark_ while mary louise waited for her chocolate to be served, she took the copy of the letter from her handbag and read it again. the woman said she was going to florida. oh, suppose her father should be too late to catch her! "but if mrs. ferguson really is a crook, why should she write all her plans to a prisoner, when she would know that the letter would be censored?" mary louise asked herself. her eyes narrowed. the woman had written the letter on purpose to deceive them! she probably had no intention of going to florida! perhaps it was a code letter. mary louise recalled the lindbergh case, in which the kidnaper had written a letter to a prisoner in which the second word of every sentence was a key, thus forming a message. she decided to try to discover something like that for herself. she read the letter again: _dear girls:_ _you poor girls! meet your misfortune with this $500. u.s. justice is terrible! in what other country would they detain innocent girls?_ _baltimore is where i am now, but i am leaving immediately for a trip to florida. margaret can't go with me on account of school. will you write to her? get her address from the phone book._ _treasure island is playing at the movies, and we liked it a lot. from my observation it is like the book. c. s. enjoyed it thoroughly. and so did i. bring me back the book if you go home for christmas. it was mine anyhow._ _tonight i am packing. baltimore is tiresome, and i'll be glad to leave._ _love,_ _aunt ethel._ on a page of her notebook mary louise wrote down each second word and read the result to herself: "poor--your--courts--what--is--can't--her--island----" "shucks! that doesn't mean a thing!" she muttered in disgust. "i guess i was crazy. but just the same, it does seem like a dumb sort of letter if it hasn't some underlying meaning." the waitress brought her chocolate in a lovely little blue pot, and the whipped cream in a bowl. on a plate of the same set, dainty pink and white cakes were piled. "it's a good thing i'm not dieting," thought mary louise, as she poured out a steaming cup of chocolate. "this certainly looks delicious!" she wondered idly, as she finished her refreshments, whether she should go to a picture show, just to put in her time. she wasn't exactly in the mood for that kind of entertainment; her own life was too exciting at the present moment to allow her to feel the need for fiction. so, while she waited for her bill, she glanced again at the letter in her handbag. "i might try the first word of each sentence," she thought. "to see whether i could form a message that way. though i should think that would be too obvious.... still, i'll see what happens." she jotted down the opening word of each sentence on another page of her notebook. "you--meet--us--in--baltimore--margaret--will--get--treasure--from-c.s.--and--bring--it--to--baltimore." it was all mary louise could do to keep from crying out in her joy. of course that was the answer! pauline and mary were to go to baltimore. the treasure, the stolen goods, must be in that house at c.s.--center square. and "margaret" would go there to get it! mary louise no longer had any difficulty in deciding what to do with her afternoon. she'd drive to center square as fast as she could--in order to beat "margaret" there. oh, how she hoped that the "margaret" referred to was margaret detweiler! her hands actually trembled as she paid the bill, she was in such haste to be off. she hadn't time to go back to the hotel and inform mrs. hilliard of her plan. later on she was to wish desperately that she had taken that precaution. instead, she hurried to the agency and hired the same car she had driven the previous day. then she set off on the road which was by this time becoming familiar. it was after five o'clock when mary louise reached center square. the twilight was deepening; already the short winter day was almost at a close. "i'll need a flashlight," she decided and she stopped in at a country store to buy one. when she came out of the store she drove directly to the abandoned house. this time she did not want to take the constable with her, for he would forbid her breaking into the place. yet that was exactly what mary louise meant to do, if she could not be admitted by knocking at the door! she turned into the driveway, past the "no trespassing" sign, mounted the steep incline, and parked her car in an inconspicuous spot behind the house and at the side of the barn. "here's hoping i don't get hit with a rock!" she thought recklessly, as she jumped out of the car. the darkness was becoming deeper; the silence was broken only by the moaning of the tree branches in the wind. the place seemed completely deserted. with her heart beating fast, mary louise ran to the back door of the house and tried it. as she had anticipated, it was securely locked. a moment later she encountered the same condition at the front door. at both entrances she knocked loudly; at neither was there any response. "just the same, i'm going to get in!" she muttered resolutely. "if i have to climb over the porch to a second-story window!" she walked around the house again, more slowly this time, examining each window as she passed it. everywhere she found boards nailed over the glass. on only one window at the side did she discover a partial opening. it was the window through which she had seen the face of the young girl with the ugly woman beside her. mary louise's heart leaped up in joy. she could break through that glass and get in! the window which she was examining was at least three feet from the ground, and two boards were nailed across the lower sash. but by standing on a log which she dragged to the spot she was able to reach the upper sash. with the aid of a stone she smashed the glass into bits. it would have been easier to climb through the opening without her fur coat, but mary louise felt sure that she would need its protection in the damp, cold house. how thankful she was later on that she had not yielded to her first impulse! she accomplished the feat successfully, however, without even tearing her clothing or breaking her flashlight, and stood on the floor of a room which she soon identified as the dining room. it was horribly cold and damp inside the house, but mary louise scarcely noticed it at first. a thrill of excitement sent a pleasant glow through her body. she was going to search for the treasure! keeping her flashlight turned on, she gave a quick glance about the room. a table, half a dozen chairs, a sideboard of beautiful mahogany, and a china-closet filled with lovely dishes comprised its furnishings. "a good place to begin my search!" she decided, going straight to the attractive sideboard and opening the drawer nearest the top. a luncheon set of exquisite design greeted her eyes. "rather grand for a country place," she silently commented. "let's see what else we can find!" a second drawer was entirely empty, but a third contained a full set of silverware. seizing a spoon in one hand, mary louise turned the flashlight on it with the other. a wild cry of joy escaped her lips; the spoon was decorated with an ivy-leaf pattern! yes, and there were the initials, too--s.h. (for stoddard house, mrs. hilliard had said)--engraved on the stem! "so i know that i'm in the right place!" she couldn't help exclaiming aloud in her triumph. the sound of her own voice in the silent, dark house was strange; mary louise found herself trembling. but only for a moment: courage and common sense came to her rescue. hastily she gathered all the silver together and put it in a pile on the dining-room table. "i may have to go out through the window again," she figured, "so i'll leave my stuff here. but first i'll try the doors from the inside." there, however, she met disappointment. there were no dead latches on the doors; they were both locked securely, and the keys had been removed. now that she had familiarized herself with the plan of the house, she decided to make a systematic search, beginning with the upstairs and working her way down. cautiously she ascended the wide stairway in the hall to the second floor. there were four bedrooms, she saw by the aid of her flashlight, and a bathroom. a narrow staircase led to an attic above. "i might as well begin with the attic," she thought, "and do the thing thoroughly. that would be a natural place to hide things--especially if there's a closet." there was a huge closet, she soon discovered, besides two trunks, and all sorts of odds and ends of furniture piled about the room. naturally, mary louise began her search with the trunks: to her delight she found them unlocked. "if i only have the same luck that i had in the dining room!" she wished as she began to examine the trays. things had apparently been stuffed in hit-or-miss fashion: ribbons, scarves, odd bits of costumes were all entangled together. off in a corner of the tray she found a heavy box which looked especially inviting. opening it excitedly she let out a wild whoop of joy. there was jewelry inside! but when she examined the articles one by one she experienced only disappointment. there was nothing valuable in the whole collection; it was merely "five-and-ten-store" stuff, which nobody would wear except to a costume party. "i might have expected that," she mused as she put the box back into the tray. "if this trunk had had anything valuable in it, it would have been locked." nevertheless, she resolved to make her search thorough and went through both trunks, without any success. then she directed her attention to the closet. this occupied a large space--almost as big as a small room--so that mary louise found that she could easily enter it herself. it was horribly chilly and damp; she shivered, and drew her coat more tightly around her as she continued her task. she was peering into a hat box when she suddenly heard a pounding on a wall. she stopped what she was doing and listened intently. where was the noise coming from? had someone come in? was "margaret" here, or had the police come to arrest mary louise for housebreaking? her hands shook and she turned off her flashlight, waiting tensely in the darkness, while the pounding continued. but she did not hear any footsteps. the noise finally ceased, and, reassured at last, mary louise turned on her flashlight and resumed her search. but the attic revealed nothing of any importance, not even any loose boards in the walls or floor underneath which the treasure might have been stored. with a sigh of disappointment, mary louise descended the attic steps. entering the bedrooms one after the other and searching them carefully, she encountered no better results. the bureaus were practically empty; the beds contained only a blanket spread over each mattress, and though mary louise felt around them with her hands for hard objects which might be concealed, she found nothing. looking at her watch, she saw to her surprise that it was almost eight o'clock. supper hour was long past; because of her excitement, and on account of her refreshments in the philadelphia tea shop, she had not felt hungry. but she was thirsty and was delighted to find running water in the bathroom. "i'm glad i don't have to climb out of that window to get a drink at the pump!" she congratulated herself. and while she was there she methodically searched the bathroom, again without any success. "why, here's an electric light button!" she exclaimed in surprise. "these people must be rich--they have all the modern improvements. and i've been using up my battery!" but the light did not turn on; no doubt the current was cut off while the people were away, and mary louise had to resort to her flashlight again. "because i started in the attic, the treasure will probably be in the cellar," she concluded. "i hope my battery doesn't give out before i get to it." nevertheless, she meant to proceed with the downstairs first, just as she had planned. she would rather be there if "margaret" arrived. oh, how she wished the girl would come! especially if she proved to be margaret detweiler. the kitchen consumed a great deal of time, for she had to look in every possible can and dish in the various closets. as she examined everything, she was conscious of increasing hunger; she sincerely hoped that she would find something she could eat. but her search revealed nothing except some dry groceries: tea, sugar, salt, and spices. moreover, the stove was an electric one, useless without current. she could not even heat water to make herself a cup of tea! she was debating whether she should crawl out of the window and go to a store for something to eat, or whether she should wait until she had completed her task. it was just nine o'clock now; if she left the house she might miss seeing margaret and lose all chance of finding either the girl or the treasure. but as she passed through the dining room from the kitchen she saw immediately that her decision had been made for her. the window through which she had crawled into the house had been boarded up tightly! she was a helpless prisoner in this dark, lonely house! so that was the explanation of the pounding which she had heard from the attic closet! oh, why hadn't she rushed down to see who was doing it? now what in the world could she do? if margaret didn't come, she would have to spend the night here--alone! and tomorrow was christmas! but suppose nobody came tomorrow--or the next day--or the next week! starvation, death from pneumonia, loneliness that would drive her insane--all these grim horrors stared mary louise in the face. shivering with cold, she stood motionless in the dining room and tried to think of some way out. it would be impossible for her to break down those heavy wooden doors, and she knew nothing about picking locks. there wasn't an unboarded window on the whole first floor, and even the windows over the porch on the second floor were tightly nailed shut. oh, what on earth could she do? "if only max and norman would come along now and give that familiar signal!" she wished. but no sound disturbed the silence of the night; even the wind had died, leaving a stillness like death all about her. she felt buried alive in a doorless tomb. "nobody knows i'm here," she moaned. "not even mrs. hilliard. "i'll have to think of something," she decided, with a supreme effort to keep herself in control. "in the meanwhile, i might as well finish my search." but even that satisfaction was denied to mary louise. in the doorway between the dining room and the living room her flashlight went out. at the most critical moment, when her courage was at the lowest ebb, the battery had died! a groan of agonized dismay escaped from her lips. in utter despair she groped for a chair and sank down in it, miserable and defeated. the impenetrable blackness of the room was overpowering, for she was used to the lights of the streets in philadelphia and in riverside. a strange, physical fear took possession of her, paralyzing her limbs; for several minutes she sat still in the darkness, not even attempting to move. a shiver ran through her; she was becoming colder and colder in this damp, icy house. her need for warmth stirred her to action. she rose cautiously to her feet and groped her way to the hall, where she remembered the stairway to be located, and without encountering any serious knocks, she slowly ascended to one of the bedrooms. here the inky blackness still confronted her, but it was not so deep as that of the first floor, for there was an unboarded window in the room. gradually, as she made her way towards it, mary louise could perceive its outline. most of the window was covered by the tree branches, but here and there through the limbs she could distinguish patches of sky. yes--far off, and dim, but real, nevertheless--was one shining star! "the christmas star," she murmured. "or at least--my christmas star. for it's the only one i'll see tonight." there was something immensely comforting in its presence. the star reassured her, it reminded her that god was still in his heaven, and she was not forsaken. tomorrow, christmas morning, rescue would surely come! so, after collecting all the blankets in the house on one bed, she took off her coat and her hat and her shoes and lay down, drawing the squirrel coat over her on top of the blankets. cold and hunger and her dark prison were forgotten in a blissful maze of unconsciousness. mary louise slept until the sun of the strangest christmas of her experience awakened her. chapter xiv _the secret band_ mr. gay settled back in his seat in the train with a sense of comfort. he liked traveling; no matter how hard he was working or how difficult the case he was trying to solve, he could always rest on a journey. "i might have brought mary lou with me," he thought. "she would have liked the experience." but perhaps, he decided, she had wanted to remain on the spot at stoddard house in case anything new developed. little did he think as he was speeding along towards baltimore that his daughter was driving as fast as she could in the opposite direction. into a new danger which he had not dreamed of! mary louise, in her systematic way, had given her father a list of all the valuables to be recovered. now, at his leisure, he took the paper from his pocket and went over it carefully. "set of silverware, ivy-leaf pattern, initials s.h. chinese vase. 5 watches, including one set with diamonds and my own. $550 in cash. painting by whistler. pair of diamond earrings." mr. gay let out a low whistle. what a list that was! no wonder mrs. hilliard was worried! he took from his pocket the other slip of paper, which the detective at the ritz had just given to him. "gold-mesh handbag containing $200. 2 pearl rings...." "if this woman, this mrs. ferguson, is responsible for all this, she certainly ought to be kept behind prison bars for the rest of her life," he thought. "but we'll see--we'll see...." his train passed through a small town, and from his window mr. gay could see the christmas decorations in the houses. how he wished that he and mary louise could both be at home, taking part in the happy celebrations! trimming the tree, filling the stockings, eating the turkey dinner together! but there would be more christmases, he reminded himself, and the whole family would be together on new year's day. it was dusk when he arrived in baltimore and he took a taxi straight to the hotel phillips. he engaged a room for he meant to take a shower and have his dinner there, even if he did not remain all night. a few minutes later he was interviewing the hotel detective in his private office. "is there a mrs. ferguson staying here?" he asked, after he had shown his badge. "yes, there is," replied the other man. "she came two days ago with two daughters and four other girls as guests. they have a suite of rooms on the ninth floor and are planning to stay over christmas." "has anything been stolen since their arrival?" questioned mr. gay. the other detective's eyes opened wide in surprise. "yes. a roll of bills, two hundred dollars, i believe it amounted to, and a valuable stamp collection. last night. but surely----" "i have reasons to suspect mrs. ferguson and her accomplices," stated mr. gay. "other hotel robberies lead us to believe she is the leader of a band of hotel thieves." "but we are on the track of another suspect. a man we found wandering into the wrong room last night and excusing himself by the old gag of saying he was drunk." "maybe he was drunk!" "possibly. we couldn't get any sense out of him. but i believe that he was just a darned good actor. another fellow got away--an accomplice, i think, who is known to be a stamp collector. we're on his trail." "i'd like to search the ferguson woman's rooms," announced mr. gay. "can i have your help?" the man hesitated. he hated to antagonize wealthy guests who were bringing so much money into the hotel; yet when he recalled the expression of mrs. ferguson's eyes he remembered that he had distrusted her. so he reluctantly consented to the other detective's request. taking one of his assistants with him, the hotel detective led mr. gay to the ninth floor and knocked at mrs. ferguson's door. from within sounds of laughter and gay music could be heard. as the door opened, the three men saw the girls playing cards in the sitting room of the luxurious suite. a radio was grinding out jazz. with a shrewd glance at the girls, mr. gay realized immediately that they were not the same type as his daughter's friends at riverside. they were older, too, although they were painted and lipsticked to appear young. "mrs. ferguson," began the hotel detective, "i must apologize for interrupting your card game, but i have to go through with a routine. last night some valuables were stolen from one of our guests, and i have promised him to make a thorough search of each room. you understand, of course, that no slight is meant to you or to your guests. the girls can go on with their game, if you will just permit us to look around." mrs. ferguson, who was, mr. gay thought, one of the ugliest women he had ever seen, drew herself up proudly. "i very much resent it," she replied haughtily. "in fact i forbid it!" "you can't do that," answered the detective coolly. "for even if you decide to leave the hotel, your things will be searched before you go. but please don't be unreasonable, mrs. ferguson! suppose that you, for instance, had been robbed of that beautiful diamond ring you are wearing. wouldn't you want us to do everything in our power to get it back for you?" "i wouldn't want guests--especially women and girls--subjected to such insults as you were offering me and my young friends and relatives! besides, i thought you were already pretty sure of your thief." "we're not sure of anything. will you submit peacefully, mrs. ferguson, or must we call in the police?" the woman looked sullen and did not answer; the detective stepped across the room and locked the door. mrs. ferguson turned her back and wandered indifferently towards the bare christmas tree in the corner. it was standing upright in a box of green, but it had not been trimmed. a pile of boxes beside it indicated the ornaments with which it would probably soon be decorated. mr. gay, always the keenest observer, sensed that fact that mrs. ferguson had some special interest in those boxes, and his first shrewd surmise was that valuables were somehow concealed within them. therefore, he kept his eye glued on that corner of the room. "i guess you'll have to stop your games, girls," said mrs. ferguson, "since these men mean to be objectionable. of course, we'll move to another hotel immediately, so you can all go and get your things packed.... pauline, you take care of these balls for the tree. men like this wouldn't care whether they were smashed or not! they have no christmas spirit." "some hotel!" muttered pauline, with an oath under her breath. but she got up and went towards the christmas tree. "wait a minute!" ordered mr. gay. "i'm looking into those boxes." mrs. ferguson laughed scornfully. "they just came from the 'five and ten,'" she said. "they haven't even been unwrapped. and i warn you men, if you break them, you can replace them! it's not easy to get through the crowds now, either." detective gay smiled. "i'll take the responsibility," he promised as he untied the string of the top package. as mrs. ferguson had stated, it contained nothing but bright new christmas-tree balls. but when he lifted the second box in the pile--a huge package as big as a hat box--he knew immediately that it was too heavy to contain christmas-tree ornaments. nevertheless, his countenance was expressionless as he untied the string. a great quantity of tissue paper covered the top of the box; this mr. gay removed, and from beneath it he drew forth a shabby blue book. "is this the stamp album?" he asked the hotel detective. the other man gasped and rushed to mr. gay's side. "yes! yes!" he cried. "that's it! see if the stamps are still in it." with a quick movement pauline brooks took two steps forward and snatched the book from the detective's hands. "that's my album!" she exclaimed. "if you don't believe it, look at the name in the front." triumphantly she turned to the first page and displayed the inscription: _pauline brooks,_ _christmas, 1931._ _from aunt ethel._ detective gay laughed scornfully. "you can't fool us that easily, miss brooks," he said. "examine the ink in the handwriting for yourself! it's fresh.... you can't pass that off for three years old." pauline looked calmly into her accuser's eyes. "maybe it is," she retorted. "but i don't have to write my name in my books the minute i get them, do i?" "hand it over!" commanded the hotel detective, while mr. gay continued his search of the christmas boxes. at the bottom of the pile he found the gold-mesh handbag with two pearl rings inside it. but he did not discover any of the lost money. "call the police," ordered the hotel detective, turning to his assistant. "gay and i will make a thorough search of this room. and on your way downstairs get hold of mr. jones, in room 710. he can come up here and identify his stamp album." mrs. ferguson by this time had slipped into her bedroom, and one by one the girls were following her. detective gay, suddenly aware of the fact that the criminals meant to escape by another door, dashed out into the hall just in time to stop them. "must we use handcuffs?" he demanded, pushing mrs. ferguson back into her room and locking the door. the woman did not reply, but she looked at him with an expression of hatred in her eyes. mr. gay called into the next room to the hotel detective, who was still making a systematic search. "can you get me a photographer?" he asked. "o.k.," was the reply, and the detective put the message through, using the room telephone. "now, what do you want a photographer for?" demanded pauline impudently. "because we're such pretty girls?" "i want to send your picture to my daughter," replied mr. gay. "i understand that you and she used to be friends." "who is your daughter?" "mary louise gay." "the little rat! if i'd ever realized----" "how smart she is," supplied mr. gay proudly, "you'd have been more careful! well, miss brooks, you've been pretty clever, but not quite clever enough. this is the end of your dangerous career." "i guess we can get out on bail!" she boasted. "i guess you can't! not this time, young lady!" the photographer and the police arrived at the same time; mrs. ferguson and her band of six had to submit to having their pictures taken and were allowed, under supervision, to pack a few necessary articles of clothing into their suitcases. then, under the escort of four policemen and the assistant hotel detective, they rode downstairs to the waiting patrol car. mr. gay and the hotel detective went on with their methodical search. "suppose we stop and eat," suggested the latter. "we can lock up these rooms." "o.k.," agreed mr. gay. a knock sounded at the door. "i'm jones--the man who lost the album," announced the visitor. "did you fellows really get it?" his question held all the eagerness of the collector. "this it?" queried the hotel detective, holding the worn blue book up to view. "oh, boy! is it? i'll say so! let's see it!" he grasped the book affectionately. "we are still hoping to find your money, too," added mr. gay. but the man was hardly listening; his stamps meant far more to him than his roll of bills. "whom do i thank for this?" he inquired finally, as he opened the door. "my daughter," returned mr. gay. "but she isn't here, and i'll have to tell you the story some other time." during their supper together, mr. gay told the hotel detective about mary louise and the discoveries she had made which led her to suspect mrs. ferguson and pauline brooks. he brought the list out of his pocket and crossed off the articles that had been recovered: the gold-mesh bag and the two pearl rings. "except for the money which was stolen here last night, we probably shan't find anything else in the rooms," he concluded. "mrs. ferguson has no doubt hidden or disposed of everything which her gang stole from stoddard house." nevertheless, the two men resumed their search after dinner. deeply hidden in the artificial grass which filled the christmas-tree box, they found four hundred dollars--the exact amount which had been taken from the hotel ritz in philadelphia and the hotel phillips there in baltimore. but two hours' more searching revealed nothing else. at ten o'clock the two men decided to quit. mr. gay went directly to his room and called stoddard house on the telephone, asking to speak to mary louise. to his surprise it was mrs. hilliard who answered him. "mary louise did not come home for supper," she said. "i concluded that she had gone to baltimore with you, mr. gay." "no, she didn't. could she have gone to the movies with any of the girls, do you think?" "possibly. but she usually tells me where she is going. of course she may have gone home with the walder girls, and i know their folks haven't a phone." mr. gay seemed reassured; after all, he decided, nothing could happen to his daughter now that the criminals were under lock and key. "well, tell her i'll take the first train home tomorrow," he concluded, "and that i have good news for her." "i will, mr. gay," promised the hotel manager. disappointed but not worried, he replaced the receiver and went down to the desk to inquire for the picture of mrs. ferguson's band of thieves. several copies had been struck off, and they were surprisingly good. mr. gay chuckled when he thought how pleased mary louise would be to see all the criminals lined up together. taking the pictures with him, he went straight to the offices of baltimore's leading newspapers. in a short time he had given the editors the important facts of the capture of the dangerous band, giving the credit to mary louise. to one of these newspapers he gave his daughter's picture--a snapshot which he always carried in his pocket. "wait till riverside sees that!" he exulted. "won't our family be proud of our mary lou!" mr. gay slept soundly that night, believing that everything was all right with mary louise. had he but known the agony of spirit his daughter was experiencing he would have returned posthaste to philadelphia. mrs. hilliard, however, was more concerned and spent a restless night. she felt sure that something had happened to mary louise, for she was not the sort of girl to go off without mentioning her plans. even if she had gone to the country with the walder girls, she would have found a way to telephone. mary louise was never thoughtless or selfish. in her worried condition, mrs. hilliard awakened twice during the night and went down and looked into the girl's empty room. at six o'clock she could stand the anxiety no longer, and she called mr. gay on the long distance telephone. he was in bed, asleep, but the first ring at his bedside awakened him. he listened to mrs. hilliard's news with a sinking heart, remembering the dreadful thing which had happened to his daughter the previous summer, while she was investigating a mystery of crime. "i'll take the seven o'clock train to philadelphia!" he cried, already snatching his clothing from the chair beside his bed. in his haste and his deep concern for his daughter he forgot entirely that this was christmas morning. when the waiter in the dining car greeted him with a respectful "merry christmas, sir," mr. gay stared at him blankly. then he remembered and made the correct reply. one look at mrs. hilliard's face as he entered stoddard house told him that there was no news of his girl. mary louise had not returned. "the only place i can think of," said mrs. hilliard, "for i've already gotten in touch with the walder girls, is that empty house out in center square, where she was hit on the head the night she went there with max miller." "i'll drive right out there," announced mr. gay immediately. "i guess i can make inquiries at the hotel.... and in the meantime i'll notify the philadelphia police, but i'll warn them not to give out the news on the radio till i get back.... i don't want to alarm mary lou's mother until it is necessary." ten minutes later he was in a taxicab, directing the driver to speed as fast as the law allowed to center square. chapter xv _christmas morning_ christmas morning! mary louise laughed out loud when she wakened amid the bleakness of her surroundings in that empty house near center square. oh, how different it was from every other christmas of her experience! no lovely fragrance of evergreen, no warm fire, no cheery hot breakfast--no presents! but this last fact worried her least of all. at the moment she believed she would give up all the christmas presents in the world for a plate of sausage and hot cakes. she felt a little stiff from sleeping in her clothing, but underneath the blankets and her fur coat she had not suffered from the cold. and, oh, how good it was to see the sun! to be able to walk around in a light house--or a dimly lighted one, for even some of the second-story windows were boarded up. she shuddered at the fear that no one might come that day to rescue her, that she might be subjected to another black night in this dismal place. but with daylight to aid her perhaps she could find a way out for herself, if no one came. she would try not to lose hope. she got up and washed, thankful at least for the water in the house, and she took a long drink. then she remembered that there was tea in the kitchen, and even though there was no way of heating the water, she could make cold tea and add sugar. perhaps the sugar would supply a little energy. with her fur coat buttoned up to her neck she cautiously descended the stairway in the hall. downstairs it was so dark that she could not even see the outlines of the furniture until her eyes became accustomed to the dimness. "there must be candles in the kitchen," she surmised. "but i'm afraid it will be too dark to find them." she groped her way out to the kitchen, and fumbled around until she touched the dresser. "i'd never be able to tell which is sugar and which is salt," she thought. "except that i can taste anything i happen to find." however, that proceeding might not prove to be so good, she decided, for she had no desire to taste kitchen cleanser or rat poison, for instance. no, it would be better to do without than to take any risks, just for the sake of a cup of cold tea! as she cautiously ran her hand along the bottom shelf of the dresser, her fingers encountered something decidedly rough. for a moment she was puzzled, until she could identify the object. but in a moment she recognized it. sandpaper, of course! sandpaper on the outside of a box of matches. her pulse quickened as she picked up the box, and found that it was full. this was luck indeed! she struck a match at once, and began to hunt feverishly for candles. but she wasted three matches without finding a single one. "i can have my cold tea, anyway," she thought, and with the aid of a single match she located tea and sugar and a cup. the sink was right beside the dresser, and she ran cold water over the tea leaves. "merry christmas, mary lou!" she finally said aloud, as she drank the cold tea through closed teeth, to avoid swallowing the leaves. she felt chillier than ever after she had finished it, but not quite so weak and empty. lighting another match she made her way into the living room. "wouldn't it be wonderful if there were an open fireplace all piled up with wood!" she mused, as she entered the room. there was a fireplace, she found, but it was totally empty. on a shelf over it, however, she came upon a discovery which she had overlooked the previous night. there, right in the middle of the mantelpiece, stood a chinese vase of the very design which mrs. hilliard had described! "maybe if i look around i'll find miss granger's painting," was her next hope. she examined the picture over the fireplace--a cheap hunting scene--and was just about to turn away when she made another find which brought a whoop of joy to her lips. in plain view, at each end of the shelf, stood two tall, red candles! when mary louise had lighted one of these she felt suddenly like a different girl. it was amazing what a change one steady little gleam of light could make. but she was frugal enough to burn only one of them; if she had to spend another night in this house she would not need to be in complete darkness. there was an upright piano at the other side of the room; mary louise stepped over and sat down on the stool in front of it. "i'll play a christmas carol, just to celebrate!" she decided, and struck the opening chords of "o come all ye faithful." she stopped abruptly. "what a terrible rattle!" she exclaimed. "these people must throw their tin cans into the piano when they finish with them!" she stood up and examined the top with her candle. lifting up the hinged half, she peered down into the space beneath. instantly she perceived a gray flannel bag hanging on the end of one of the keys as if someone had deliberately hidden it there. she snatched it off excitedly, delighted to find that it was heavy. no doubt it contained something metallic, which had been the cause of the jangling of the piano keys. with trembling fingers she pulled open the string and dumped the contents of the bag upon a chair. diamond rings, bracelets, earrings, watches, and gold necklaces dropped out before her astonished eyes. a fabulous treasure, such as one reads about in fairy tales or sometimes dreams of finding! color came to mary louise's cheeks, and her heart raced wildly as she examined the articles one by one to make sure that they were genuine. mrs. weinberger's old-fashioned timepiece ornamented with diamonds was there--and mary louise's own dainty little wrist watch, engraved with her name in the back of it. oh, what a joy it was to have it again! she clasped it affectionately about her wrist. leaving the jewelry on the chair, she peered into the piano again to see what else she could find. she was rewarded with another discovery. down in a corner, in a remote spot, she saw a small package wrapped in brown paper. she encountered some difficulty in prying it loose, but at last she had it free. stripped of its brown-paper wrapping, she found that she held a fat wad of bills in her hand! "mrs. macgregor's money!" she thought immediately. "and miss granger's--and my own five dollars!" how wonderful it all was! to be able to return the possessions to the rightful owners at stoddard house! to have proof enough now to convict mrs. ferguson and her band of thieves! to collect her salary from mrs. hilliard and go home--in time for max's senior dance! if--only--she could get out of this house! a feverish sense of impatience took possession of mary louise. it was cruel, she stormed, that in her hour of triumph she should be imprisoned alone in a dark house. wouldn't somebody miss her and come to her rescue? where was her father? why hadn't he driven out here to center square when he returned to stoddard house last night--and had found her missing? but suppose--awful thought--that he had not returned! suppose he had missed finding mrs. ferguson and had been deceived by that letter of hers into pursuing the woman to florida! mrs. hilliard would conclude that he had taken her--mary louise--with him, when neither returned! a trip to florida, mary louise figured, might consume almost a week. while she waited alone in this dark, cold house, each day itself an eternity of hunger and loneliness and suffering! a hollow laugh escaped her lips as she glanced at the money and the valuables heaped on the chair beside her. they were as little use to her now as midas's gold. they would neither feed her nor keep her warm. "there's no use hoping for release by somebody else," she told herself. "i'll have to work out a way by myself. i'll have to be a modern count of monte cristo!" she stood up and gathered her treasure together again into the bag and took the chinese vase from the mantelpiece. another tour of the room revealed the whistler picture in a dark corner. with the aid of her half-burnt candle, she carried everything to the dining room and placed it all in a pile beside the silverware. "i'll hide the money inside my dress and the jewelry in my coat pocket. these other things i'll drop into that wood-basket i saw in the kitchen." when she had finally completed her packing she sat down in the dining room to think. "i believe i'll try to get out the same way i got in," she decided. "because the glass is already broken in that window. all i'll have to do will be to cut my way through the new boards which that caretaker--or whoever he was--hammered on last night." with this purpose in view, mary louise carried her candle into the kitchen. the drawer in the dresser revealed a poor selection of knives; it might take days to cut through a board with only these as tools. nevertheless, she meant to try. anything was better than idleness. selecting what appeared to be the sharpest in the collection, she returned to the window in the dining room. but she realized immediately that her scheme would not work. the boards were too close together; it would be impossible to insert a knife between them at any place. "i guess i'll have to smash that bedroom window and jump out," she thought gloomily. "it would probably mean a broken neck, but that's better than a slow, lingering death." she pulled the dresser drawer farther out, looking idly for some other implement to facilitate her escape. suddenly her eyes lighted upon a hammer. not a very large hammer, but adequate enough for the task. why hadn't she thought of that plan before? it would be lots easier to hammer those boards loose than to try to cut through them with a knife. she picked it up out of the drawer and paused abruptly. there was a slight sound in the front of the house, like the click of a key in a lock. extinguishing her candle, she waited breathlessly till she heard the front door open. someone stepped cautiously into the hall! mary louise's heart stood still in her excitement. who was the intruder? was it the margaret whom mrs. ferguson had mentioned in her letter, or was it the woman herself? whoever it was, was he or she armed with a revolver? much as mary louise longed to find margaret detweiler, she dared not take a chance now of coming face to face with an unknown person in this dark house, since all the valuables were in her possession. her only desire at the moment was for escape. silently she moved towards the door of the kitchen which led directly into the hall. she heard the newcomer go into the living room, and as mary louise crept past the doorway she saw the gleam of a flashlight. but the person, whoever it was, was hidden from her view, and mary louise did not wait to find out who it was. she reached the front door in safety and found the key still reposing in the lock. a second later she removed the key and slipped out of the door into the clear, cold sunshine. she was free at last! and with a chuckle of triumph she inserted the key on the outside of the door and turned it, imprisoning the intruder, just as she herself had been imprisoned for the last sixteen hours! chapter xvi _two captures_ for one ecstatic moment mary louise stood motionless on the front porch, breathing the cold, delicious air of freedom. then she ran around the side of the house to the rear to look for her car. at first she thought it was gone, for she could not see it, huddled up close to the barn. but a few steps more revealed it to her view, and, weak as she was, she darted forward eagerly. she decided that she would drive directly to the hotel and have some breakfast; afterwards she would inquire her way to the constable's house. he could take charge of the valuables in her possession and go back with her to meet the intruder. for mary louise had no intention of returning to philadelphia without first learning that person's identity. besides, she had forgotten to bring out with her the basket containing the vase and the picture and the silverware. no use going back to stoddard house without the entire loot! she climbed into the car and put her foot on the starter--without any success. she pulled out the choke and tried again and again. five minutes passed. she made one final effort, in vain. the car was frozen! despair seized her; she did not know what she could do. in her weakened condition, cold and hungry as she was, she did not believe herself physically capable of walking to the hotel. the distance must be at least a mile, although it had seemed so short by automobile. she got out of the car and silently walked back to the front porch of the house, listening for sounds from the prisoner locked within its walls. but she heard nothing until she reached the driveway. then a young man stepped from behind a tree and almost frightened her to death. he was a tough-looking fellow of about nineteen or twenty, she judged, in slovenly corduroy trousers, a dirty lumber jacket, and cap. he eyed her suspiciously; mary louise forced herself to meet his gaze, although she was trembling so that she had to keep her hand on the jewelry in her pocket to prevent its rattling. the young man edged up nearer to her. "you one of mrs. ferguson's girls?" he demanded. "yes, i know her," replied mary louise. "i----" "you been in the house now?" "yes," admitted mary louise. "anything gone?" "no, i don't think so." "that's lucky," remarked the young man. "i come around last night about six o'clock, same as i do every night, and i seen a window was broke on the side of the house. but i didn't see nobody prowlin' around, so i just nailed a board across it. i'm still watchin' fer that guy that come in a car. you kin tell mrs. ferguson he ain't come back yet." "what guy?" inquired mary louise, feeling more at ease now, since this young man evidently regarded her as one of mrs. ferguson's gang of girls. "that fellow that drove up here last sunday night," was the reply. "didn't mrs. ferguson tell you?" "i haven't seen mrs. ferguson to talk to," she stammered, hardly able to keep from laughing. "well, this guy meant trouble, i'm a-thinkin'. he drove up here in a car with a dame alongside of him. i hid in a tree when i heard the car comin', and when it was under the tree i dropped a rock on the dame's head. knocked her out, and the guy had to rush her off to a doctor." "suppose you had killed her!" exclaimed mary louise solemnly. "i ain't supposin'. besides, nobody knows i done it except mrs. ferguson and you girls, and if any of you dames tell on me, i've got plenty to tell on you!" "no doubt about that," agreed mary louise. "well, i must be getting on. i'm going to the hotel for breakfast." "how about my money?" demanded the young man. "mrs. ferguson wrote me you'd be along today and said you'd pay me. she promised me ten bucks." this announcement scared mary louise; she didn't know whether she should pay the man or not, in order to keep up the pretence that she was a member of the secret band. if she refused, mightn't he knock her down? yet if she complied with his demand and let him see the roll of bills, what would prevent his stealing them all at once? however, a solution came to her mind, and she decided to risk it. "i haven't more than five dollars in my purse," she said, opening it and showing him the contents. "i'll have to pay you when i get back, after i have something to eat. i'm starved--i didn't have any supper last night." "o.k.," agreed the young man, to mary louise's surprise. "meet me here in an hour?" "yes, just about," returned mary louise, hurrying down the driveway. the minute she reached the road, out of sight of the house, mary louise started to run, and she kept on running for perhaps a couple of minutes. then she stopped abruptly, dropping down on the cold, hard ground. she was so faint, she did not believe that she could take another step. "oh, i must get there!" she panted. "i must--must--must----" but the main highway was not even in sight: only the long, desolate country road before her, without a sign of a person or a house. she staggered somehow to her feet and took two or three steps forward. utterly exhausted, she sank again to the ground. "a lot of good all my discoveries will do me or the people of stoddard house," she mused bitterly, "if i pass out here on the road!" she made another effort to rise, but she was growing colder and weaker every minute. in utter dismay she buried her head in her arms. a sense of numbness began to creep over her as she sat there; she was losing consciousness of where she was when the sharp sound of a motor horn aroused her to her senses. a car stopped opposite her; for one tense second she was afraid to look up for fear the occupants were some of mrs. ferguson's gang. when a pleasant masculine voice addressed her, she felt the tears rush to her eyes in relief. "what is the trouble, my girl?" inquired the man. "can i help you?" reassurance and an overwhelming sense of gratitude almost prevented mary louise from answering. the man with the kind voice was someone she could trust: she saw by his manner of dressing that he was a catholic priest. "oh, yes!" she replied. "can you take me to the constable? do you know where he lives?" "yes, of course i can." it was an odd request, but the good man asked no questions. he merely got out of his car and lifted mary louise in beside him. "i'd tell you the story--only i'm so cold and hungry," she said. "maybe--later----" "that's all right, my child," he replied soothingly. in less than five minutes he stopped his car in front of a plain brick house and helped mary louise to the doorway. "merry christmas, hodge!" he said, when the door was opened to his knock. "this young lady----" "merry christmas, father," returned the constable, gazing at mary louise. almost instantly he recalled who she was. "come in, miss gay," he said. "oh, how can i ever thank you enough?" said mary louise, fervently to the priest. but the good man only smiled and departed as quickly as he had appeared. the smell of coffee, of breakfast--for it was only a little after nine o'clock--was overpowering to the hungry, exhausted girl. she sank into a chair with only one cry on her lips: "coffee!" before the constable could even ask her a question, his wife hurried from the dining room with a steaming cup in her hands. she was a motherly woman of about forty-five; three children immediately followed her into the living room to see who the stranger was who had arrived so mysteriously. "drink this, dear," said mrs. hodge, holding the cup to mary louise's lips. "i put cream and sugar in it, so it won't burn you." nothing in her life had ever tasted half so good to the cold, hungry girl as that fragrant cup of coffee. she finished it to the last drop, and a smile broke over her face. "was that good!" she exclaimed. "oh, how much better i feel!" "you must have some breakfast now," urged mrs. hodge. "don't crowd around miss gay so closely, children! she needs room to breathe." "i'm all right now--really," said mary louise. the warmth of the room was working its magic spell; for the first time now she noticed the christmas tree and the toys around the floor. "i've been locked up alone in that empty house of mrs. ferguson's since five o'clock last night----" she began. but mrs. hodge refused to let her talk until she had eaten her breakfast. mary louise ate everything that was on the table: a steaming bowl of oatmeal, an orange, half a dozen hot-cakes, two pieces of sausage, a glass of milk, and another cup of coffee. when she had finally finished she said that she believed she had enjoyed that breakfast more than any meal she had ever had. the whole family listened while she briefly told her story. beginning with the code letter which had directed her to center square, she explained how she had broken into the empty house and how she had been imprisoned by a man who was evidently in mrs. ferguson's employ. "he admitted hitting me--only of course he didn't know it was i--over the head last sunday. he thinks i'm one of mrs. ferguson's gang. so will you go back with me and arrest him, constable hodge?" she asked. "i sure will," agreed the man, and he told one of his children to run across the yard to get a neighbor to help him. "i found the stolen goods," concluded mary louise, reaching into her dress and producing the roll of bills and taking the bag of jewelry from her pocket. "will you take charge of it till i can bring my father up to get it? he's a detective too, you see." everyone gasped in amazement at the heap of valuables which mary louise displayed before their eyes. the children rushed forward excitedly, and the young detective saw no reason why they should not examine them to their hearts' content. one of the boys even wanted to count the money. "but how did you get out of that house?" demanded the constable. "did that man open the door for you?" "oh no," replied mary louise. "a member of mrs. ferguson's gang came with a key. i slipped out and locked her inside. that's why we must hurry back, to catch her before she escapes." mary louise rose from her chair. "can we go now, constable?" she asked. "certainly. yep, here comes my neighbor, who often helps me make arrests. we'll take him along in case your man or your prisoner gets uppish." "could we take a mechanic to fix my car, too?" she asked. "it's frozen." "one of the kids will phone to the garage right now to send somebody out." they gathered up the treasure, and, leaving it in mrs. hodge's care, mary louise, the constable, and the neighbor--a husky six-foot fellow--got into the car. the distance which had seemed so long to the girl an hour ago was covered in less than five minutes. at the turn into the driveway, mary louise saw the man who was waiting for her. recognizing the constable at once, he made a quick dash to get away. but he was not fast enough: the constable was out of the car in a second, commanding him to stop and displaying his revolver. with an oath on his lips he surrendered. the constable's big friend took charge of him while mary louise and the officer entered the dark, cold house. the moment they opened the door they heard a girl's terrified sobs from the living room. "who--are--you?" she called, in a voice choking with fear and misery. "the constable of center square and mary louise gay!" replied the young detective. the prisoner jumped to her feet and ran out to the open door. "mary--louise--gay!" she repeated incredulously, bursting afresh into tears. but mary louise had identified her immediately. she was margaret detweiler! chapter xvii _a sad story_ mary louise thought she had never seen anyone change so much in the short space of two years as margaret detweiler had changed. how much older she looked, how much sadder, in spite of her expensive clothes! what a strange, trapped expression there was in her eyes, like that of an animal caught in a cage! "you--are--going to arrest me?" the girl stammered, directing her question to the constable. "i am doing just what miss gay says, at the present time," replied the man. "so far, i don't know that you're guilty of any crime." "no, no, don't arrest margaret!" protested mary louise. "i just can't believe that she is a member of mrs. ferguson's gang. why, it's too impossible!" "no, it isn't impossible," said margaret, more calmly now. "mrs. ferguson is a special kind of criminal who makes young girls do her stealing for her. she picks up country girls who don't know anybody in the city and trains them.... oh, it's a long story--and a sad one!" "do you mean to say that you did steal, margaret?" demanded mary louise incredulously, for she had never believed that story of margaret's theft at the department store. "you must tell me the truth! for the sake of your grandparents." "i can honestly say that i have never stolen anything in my life," replied the other girl steadfastly. "mrs. ferguson soon found out that i was no good for that, so she made me guardian of the treasure. i felt almost as wicked. but i never stole." "thank heaven for that!" exclaimed mary louise. "but now i've lost her valuables, and she'll send me to prison," whimpered margaret. "oh, mary lou, did you take them?" "yes, i took them. they're at the constable's home now, and most of them belong to the guests at stoddard house in philadelphia. but you shan't suffer, margaret, unless you're really guilty." "the young lady is very cold," remarked the constable. "hadn't we better go back to my house, where it's warm, till your car is fixed, miss gay?" "oh yes, if you will let us!" agreed mary louise enthusiastically. she could see that margaret's teeth were chattering, and she remembered how cold she herself had been after an hour or so in that empty house. "wait until i get my other things," she said, running back into the kitchen for the basket which she had packed early that morning. "i'll put them into the car and see how soon the mechanic thinks he will have it ready." she returned in a couple of minutes and found the others already seated in the constable's sedan. mary louise was glad to find that the officer had put margaret detweiler in front with him, not beside the tough young man with his huge guardian in the rear seat. she squeezed in next to margaret, and the car started. "the mechanic is going to drive my car to your place in about half an hour," announced mary louise. "and then we'll start for philadelphia." "fine!" exclaimed the constable. "that'll give you girls a chance to get warm. and maybe have a cup of coffee." "it's marvelous coffee," commented mary louise. "it just about saved my life." not another word was said about the crimes or the secret band. margaret detweiler was introduced to mrs. hodge as a friend of mary louise's from riverside, and the two girls spent a pleasant half hour in the constable's home, sipping their freshly made coffee and looking at the children's christmas toys. the constable, who had taken the young thug away, returned just as mary louise's hired car drove up to the door. mary louise jumped up and reached for her coat. "wait a minute!" cautioned the constable. "company's comin' here to see you, miss gay! i just met somebody askin' for you at the hotel.... so don't be in too much of a rush!" from the obvious twinkle in the man's eyes, mary louise believed that max miller must have driven down to philadelphia again and, missing her there, had naturally traced her to center square. but at that same moment a yellow taxi stopped at the constable's gate, thereby dispelling any such illusion. max would never ride in a taxicab on his limited allowance! the door of the cab opened, and a tall, handsome man stepped out, paid the driver, and dismissed the cab. it was mary louise's father. flinging open the door, the girl shouted at him in delight, so loud that mr. gay heard her in spite of the noise of the departing cab. in another moment he entered the open door of the house and held mary louise tightly in his arms. "mary lou!" he cried in delight. "are you sure you're all right?" "i'm fine," she replied, ushering him into the constable's house. "merry christmas, daddy!" "the same to you, dear." he gazed at her fondly. "i believe it will be--now. you certainly look happy, daughter." "i am, daddy. these people have treated me royally!" she turned around and introduced her father to mrs. hodge and the children, for he had already met the constable. "and, oh, dad, here is margaret detweiler," she added. "you remember her, don't you?" "i certainly do," replied mr. gay, extending his hand cordially. "my, but your grandparents are going to be glad to see you, margaret!" the girl blushed and looked down at the floor in embarrassment. wisely, mr. gay asked no questions. "i have all the stolen valuables, dad," continued mary louise. "every single thing that was taken from stoddard house, and even the money!" mr. gay gazed at his daughter in speechless admiration: she had excelled his fondest hopes! "mary lou, that's--wonderful!" he said after a moment.... "i have good news too. i caught your thieves. seven of 'em. they are in a baltimore jail now." both girls exclaimed aloud in amazement and delight. margaret detweiler started forward and clutched the detective's arm. "it's really true, mr. gay?" she demanded breathlessly. "mrs. ferguson--is she in jail too?" "locked up without any chance of getting out on bail!" he said authoritatively. "oh, i'm so glad!" murmured the girl thankfully. "now we'll be able to take the valuables right back to their owners at stoddard house, constable hodge," announced mary louise. "i'm not afraid to carry them, with dad beside me." mrs. hodge brought the jewelry and the money from its hiding place and gave it all to detective gay. both he and mary louise tried to thank the hodges for their help and their hospitality; mr. gay wanted to give the constable some sort of recompense, but the good man refused. only after a great deal of persuasion would he accept a five-dollar bill as a christmas present for his children. "ready, daddy?" inquired mary louise as she slipped on her coat. "just a minute," replied her father. "i want to telephone to mrs. hilliard to let her know that you are safe. she's been terribly worried, mary lou.... and shall i tell her that we'll eat christmas dinner with her at stoddard house?" "oh, yes! i've heard about the menu. there won't be a sweller dinner anywhere in philadelphia than at stoddard house. but shall we be in time?" mr. gay consulted his watch. "it's only a little after eleven," he said. "we ought to make it by one o'clock." as soon as the telephone call was completed, the three people got into the little car. mary louise herself took the wheel, for, as she explained, she was familiar with it by this time. "now tell me about your experiences, mary lou," urged her father, as soon as they were well under way. mary louise explained, for margaret's benefit as well as for her father's, about deciphering the code letter and coming up to center square and breaking into the empty house in search of the valuables. but she made light of the coldness and desolation of the dark house and of her own hunger. she concluded with the statement that margaret had come that morning and let her out with a key. "but how did you happen to have the key, margaret?" demanded mr. gay. "i will have to tell you my whole story from the beginning," answered the girl. there was a tragic note in her voice, which drew out her listeners' sympathy, but neither made any comment. "then you can decide what to do with me," she continued. "i guess i deserve to go to prison, but when i assure you that i have never done anything wrong except under compulsion, maybe you will not be so angry with me." "we're not angry with you, margaret," mary louise told her. "only terribly sorry. so please tell us everything. you remember that your grandparents have never heard anything from you since last christmas.... so begin your story there." "all right.... let me see--i was working in that department store in philadelphia, and doing pretty well, for i got commissions besides my salary on everything i sold. i started in the cheap jewelry department and was promoted to the expensive kind. christmas brought me in a lot of business, but i guess i overworked, for i got sick the week before and had to stay home and have the doctor. i'd already spent a good deal of money on presents, and when my doctor's bill was paid i found my salary was all gone. so i went back to the store before i should--on the twenty-third of december, i remember." "the twenty-third of december!" repeated mary louise. "that was the day mrs. ferguson registered at the benjamin franklin hotel." "how did you know, mary lou?" demanded margaret. "i went to the hotel and looked through the old register," she explained. "but go on, margaret. what happened then?" "i found that a ring, an expensive diamond ring, had been stolen from our department," continued the girl. "they insisted that it was taken before i was away, but they couldn't prove anything. just the same, i know the store detective had his eye on me.... well, that very day something else disappeared: a link bracelet. this time they accused me immediately." "but why?" "i don't know, except that i was the newest salesgirl in the department--in fact, the only girl. the store detective stepped behind my counter and leaned down to the floor. _and he picked that bracelet right out of my shoe!_" "how dreadful!" cried mary louise. "somebody had 'planted' it there?" "of course. mrs. ferguson had, as i later learned. but at the time i hadn't a suspicion. she was standing right near the counter, examining some rings. when she heard me accused and told to leave the store, she stepped forward, saying that she was sorry for me. she asked me whether i had any family, and i told her they were too far away for me to go to, without any money. "'but you'll have trouble getting a job without a reference,' she said. 'so perhaps i had better help you.'" "the sly cat!" cried mary louise. margaret nodded. "but i didn't know it then. i simply asked her whether she could get me a job, and she told me to come to the benjamin franklin hotel that afternoon and ask for mrs. ferguson. "of course, i went--i had nothing else to do. she engaged me at once as her secretary. we went out to center square for a few days, and i met a lot of other girls. two daughters, two nieces, and a couple of friends. we had a good time, but i didn't do any work, for she had two servants and a chauffeur, and i felt as if i didn't earn my pay." "did she give you a salary?" asked mary louise. "yes," replied margaret. "for the first couple of weeks. but i had to send it to my landlady in philadelphia. after that, mrs. ferguson bought my clothes and paid my hotel bills, but she never gave me any cash." "so you couldn't get away!" observed mr. gay. "exactly. gradually i began to suspect that there was something crooked about this bunch, and then one day i found the diamond ring which had been stolen from the store: among mrs. ferguson's stuff at center square!" "what did you do?" demanded mary louise. "i showed it to her and said i was going to take it right back to the store, and she stood there and laughed at me. she said it would only prove my own guilt! "the next day we all went to washington and stayed in different hotels. mrs. ferguson kept me with her, but i soon saw through her tricks. her girls were all skilled hotel thieves. she tried to teach me the business, as she called it, but i refused to learn. so she made me take charge of the stuff they stole. the girls would bring their loot to her, and she'd send me with it to center square. every once in a while she would dispose of it all to a crooked dealer who asked no questions." "were you out at center square last sunday, margaret?" interrupted mary louise. "yes. mrs. ferguson and i both went. we had intended to get the place ready to spend christmas there, but for some reason, mrs. ferguson got scared. she said that mary green talked too much, and she thought we ought to clear out. she made plans to dispose of everything in baltimore, and then we were all going to sail to bermuda.... but why did you ask that, mary lou?" "because i was in that car that drove up to the house then. i saw you and then mrs. ferguson. i wouldn't have thought of its being you, only mary green admitted that she knew you. that made me suspicious." "you disappeared pretty quickly!" "rather," laughed mary louise, and she told the story of being hit over the head by a rock and of catching the young man and having him arrested that very morning. "that was clever!" approved her father. "who was he, margaret?" "a neighborhood bum that mrs. ferguson employs to watch the place and keep the people away," replied the girl. "but i'm afraid i interrupted you, margaret," apologized mary louise. "please go on with your story." "there isn't much left to tell. i was too far away from home to run away, without any money, and i hadn't a single friend i could go to. all the store people thought i was a thief, so i knew there was no use asking their help. i just kept on, from day to day, not knowing how it would ever end and never expecting to see my grandparents or my riverside friends again. oh, you can't imagine how unhappy i have been!" she stopped talking, for emotion had overcome her; tears were rolling down her cheeks. mary louise laid her hand over margaret's reassuringly. "it's all right now, isn't it, daddy?" she said. "we'll take you home to your grandparents." "but i can't go back to them!" protested the other girl. "how can i tell them what has happened? they'd be disgraced for life." "you can tell them you have been working for a queer woman who wouldn't allow you to write home," said mr. gay. "a woman whose mind was affected, for that is the truth. there is no doubt that mrs. ferguson is the victim of a diseased mind." "wouldn't you ever tell on me?" questioned margaret. "no, of course not. it was in no way your fault, child.... and now try to be happy. i think i can find you a job in herman's hardware store, right in riverside. and you can live with your grandparents. they need you." "it seems almost too good to be true," breathed the grateful girl. mary louise turned to her father. "now for your story, dad," she begged. "about capturing the thieves." "i think that had better be kept till dinner time," replied mr. gay. "this traffic we're approaching will require all your attention, mary lou. and besides, mrs. hilliard will want to hear it too." chapter xviii _conclusion_ mary louise brought the car to a stop at stoddard house at a quarter to one. carrying the money and the jewels in her father's briefcase, and the other articles in the basket, she and margaret went into the hotel to get ready for dinner while mr. gay returned the hired car to the garage. "i'll notify the police that you're found, mary lou," he said. "then i'll call your mother. i think it will be best if she goes over to your grandparents, margaret, and tells them about you herself. they haven't a telephone, and i don't like to frighten elderly people with telegrams." both girls nodded their approval to these suggestions and hurried into the hotel. mrs. hilliard was waiting for mary louise with open arms; she loved the young detective like a daughter. "now, run along, girls, and get ready for dinner," she said finally. "we are going to have one big table, instead of all the little ones in the dining room. with a tree in the center, and place cards, just like a jolly family party." "that's swell!" exclaimed mary louise. "it'll be real christmas after all." "and thank you so much for the lovely handkerchiefs, dear," added the manager. "it was sweet of you to think of me.... that reminds me, you haven't had your presents yet." "put them at my place at the table," suggested mary louise. "and i'll have presents for some of the guests," she added, with a significant glance at the briefcase and basket. when the girls returned to the first floor, after washing their faces and powdering their noses, they found mr. gay waiting for them. for a moment he did not see them, so intent was he in the newspaper he was reading. "want to see the gang's picture?" he asked when mary louise came to his side. "oh yes! please!" in spite of the fact that it was christmas day, a large photograph of mrs. ferguson and her six accomplices occupied much of the front page of this philadelphia paper. in an inset above the picture of the crooks was mary louise's smiling face! "daddy!" cried the girl in amazement. "are you responsible for this?" "i am," replied her father proudly. "i want everybody to know that the credit belongs to you, daughter." other guests, who had not yet read their newspapers, crowded about mr. gay eager for the exciting news. they all remembered pauline brooks, and mary green; several of them identified the two transients who had stolen the other things from stoddard house. a loud gong sounded from the dining room, and mrs. hilliard threw open the doors. the room was beautifully decorated with greens and holly; a long table stretched out before them, covered with a lovely lace cloth and bearing a small christmas tree as its centerpiece. bright red ribbons had been stretched from the tree to each guest's place, adding brilliancy to the spectacle. "hello, mary louise!" said a voice behind the young detective, and, turning around, mary louise saw mrs. weinberger behind her. "merry christmas, mrs. weinberger!" she replied. "it's nice to see you back here." "i've come back to stay," announced the older woman. "i got lonely at the bellevue. and mrs. macgregor is here too, for christmas dinner." it was a happy group who finally found their places around the beautiful table and sat down. mrs. hilliard was at one end, and miss stoddard was honored with the seat at the other end. mr. gay was the only man present, but he did not seem in the least embarrassed. mary louise found her pile of presents at her place, and margaret detweiler discovered a bunch of violets and a box of candy at hers. even in his haste, mr. gay had remembered the lonely girl. the guests ate their oyster cocktails and their mushroom soup before any formal announcement concerning the valuables was made. then mrs. hilliard rose from her chair. "as you all know from the papers, our criminals have been caught by mary louise gay and her father, and are now in prison. but even better news than that is coming. i'll introduce mr. gay, whom some of you know already, and he'll tell you more about it." everybody clapped as the famous detective stood up. "i'm not going to make a speech," he said, "and keep you waiting for the turkey we're all looking forward to. i just thought that maybe some of you would enjoy this wonderful dinner even more if you knew that you are going to get everything back again which was stolen. my daughter found all the valuables and the money this morning in mrs. ferguson's house at center square, and she will now return them to their rightful owners." as the newspaper had not mentioned anything about the stolen goods, the guests were not prepared for this pleasant surprise. a loud burst of applause greeted mary louise as she smilingly rose to her feet and opened the briefcase and drew out the basket from under the table where she had hidden it. "i'll begin at the beginning," she said. "with the vase and the silverware belonging to stoddard house." she carried these articles to mrs. hilliard, amid appreciative hand-clapping. "next, miss granger's picture and her fifty dollars," she continued. tears actually came to the artist's eyes as she took the painting from mary louise's hands. "you keep the fifty dollars, miss gay," she said. "my picture is what i care for most." "no, miss granger, no, thank you," replied the girl solemnly. "i am being paid a salary for my work by mrs. hilliard, but i can't accept rewards for doing my duty." she picked up the watches next: mrs. weinberger's and mrs. hilliard's. the walder girls would get theirs when they returned from their holidays. "and, last of all, mrs. macgregor's diamond earrings and her five hundred dollars," she concluded, restoring the jewelry and the bills to the delighted woman. "i believe that is all, for i am wearing my own wrist-watch, and i have my purse with its five dollars contents." loud cheering accompanied the applause which followed. when it had at last quieted down, both mrs. weinberger and mrs. macgregor tried in vain to give mary louise a reward, but she remained firm in her refusal. then the turkeys were brought to the dining room, and everything else was temporarily forgotten in the enjoyment of christmas dinner. when it was all over, mr. gay told mary louise to pack her clothing and her presents while he returned the remaining valuables to the ritz and to the police. "for i hope we can make the three-thirty train," he explained. "but with that change at the junction, we'd have to wait all night, shouldn't we, daddy?" inquired mary louise. anxious as she was to get back to riverside, she had no desire to spend the night in a cheerless railway station. "no," replied her father. "because there's going to be a surprise waiting for you at the junction." "max and norman?" guessed mary louise instantly. "you mean that they'll drive down for us?" mr. gay nodded. "that isn't all," he said. mary louise did not guess the rest of the answer until the train pulled into the junction shortly after eight o'clock that night. then a war whoop that could come from no one else but her small brother greeted her ears, and she knew that her mother must be there too. yes, and there was her chum, jane patterson, grinning at her from the boys' car! and her little dog, silky! in another minute mary louise was clasping her arms around mrs. gay and hugging freckles and jane and silky all at once. max, at her side, had to be content with pressing her arm affectionately. questions, christmas greetings, words of joy and congratulation poured so fast upon mary louise's ears that she could scarcely understand them. "you're home to stay, darling?" this from her mother. "you'll go to the senior prom with me?" demanded max. "you're the most famous girl detective in the world!" shouted norman wilder. "you were a lemon to duck my party, but i'll give another one just in your honor," promised jane. "did you get your salary--your twenty-five bucks?" asked freckles. mary louise nodded, smiling, to everything. then she got into max's car beside him, with jane and norman in the rumble seat. mr. gay took the wheel of his sedan, with his wife beside him; margaret detweiler, who was quietly watching everything, sat behind with freckles. the drivers of the two cars did not stop for any food on the way; they sped along as fast as they dared towards riverside. old mr. and mrs. detweiler were waiting up for their precious granddaughter, their lost margaret. a little before midnight the cars pulled up in front of the old couple's home, and everybody in the party went inside for a moment. the greeting between margaret and her grandparents was touching to see. even norman wilder, who prided himself on being "hard-boiled," admitted afterwards that the tears came to his eyes. mrs. gay discreetly drew her own party away, back to her home, where a feast was waiting for the travelers. this, mary louise felt, was her real christmas celebration--with her family and her three dearest friends. now she could tell her story and listen to the praises which meant so much to her. "but the best part of it all," she concluded, "is that i'm a real professional detective at last!" * * * * * * transcriber's note: --retained publication and copyright information from the printed exemplar (this book is public-domain in the u.s.). --obvious typographical errors were corrected without comment. possibly intentional spelling variations were not changed. --a table of contents and a list of the series books were prepared for the convenience of the reader. lightnin' by frank bacon after the play of the same name by winchell smith and frank bacon with illustrations from photographs of the play grosset & dunlap publishers new york copyright 1920, by harper & brothers printed in the united states of america published february, 1920 [illustration: you looked into lightnin's shrewdly humorous eyes, and you smiled--smiled with him ] illustrations you looked into lightnin's shrewdly humorous eyes, and you smiled--smiled with him "promise me you won't sign the deed" ... bill hesitated lightnin', in his faded g. a. r. uniform ... listened attentively ...he took it from his pocket, saying, "millie, i want to show you something" lightnin' chapter i "him?" the local postmaster of calivada would say, in reply to your question about the quaint little old man who had just ambled away from the desk with a bundle of letters stuffed in his pocket. "why, that's lightnin' bill jones! we call him lightnin' because he ain't. nature didn't give no speed to bill. no, sir, far as i know, lightnin' 'ain't never done a day's work in his life--but there ain't none of us ever thinks any the less of him for that! bill's got a way with him, an' he kin tell some mighty good yarns. lightnin's all right!" and when you met bill jones you agreed with the postmaster. you looked into lightnin's twinkling, shrewdly humorous eyes and you smiled--smiled with him. you thought of the reply he made to a stranger who protested against his indolence. "well," bill said, with that shrewd glance of his, "i ain't keepin' _you_ from makin' a million dollars, am i?" old bill was full of remarks like that, and sometimes those about him were not so sure as to his lack of speed, in spite of his aimless, easy-going habits. you never can tell from the feet alone. those closest to him were not sure at all; he "had them guessing." there was no doubt that his wife, simple, earnest, hard-working woman that she was, loved him. she mothered him and did not seem to worry much about his shiftless ways. he was her husband, and that was enough for her. what mrs. jones thought of her husband's mental acumen would be another question, perhaps, but up to the present she had always consulted bill's wishes and sought his advice. their adopted daughter, millie, a pretty, wholesome, brown-haired girl of nineteen, worshiped bill. any one who said a word against "daddy" had millie to deal with. the third person bill had guessing was john marvin, a young man who owned a tract of land and a cabin a few miles down the trail. marvin had a lot on his mind, and was studying law all alone in the cabin at nights into the bargain, but he liked to have bill drop in, liked to hear him talk. bill could tell some pretty tall yarns, but he told them so well you had to swallow them. there was an odd, friendly, understanding bond between the ambitious young fellow and the easy-going, humorous old man. they confided in each other a great deal, and--well, like mrs. jones and millie, marvin frequently found himself crediting bill with a semblance of mental speed. but then his mind would picture the ambling, aimless figure of bill jones with its shock of disordered gray hair and half-shut eyes, and marvin would smile to himself and turn his thoughts to something else. but he wondered, nevertheless. at the present moment, the afternoon of a late summer's day, bill jones was doing a little wondering himself, though no one would have suspected it as he ambled lazily up the trail, bound for home. things were not going well with the jones family. mrs. jones and millie were worrying, and bill knew it. characteristically, he had evaded the issue for several years, content to let each day take care of itself as best it could, but now matters were reaching a crisis and circumstances were forcing bill to consider it. they had been selling the timber on the land, but that did not help much; and now they were taking summer boarders--when they could get them, for boarders were scarce. again, this only made more hard work for millie and mrs. jones. it was of this bill was thinking as he went along. he had been sent to get the mail and to meet the morning train from san francisco for the purpose of enticing a few boarders to the jones establishment if possible. he should have been home hours ago with the mail, and there were some odd jobs awaiting him, but he had dallied in the little local town. this was his usual habit, for, like a good many lonely souls, bill was also a social one. people liked to buy bill drinks and cigars in the tavern and listen to his yarns. but to-day bill was lingering intentionally; he knew that his wife and millie expected to take him into consultation this afternoon in regard to the critical state of the family affairs. naturally bill dreaded such a proceeding, but there was something more than that to it to-day. his old heart, usually full of happy-go-lucky sunshine, was harboring shadows, for he knew that he ought to help and wanted to. but how? as he had turned slowly homeward, lightnin' hadn't the faintest idea. then suddenly, when about a mile from the house, bill paused in the middle of the trail, chuckled, and then sat down on a fallen tree. he pushed back his battered old hat, drew a bag of tobacco and a manila paper from his pocket, and rolled himself a cigarette. all signs and manifestations indicated that bill jones was overwhelmed by an idea. he sat puffing the cigarette and grinning to himself for a few minutes; then he arose slowly and ambled on; but now the amble was not so aimless. it had a suggestion of the walk of a man with a purpose, and there was a gleam of satisfaction and humorous self-importance in his half-shut eyes. nearing the house, he observed his wife sitting on the broad veranda, rocking to and fro, obviously on the watch for him. from force of habit, bill tried to make a detour with the intent of entering unseen through the back door; but, knowing his ways, mrs. jones was too quick for him. she called to him, and, with the air of one who had no intention whatever of entering by the back door, he came up on the porch and dropped into a chair beside her. "well, mother," he said, amiably, "you look all tuckered out. glad to see you restin'." "where you been all day?" she asked, ignoring his remark. her tone was none too tender, but there was a gentle gleam in her motherly, tired eyes as they sought her husband's, sheepishly hiding behind half-closed lids. "just takin' a look at town," bill drawled. "just takin' a look." he settled himself comfortably in his chair and rolled a cigarette. "don't you know there's some new boarders come?" "sure," said bill, easily. "i sent 'em, didn't i? told 'em you was the best cook in two states, mother. guess i ought to know." millie, an apron over her neat and simple house dress, came out and drew a chair between her foster-parents. she glanced quickly from one to the other, and then her gentle brown eyes came to rest lovingly on old bill. he returned her smile. "what a long time you were, daddy!" she said. "i bet you stayed away just because you knew mother and i wanted to talk to you to-day--own up, daddy!" bill grinned delightedly, despite his knowledge of the rather grave situation the girl's smiling comment covered. "well, millie," he answered, "i'm here now, ain't i? guess we can have a little talk before them boarders begin to yell for their supper. i kinder wish as you didn't have to cook for 'em, mother--an' millie waitin' on 'em. 'tain't fair." mrs. jones's lips twitched; the weight of a hard day was on her. "it ain't no use puttin' it off, bill," she said, wearily. "we got to do somethin'. mr. townsend was here this afternoon." "what o' that?" asked bill. "well, he's pretty shrewd, you know, an' he's thinkin' about us, bill. he seen how much of the timber's gone. he knows we sold another strip o' land last month for next to nothin'--" "what's that to him?" bill queried, rolling another cigarette and apparently completely absorbed in the operation. "he--he's just worried about us, an' it's nice of him, bill, him knowin' us all these years. he--he thinks as we might move into--into one o' them little cabins down the trail an'--" "lem townsend's all right," bill cut in, lazily, "but we ain't goin' to move, mother. an' it ain't nobody's business, neither--not even lem townsend's. i hope you told him that." "why, bill!" mrs. jones exclaimed, sharply. "i told him no such thing! an' i ain't so sure but what i ain't goin' to take his advice!" bill looked at her, a hidden smile in his eyes. "it's your property, mother," he said, quietly. tears sprang into the woman's eyes and she made an impulsive gesture. "you mustn't think that way, bill!" she cried. "i know you deeded the whole place over to me when we were married--and it was all you had! i wasn't thinkin' o' that--'ceptin' as i always think. you must say _our_ place, bill. it's yours an' mine an' millie's. we'll stick together. but we got to do _somethin'_." bill glanced slyly at the girl, whose brown head was bowed thoughtfully. "what you think, millie?" he asked. "i don't know what to say," she replied, slowly. "i could go back to san francisco and work as i did last year. but maybe we could pull through this winter--if only we could get boarders. i don't mind the work, and--and i'd rather stay home here." bill's eyes suddenly twinkled. "what's the matter?" he chuckled. "john marvin come back from the city to stay at his cabin?" millie blushed. "daddy!" she pouted. mrs. jones did not seem any too pleased at her husband's remark. "john marvin 'ain't got nothin' to do with it!" she exclaimed. "i don't see what he comes foolin' around here for, anyway--millie 'ain't got _him_ on her mind!" "i should say not!" millie echoed, though it occurred to bill that the softness of her brown eyes belied the petulant toss of her head. "perhaps, after all, it would be best for me to go back to mr. thomas's office!" bill turned his half-shut eyes on her quickly, but millie did not note the expression of genuine concern in them. he sat lost in thought. the last winter had been the most difficult of all for them. millie, feeling that it was time for her being some help, had studied typewriting and stenography and had obtained a position in the office of raymond thomas, a san francisco lawyer. presumably on a vacation, thomas had chanced to spend a week at the jones place the previous summer. millie had told him of her design to help the family, and thomas had suggested that she take the position open in his office. but that had been a dreary and lonely winter for bill and his wife. millie's pretty face and youthful ways had been missed sorely; the girl had come to be all in all to the old couple, and they could not bear to see her go away again for another long winter. then, too, bill had his own reasons for feeling grave and down in the mouth when millie suggested her returning to work in the office of raymond thomas. bill jones was not one to analyze, or to voice or explain his thoughts--even to himself--unless he took a notion to, or considered that the right moment had arrived; it was all too much trouble, anyway. certain thoughts were running through his mind now, however; running a little at random, to be sure, but they were there. his young friend, john marvin, had worked in thomas's office for a time--was working there when millie entered the office. indeed, that was how marvin had met millie and found, to his delight, that they were neighbors up in nevada--that she was the pretty daughter his friend bill jones was always mentioning. but bill was thinking now especially of the fact that marvin had left raymond thomas's office suddenly, and had told bill precisely why he had left. "don't _you_ think it would be best for me to go back, daddy?" millie questioned, interrupting his random musings. "maybe mother could manage here, with one or two boarders and the money i shall send her. and there will be your army pension. mr. thomas is coming to pay us a visit to-morrow, you know, and i'll ask him at once for my old position. i know it will be all right, for he's always been perfectly splendid! he told me the position would always be open to me. you have no idea how kind and considerate he is, daddy! then maybe next summer--" "next summer we're all goin' to be rich!" said her odd foster-father, unexpectedly. "yes, sir, meanin' you an' mother, millie girl, next summer we're goin' to be awful rich. leastways, you an' mother is. bein' rich wouldn't mean nothin' to me--i'm above it!" "why, daddy!" millie exclaimed, staring at him. "how--what do you mean, daddy?" slumped away down in his chair, bill's eyes were now all but closed tight and he was grinning. "nothin' particular," he answered, softly. "'cept that maybe bill jones ain't called lightnin' for nothin'." "bill," said his wife, "this ain't no time for to be smart! if you have anything to say, i wish to goodness you'd say it!" bill half opened his eyes and glanced at her. "millie ain't goin' back to that tailor-made lawyer's office," he said. "daddy, please!" said millie, flushing. "you mustn't make fun of mr. thomas when--" "all right, millie," he stopped her, resting his thin hand on her brown hair for an instant. "i wouldn't say nothin' as would hurt you. but you won't have to go back, my dear--not unless you really want to leave us. i got an idea, mother--that's why i was late gettin' home. ideas take time, 'specially when they're good ones! i got a good one what'll fix this whole business!" bill stuck his thumbs in his faded old shirt comically. even slumped down in his chair as he was, the suggestion of a harmless swagger was in his manner--the easy swagger of one who, hitherto unconsidered, has astonished the skeptics by giving birth to an idea and solving a problem. there was something about bill that suppressed the gentle but none the less amused smile that was dimpling millie's cheeks. "out with it, daddy!" she demanded, restraining a desire to pull his ear. "if lem townsend is so anxious to help us," he stated, "he can arrange all the details for you, mother. i 'ain't got time for details--that's what i told grant once, when we was havin' supper before petersburg. got enough to do with the idea. lem can put the ads. in them reno papers, an' hire the maids for you, an' things like that." then bill suddenly stopped, hugely enjoying the mystification of his two listeners. his wife sat up. "bill jones," she said, "you been drinking again down to town, that's what i think!" "go on, daddy!" millie encouraged, putting her hand on his arm. "i feel that you've thought of something! tell us!" ignoring his wife's accusation, bill gave millie a grateful glance and resumed, in his slow drawl: "i got an idea--sure enough, mother an' millie! it didn't hit me until i was half-way home to-day, but i got it lookin' at the mornin' train what goes on through to reno. i've looked at a pile o' trains in my time, but i never got no idea from 'em before. look here, don't the state line run plumb through the middle o' this house, so's half of it is in california an' the other half in nevada? well, what's the matter with makin' this house a hotel temporary for busted hearts what takes six months to cure? lots o' them rich folks from the east who goes on down to reno to git divorced would like to live on the lake, but they can't because they got to live in nevada for six months. they can live on one side o' this house an' be in nevada. an' at the same time they gits all the good o' livin' in california! they'd be tickled to death an' they'd be comin' in shoals all year, winter an' summer. an' what they pays ain't nothin' to them--the reno hotels is so rich off them they don't want to take in no one what 'ain't a busted heart! you better start right away gettin' ready, mother!" mrs. jones and millie gasped. bill, however, having spoken at considerable length for him, merely reached for his eternal bag of tobacco and paper and idly rolled himself a cigarette. millie clapped her hands. "why, mother!" she cried, "daddy's right--it is an idea! and so simple!" "all big things is simple," bill remarked, with the air of one who ought to know. mrs. jones stared from her husband to millie. "oh, bill," she said, finally, "i really think we can do it! and now i'll tell you somethin'. i--i was goin' to suggest this very thing some time ago, but--but i thought you wouldn't approve of it on account o' millie. lem townsend put the notion in my head when he was talkin' about our sellin' the timber." bill looked up. "lem thought of it, eh? didn't think lem had that much sense. anyways, i bet i thought of it first--i must 'a' been thinkin' of it for a long time without knowin' it. why shouldn't i approve--on account o' millie, mother?" "i--i don't know," said his wife, uncertainly. "i hear some of them divorcers is--is--" "shucks, mother," bill stopped her. "they're human beings, ain't they? an' them as ain't we needn't take. but they're all right. i seen a lot o' them on the trains. right smart lookers, most o' them! they can't help it if their hearts gets busted, can they? human beings is human beings. besides, we gotter look at it from a business point o' view--as lincoln said to me about the civil war. i was a business man once an'--" millie laughed, and bill, remembering that he was in the bosom of his family and that there were certain things he couldn't "get away with" there, subsided. evidently mrs. jones had been thinking hard during the past few minutes, and now she spoke. "we'll do it, millie!" she said. "some o' them reno hotels got started overnight, just like this, an' we can do the same. it'll be kinder queer at first, turning our home into a hotel, but maybe we can soon make enough to--to make it a home again. shall we try it, millie?" "of course!" millie exclaimed. "i think it will be great fun! you're awful clever, daddy, to think of it!" bill, who had rolled and lighted another cigarette, arose and stuck his hands carelessly in the pockets of his worn, baggy old trousers. "'tain't nothin'," he remarked, swaying on his heels and toes. "nothin' at all! i think o' lots o' things like that, but i don't tell 'em--too busy! well, mother, as lem townsend's comin' over to-night, you better have him fix them details. i got to go an' think some more about the idea!" he moved away with elaborate unconcern and started to amble down the veranda steps. his wife suddenly remembered several odd jobs he should be attending to, but she did not stop him. her mind was full of plans--and one is naturally timid about asking a man with a big idea to perform menial tasks. chapter ii after supper the following evening bill slipped from the house and ambled through the woods to the lake border, where a young moon, cradled above the western ridge, sent its shafts of silver light across the darkened waters. it was evident that bill jones wanted to be alone. he settled down on the trunk of a fallen tree and absently rolled himself a cigarette. when it was satisfactorily lighted he glanced down the shore. it was deserted, but a little way back, on the woodland path, he observed two people strolling in the dim shadows of the pines and cedars. he knew that the girl in the white dress was millie, and he guessed that the man with her was john marvin. bill was not especially romantic, but there was no doubt that the sight of those two together pleased him. he knew that the pair had not seen much of each other of late, and he wondered why. he himself had not seen john marvin for nearly two weeks. though he did not indulge in romance personally, he understood much, and he sighed deeply as he watched the dim figure of the girl strolling along the path. his mind wandered off through a vista of past years to the time when millie had first come to the tahoe region and to the jones family, a bit of a girl of three. sinking into a reverie, bill failed to note that the pair had finally parted, marvin striding off up the trail in the direction of his cabin. a pull at his ear brought him back to earth. "why, daddy! what are you doing out here all alone?" millie sat down beside him, putting an arm around his neck. "hello!" said bill, reaching for his bag of tobacco and papers. "where's john?" he asked, a humorous gleam in his eyes, as he met hers. millie seemed to hesitate before answering: "he's gone back to his place. i told him mr. thomas was here and he wouldn't even come in to see him! he says he does not like it. i don't think it is any of his business," she added, giving bill a hug. "why ain't it?" bill asked. again millie hesitated, then said, "mr. thomas is just as nice as he can be daddy, and--" "his yaller gloves is nice. so's his cane. must take him an awful long time to dress." millie took her arm away and looked at him. she caught the lift of his eyebrows and the peculiar expression of his half-open mouth and half-shut eyes, an expression which always decorated bill's face when he gave vent to sentiments which millie had come to regard as "daddy's intuitions." bill always used trivial words at such moments, but that did not minimize the effect. "but, daddy, it seems so hard to make you understand how good mr. thomas has been to me! mother understands. he took such pains with me. i was a perfect greenhorn and didn't know the first thing about office work. no matter what mistakes i made, he was just as patient as he could be. and he says he loves this beautiful country up here! he liked to hear me tell about our wonderful waterfall." bill puffed his cigarette, an odd gleam in his eyes, perhaps of amusement, perhaps of wisdom. millie glanced back toward the house; then her eyes swept the shore and finally came to rest on something barely visible far up on the mountain--john marvin's cabin. she sighed and continued to gaze in the same direction. bill stole a look at her. "liked to hear about our waterfall, eh?" he remarked. "i thought so." millie started. "thought what, daddy?" she asked, her brown eyes trying to read his face. "nothin'. nothin'," he replied, with a note of finality that she had long learned to know as indicating the futility of further questioning. "well," she said, rising, "i think you'd better come up to the house, daddy. i suppose you left mr. thomas all alone there on the veranda, didn't you? you might have stayed and entertained him until i got back." "guess he entertains himself pretty well," said bill. "besides, mother's with him." "but you ought to be there, too, daddy; you're the head of the house, you know!" he gave her an amused glance as she cuddled his arm in hers and walked him off. "all right, millie, but i kinder keep fergettin' that part of it." coming up the veranda steps, they found mrs. jones sitting there with a handsome, perfectly groomed young man of possibly twenty-seven. raymond thomas looked actually too good to be true in that backwoods region. he arose quickly, placed a chair for millie, and then drew one beside his own, urging bill to occupy it. "please sit right here, mr. jones!" he insisted, with an easy, flattering smile. "where did you disappear to after supper? i've been looking all over for you. i want to hear some more of those famous stories of yours! tell me how to get him started, miss buckley," he added, with mock appeal and turning his dazzling smile on millie. "oh, daddy just starts himself!" she answered, laughing. bill dropped into the chair and crossed his legs. gingerly he took the cigar thomas offered him. "i want to hear about some of your experiences in the civil war," thomas urged. "why, i have heard that you were in most of the big battles!" bill glanced at his smiling questioner with an odd look. with great deliberation he bit off the end of the cigar. "i was in all them battles but two," he said, finally, holding up the cigar and subjecting it to a minute inspection. "yes?" thomas encouraged. "allow me to light the cigar, mr. jones!" bill gave him a quizzical glance at this unusual attention, a glance that apparently was quite lost on thomas. "sure. all but two," said bill, taking a long pull at the cigar. "i was in washington on private business when them two was goin' on. i was greatly disappointed." "i can imagine so!" exclaimed thomas. "you can imagine a lot o' things, can't you?" said bill, unexpectedly. "i often imagine i never saw some people. it makes you feel better. but about them battles. ye know grant 'd never won the battle of lookout mountain if it hadn't been for me--" "indeed!" cried thomas, in a tone of pleasant surprise. "nope. i was the only man he would let look out." thomas laughed effusively and gently tapped bill on the back. "capital!" he exclaimed. "you must tell me some more later on. and you've got to come to town with me some time, mr. jones. but"--and for a moment he turned his brilliant smile on millie and mrs. jones--"i've been thinking ever since supper of that great idea of yours about turning this place into a hotel for the broken-hearted. really, i've given much serious thought to it, as i was telling your wife just before you and miss buckley joined us. i am so interested in you all that i hate to act like a damper, but i have very grave doubts about it being a paying proposition. and then i fear none of you have taken into consideration the vast amount of work, preparation, and alteration the scheme will entail. now, as you are doing this to--er--well, to improve the financial yield of the establishment--you have flattered me by deeming me worthy of your confidence, mrs. jones, so perhaps i need not hesitate over words--it seems to me that we might find some other and easier way of accomplishing the desired object--" "hello, lem! come an' set down," called bill, calmly interrupting the above flow of words and addressing a tall, rather impressive and distinguished-looking man of about forty who had come up the veranda steps. "how's it goin' lem?" bill asked. he turned his eyes on thomas. "lem's runnin' fer superior judge o' washoe county at the fall election." mrs. jones and millie greeted townsend cordially and the girl placed a chair for him while he turned to shake hands with thomas, who had recovered his slightly shattered poise and risen gracefully. townsend shook hands genially, but there was a lurking frown in raymond thomas's eyes--more than a suggestion that he was annoyed at the interruption, and, for reasons of his own, resented the presence of another person on the veranda. his dazzling smile was at work, however. "it is a pleasure to meet the future legal light of washoe county!" he said. "that's right--better make yourself solid with him now," said bill, throwing away the remains of the cigar and bringing out his tobacco and papers. there was something in his voice that somehow did not bring a laugh. "why, daddy!" cried millie. "i don't think that's funny at all!" bill merely glanced at her and went on rolling his cigarette. thomas had given bill a keen, puzzled look; but no one could ever tell from lightnin's expression whether or not any special meaning lay back of his words. mrs. jones created a diversion. eagerly she imparted bill's great idea to townsend and their intention of carrying it out at once. millie joined in and asked him if he would help. he declared himself at their immediate disposal. "i'm very glad you are going to do it, mother!" he said. "in my judgment, it is an excellent solution of your problem. you will recall that i suggested this--" "but i beat you to it, lem!" bill cut in quickly. "forethought and execution is the whole carnage!" raymond thomas had been listening closely. if there was disapproval and annoyance at the turn things were taking, it did not show in his face. "but are you sure this venture will pay these good friends of ours, mr. townsend?" he asked, in a tone of grave doubt. "those divorce people--they are mostly women, you know--are generally on short rations, though they have been used to having a lot of money to spend. i'm afraid they'll demand comforts and luxuries that will run expenses into big figures, and they won't want to pay enough to make a reasonable margin of profit." "i am certain it will pay splendidly!" replied townsend. "look at the reno hotels! oh yes, i strongly advise our friends to tackle it!" thomas frowned slightly. "perhaps you are right, mr. townsend. i presume you have investigated the matter. but there is another point to consider. i don't think--well, personally, i do not think it is altogether a good plan to--to bring women of that sort into contact with women like mrs. jones and miss mildred." he turned to millie, his expression one of delicate concern and appeal. "it's fine of you to speak like that, mr. thomas," she said, flushing slightly, "but mother and i have talked over all that. we do not mind. and, besides, i don't think it right for us to feel that way about it. i'm sure most of those women are nice--and maybe they need just the sympathy and care we can give them." lemuel townsend, on hearing thomas's statement, had sat bolt upright. "sir," he said, in tones of personal injury, adjusting his glasses and eying thomas from head to foot, "i think that a rather broad and sweeping statement for you to make. miss mildred is perfectly correct in her surmise. i must remind you that i am a nevada attorney. i have known, in my life, many of these young women, and i have found them most estimable!" "ye like 'em, don't you, lem?" remarked bill, chuckling. townsend flushed; he looked appealingly at mrs. jones and millie, his judicial manner gone. it must be confessed that millie suppressed something resembling a giggle. "you old fogies up here in the mountains have the wrong idea!" townsend said, turning to bill. "why should two people be hitched together when they are pulling in different directions? that doesn't get them any place." he rose and reached for his hat on the veranda rail. "well, i must be off. i'll get to work at once, mrs. jones. the reno papers shall have your ad. to-morrow, and i'll get busy on some other things at once." the two women rose, profuse in their thanks, which he smilingly waved aside. with a nod to bill, and a rather formal bow to thomas, he went down the steps. thomas resumed his seat and his dazzling smile; there was nothing in his manner to show that he had been thinking quickly. he crossed his legs easily and drew out another cigar. "have you ever thought of selling the place, mrs. jones?" he asked, suddenly. "why--why, no! can't say as we have!" she answered, evidently surprised. "an' i don't know as we could if we wanted to. ain't much call for a place like this, mr. thomas!" "but you can't always tell about these things, my dear lady," said thomas, addressing himself exclusively to mrs. jones. "it might not be so hard to find a purchaser, and at a good price, too." "i--i don't think bill would like to sell," she replied, doubtfully. "would you, bill?" her husband made no reply. he sat gazing straight ahead, his eyes half shut as usual. "perhaps mr. jones is indifferent on the subject," thomas resumed. "now i am sure that if he felt that you and miss mildred were well provided--" "say, you're kinder full of ideas yourself, ain't you?" bill interrupted, unexpectedly turning and bringing his thin, unshaven face close to the other man's, quite unwonted force and anger in his manner. "daddy!" millie cried, while his wife stared at him. the anger left his face and the old, shrewd, humorous light crept back into his eyes. "i don't believe in more 'n one idea at a time," he said, grinning. "no--i guess mother an' me an' millie 'll try out that little busted-heart notion o' mine first, afore we tackles any other notions. guess i'll turn in, mother--had a kinder tall day. look sorter all in yourself. better come along. tirin' business, havin' ideas. if mr. thomas 'ain't been entertained ernough, maybe millie 'll stay down an' keep the show goin'." and he got up slowly, stuck his hands in his pockets, and ambled into the house. "i think we'd better go in, too, mother," said millie, rising. "i know you're just fagged out, and it's late, anyway. you won't mind if we leave you to finish your cigar, mr. thomas, will you?" "not at all! not at all!" thomas exclaimed, with his smile. "a thousand pardons for keeping you up so late--it was thoughtless of me!" he sprang to the screen door, held it open for them, and called a cheery "good-night!" as they disappeared up the stairs. then he sat down again and thoughtfully finished his cigar. he appeared to have a lot to think about, to figure out. when finally he went up to his own room a light burned there for an hour longer. in the morning bill jones was up and about unwontedly early. he got himself some breakfast, then went to the little desk where the few boarders habitually left the letters they had written the night before for the outgoing mail, which he took to the post-office. he found some half-dozen letters on the desk this morning, and he examined the addresses deliberately. one in particular seemed to interest him immensely. it was in a handwriting he had seen before and recognized as that of raymond thomas. he put a finger to his cheek and gazed up at the ceiling--which is the same as saying that bill jones was making a careful mental note of the name and address on that letter. it was addressed to one everett hammone, the golden gate land company, san francisco. it was quite obvious that bill jones had a strong desire to know the contents of that letter; but he dropped it carelessly among the rest, bundled them up with a string and stuffed them in his pocket as he strolled out of the house on his daily journey. out on the trail a bit, his ambling feet came to a pause. he took out his tobacco and papers and rolled a cigarette. lighting it, he turned around and gazed up the mountain, his eyes blinking in the morning sunlight as they rested on the dot that was john marvin's cabin. for a moment it seemed as if bill had it in mind to change his direction and go up the mountain. "i sure would like to have er talk with john," he mused. "sure would. 'ain't had a talk with him for some time. but i guess as john is pretty put to it with that there timber proposition--things must be gittin' some excited up there! maybe i'll go up to-morrer." and having characteristically decided to do it to-morrow, bill continued his morning stroll toward the post-office. chapter iii for reasons obvious and otherwise, bill jones did not carry out his intention of visiting john marvin's cabin "to-morrow." in spite of himself, bill naturally was drawn into the vortex of work and preparation necessary to turning his home into the calivada hotel. the period of change was a nightmare to bill, the only leaven in his misery being the astonishing fact that he actually evolved quite a number of ideas--ideas which mrs. jones, millie, and lem townsend not only o.k.'d, but put into instant execution--and found exceedingly workable. he made many attempts to disappear from the premises, but his wife, or millie, or lem always had an eye on him and managed to frustrate his hasty sorties or more subtle schemes to take french leave. this went on day after day, and now bill had endured nearly six weeks of more or less pleasantly enforced captivity. in the mean time the mysterious "excitement" up the mountain about which bill had mused that morning on the trail had come to a head, and john marvin's little cabin seemed to be the center of it. it was shortly after sundown one evening that a big, red-headed lumberjack, obviously a swede, put his head in the door of the cabin and glanced quickly around the one room. seeing that there was no one inside, he entered, closing the door behind him. going to the window, he looked out through the thick grove of pines and cedars, but evidently could see no one. he was breathing hard, as if from running, and he sank into a chair. his rest was short-lived. there was a rap at the door, which was instantly pushed open, and a lanky, sinewy man in sombrero and riding-breeches, with two revolvers at the belt, strode in. the swede, on his feet in an instant, recognized the intruder as nevin blodgett, sheriff of washoe county. "what you want?" the lumberjack asked, in his heavy voice. the sheriff did not answer at once, but took a quick survey of the cabin's contents, his eyes lighting up as they rested upon the unwashed dishes on the table, telling of a recent meal. there was a self-satisfied swagger about the sheriff as he walked up to the swede. "you're john marvin, ain't you?" he demanded. "no, sir," replied the swede, with a heavy frown. the sheriff looked puzzled for a moment; then it seemed to dawn on him that it was just possible that a big, red-headed swede was not likely to be john marvin. "well!" he snapped. "then i guess you're working for him, ain't you?" the lumberjack shook his head and went close to blodgett, emphasizing his words, "who i work for bane my business!" there was no fear in his manner as he stood looking into his interrogator's face with a grin that boded ill for any one looking for trouble. blodgett backed away, his eyes following the breadth of the swede's husky shoulders and the line of his powerful arms. "none of that!" he said. "you're with the gang that's been chopping down that timber out there. you know well enough that marvin's stealing that timber, don't you?" "stealing?" "yes! he's stealing it from the pacific railroad company, and i'm here to arrest him for it!" "humph!" the swede shrugged his shoulders and wheeled around, gazing anxiously out of the window, where the path through the forest was visible. "you know where he is, don't you?" blodgett asked. "he gone away." "where?" blodgett stamped his spurred boot. "i doan' know." "when did he go?" "maybe--yesterday." "when's he coming back?" "i doan' think he coomin' back." the swede deliberately put a kettle on the stove and whistled indifferently. blodgett was evidently torn between a desire to maintain his dignity and authority as sheriff and a rather healthy reluctance to have any trouble with the great, hulking swede. "it's going to be hard for you if you're lying--" he got no farther. the swede stepped up to him with blazing eyes. "you call me liar?" he yelled. "i throw you out the door!" blodgett backed quickly away--very quickly. his hand sought the latch behind him. "if you threaten me, the next thing you know you'll find yourself in jail!" he cried, shaking his fist. the swede's only answer was an ugly grin. blodgett opened the door, slamming it after him as he went away. the big lumberjack stood quiet for several minutes, listening to the sounds of retreat beaten by the hoofs of blodgett's horse. assured that the sheriff was safely out of the way, he crept to the window, thrust his head over the sill, and gave a low whistle. there was a stir in the soap-plant outside and marvin emerged, hurried around to the door, and entered the cabin. "good work!" he exclaimed, laughing and clapping the grinning swede on the back. "you got rid of him very well, oscar! now i'll go on with my supper!" he took off his coat and went over to the stove, where he began to shake the damper to let out the ashes. oscar came and stood beside him. "he tell me--" "i know what he told you," marvin interrupted, continuing to shake the ashes. "do that land belong to the railroad?" there was a slight note of alarm in the swede's voice. "it does now, oscar," marvin replied, throwing some paper and wood into the stove and lighting it; "but i sold the timber a long time before the railroad got the property, and i'm trying to save the timber for the man who bought it from me." "oh!" the swede turned toward the door, as if to go. "bane they arrest you for that?" "not unless they find me!" marvin chuckled. "an' me an' the boys--can they arrest oos?" "no, oscar," marvin laughingly reassured him. "you fellows are working for me and you are not supposed to know anything about my affairs." "oh!" the swede gave a satisfied nod of his head. "i see--you know that from--from your books." he jerked his thumb toward a table in the corner on which some law-books stood. "yes," said marvin, looking into the coffee-pot. "anyhow, you'll be gone in the morning. the job's done, thanks to you and the boys." the lumberjack stood for a moment, nodding his red head; then he turned slowly and went out. marvin put the coffee-pot on the stove, watched it a minute, and then sank thoughtfully into the shabby but comfortable arm-chair at the end of his reading-table--which also served as a dining-table. he sat there for several minutes--until the coffee, boiling over on the stove, brought him out of his reverie and to his feet. at the same moment he caught the sound of remote but high words coming from that part of his land where the recently cut timber was stacked. "i tell you he bane gone away!" he heard, in oscar's heavy, threatening voice. hurriedly pushing the coffee-pot on to the back of the stove, he sprang to the door, but before he could reach it it was thrust in against him and he was thrown back into the middle of the room, where he stood, perforce, facing a tall, athletic-looking man in motor togs. the man's strong, intellectual face, undoubtedly pleasant and agreeable ordinarily, was now clouded with anger, his jaw set and grim. at sight of him, however, marvin's fists unclenched and he smiled amiably, despite the other's attitude. "why, hello, mr. harper!" he exclaimed, holding out his hand. "you're just the man i've been looking for! but you seem a bit upset. what's the trouble?" ignoring the outstretched hand, harper threw off his duster and tossed it, with his gloves, on the table. "just a minute, young man," he said, with a grim tightening of his jaw and his keen eyes boring into marvin's. "just a minute. i came here to have a look for myself and to see precisely where i stand." he turned and carefully closed the door. marvin went to the stove and calmly poured himself a cup of coffee. "well," he remarked, with a laugh, "won't you have a chair and some coffee first--you can shoot just as easily sitting down." harper, his hand at his belt, glared at him. "you don't think i mean business, do you?" he said, grimly. "or perhaps you think you have beaten me to it, eh? now what sort of man are you and what nice little game is this you are playing? here i buy a grove of timber from you, and while my back is turned you sell the property, timber and all, to the railroad! i want an explanation and i want it now!" "you have the facts a bit mixed up," marvin replied, still smiling and nodding toward the chair, at the same time placing the coffee on the table. "sit down and we'll talk it over--and i think you'll decide not to shoot!" harper, however, was adamant. "all right," said marvin. "in the first place, when i sold you the timber you said you were going to cut it at once--" "correct--correct! but something came up and i could not attend to it--and i don't see how that exculpates you in the least!" "it doesn't," replied marvin, adding, as he took up his coffee, "if you won't join me, i'll have to go it alone, as this is the first i've had since morning. well, when i sold you that timber i never thought i would sell any of this property. my mother loved every inch of it. it was our dream that when i received my diploma and established a practice we would make a home here; but she was taken sick--" "yes, i remember your telling me about her being in the hospital." harper's voice softened a bit. marvin was silent a moment. "i took her to san francisco. she died there." harper fumbled with the buckle of his belt. his heart went out to the younger man; yet he felt that right was on his side. he picked up a picture of mrs. marvin that stood in a small frame on the table. "i'm deeply sorry," he said, softly. "i did not know." "there is no need to apologize," marvin answered, quietly. "you have a perfect right to demand an explanation about that timber." with a last swallow of coffee, he put down his cup and stood squarely facing harper, and his own expression was grim as he continued: "when we got to san francisco--mother and i--a lawyer in whose office i had been a student came to the hospital and got into her good graces. he had taken a great interest in me and i would have taken an oath as to his integrity. but when i came up here to sell you the timber--and mother and i needed the money desperately at the time--this man took advantage of my absence to persuade mother to deed him fifty acres, nearly the whole of the property! it was to be a pleasant surprise for me when i returned! instead of cash, he gave her a batch of stock in the golden gate land company, stock of which i have been unable to dispose. and the next day he resold the property to the pacific railroad company for three or four times the price represented by the stock he gave mother. i found that out later, of course. well, after mother's death i hurried up here, only to discover that you had not cut the timber i sold you _before_ the property was sold. i got busy at once and have been staying on here until the gang out there finished cutting it and piling it on what is left to me of the property. your timber is ready for you, mr. harper, any time you are ready to haul it away." it was harper's turn to put out his hand. "i'm mighty sorry i misunderstood you, marvin!" he exclaimed, as the latter returned the clasp. "but look here! can't you do anything about this fellow, this lawyer? what's the rascal's name?" "raymond thomas. he's up in these parts quite frequently of late. made himself solid with some dear friends of mine, i'm sorry to say, and i'm worried about it. i can't help believing that he's up to some new game, though i can't just see what it is. he's a remarkably smooth customer. it's very hard to pin anything on him. i'm going to make him disgorge my property if i can, but i shall have a difficult legal fight on my hands." harper nodded understandingly. "i see, i see--covered himself cleverly. i don't know the gentleman, but i'll be only too glad to do anything to help you, marvin." he took a turn about the room, while marvin leaned against the table. "i'll have the timber hauled away at once. i didn't have it cut, myself, because--well, i've had a lot of trouble myself. had a strike at the mill, and--oh, hang it all! it's my wife, marvin! she's packed up in a hurry and left me!" he flung himself into the chair and stared ruefully, comically, at the younger man, who, not knowing what to say, said nothing. "i didn't mind the strike so much, nor this timber mix-up!" harper rushed on, with the air of a man who must tell some one or explode. "it was my wife, young man! it's her being so unreasonable that makes me sore. i bought her a present when i was east and had it shipped to the office. it happened to arrive about the time mrs. harper was to come to the office in the machine to take me home, and she walked in just as i was showing it to my stenographer. of course my wife thought i bought it for miss robbins, and--well, what's the use of talking about it?" with a gesture of dismissal for the subject, he stood up and took out a wallet. "how much do i owe you?" he asked. "i figured it would cost about eight hundred dollars to do that job out there--" marvin put up a deprecatory hand. "i can't take it now, mr. harper," he interrupted. "you haven't got that timber yet, and--" "the railroad will have some job on its hands to get it away from me!" said harper. "and unless they do i owe you eight hundred dollars--do you understand?" a faint noise outside broke into their conversation. with a warning gesture, marvin tiptoed to the door and put his ear against it. harper, thinking that it might be a railroad employee who had come to eavesdrop in order to report their plans, stood with his jaw set, his hand on the revolver at his belt. with a quick movement marvin jerked open the door. instead of a railroad employee, or the sheriff, it was only lightnin' bill jones who stood there, leaning idly against the doorframe, his hands in his pockets. he ambled silently into the middle of the room, his half-shut eyes blinking in the sudden light. "i guess i must 'a' been out there some time, come to think of it," he remarked, meditatively, and addressing himself to the ceiling, quite as if he were alone. then he turned carelessly to marvin. "i knocked, too--but i guess maybe you wasn't expectin' me." chapter iv with a laugh, marvin shut the door. "it's all right," he said, winking at harper. smiling, he went up to bill and swung him around to face him. "hello, lightnin'!" he exclaimed. "i'm mighty glad to see you. what do you mean by staying away from me all this time? and you were so quiet and mysterious outside there that we thought some one was spying on us!" "i was a spy once--with buffalo bill," said lightnin', conversationally. he stared interestedly at harper. "friend of yours, john?" "this is lightnin' bill jones, mr. harper. this is the gentleman i sold that timber to, bill." the two men acknowledged the introduction. "have you had any supper, bill?" marvin asked, resuming operations at the stove. "if not, you'd better stop and have it with me." bill shook his head with an air of importance. "no; can't stop. got to be home at the hotel at supper-time to see that everythin's goin' right. what time is it now?" "seven o'clock." bill shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, meditated, and announced: "well, maybe they can get along without me. i got everythin' sys-sys-matized." marvin glanced at him quickly. "bill, i'm afraid you've been having a drink or two?" "nope. nope!" bill repeated, with the debonair innocence of a mischievous and prevaricating school-boy. "i was just sayin' good-by to the boys out there." he signified with a jerk of his head that the lumberjacks were responsible if he seemed in any way elated. "you see, they're breakin' up camp--an' i didn't want to hurt their feelin's, as they're all friends o' mine." harper, who had resumed his seat in the chair, glanced at marvin. "does our friend bill know--what we were talking about?" "everything!" said marvin, readily. "rest easy, mr. harper--you'll never find a better friend, nor a more trustworthy one, than lightnin'. but, surely, you have heard of his hotel, haven't you?" "i'm afraid not." "then i guess you're the only man what 'ain't!" said bill, emphatically, and gazing at the ceiling and thoroughly enjoying the fact that he was the subject of the conversation. rapidly marvin sketched the conception and success of the calivada hotel. "it was a real idea--" "it was my idea," put in bill, conversationally. "it certainly was, bill!" marvin went on. "and the new hotel is a big success! you see, the state line runs right through the middle of the house--through the center of the lobby, in fact! there are two separate desks, one on the california side and one on the nevada side. women began to arrive, and they all wanted rooms on the nevada side--and they wanted them for six months!" harper roared with laughter. "the reno divorce brigade!" he exclaimed. bill fairly beamed at the attention his affairs were drawing. he sat down on the corner of the table and grinned at harper, while marvin went on: "exactly! everybody knows what a woman goes to reno for, but at bill's hotel she can get a room on the nevada side and still make her friends believe that she is at a california resort!" again harper laughed. "a corking good business idea!" he said. "and so it was your idea, mr. jones? i congratulate you! i suppose you have been out west here a long time?" "sure--came out in the gold excitement," replied bill, calmly. harper stole an amused glance at marvin. "why, the gold excitement was away back in forty-nine!" "well, they was still excited when i got here!" bill gazed up at the ceiling, his half-shut eyes hiding their twinkle. "it's too bad you didn't happen to be one of the lucky ones," harper consoled him, arising from his chair. "lucky?" bill scratched his head under his ragged slouch-hat. "say, i located more claims than any man what ever came out here! i been a civil engineer." the table was not a sufficient throne for bill, so he slipped down from it and went close to harper, peering up at him. "you ought to be a rich man, mr. jones!" "always cheated out of my share." bill shook his head sadly. "crooked partners was the reason." "couldn't you do anything to them?" "i shot some, put all the others in the penitentiary--all but one." "what happened to him?" "he died before i got him." "died of fright, perhaps?" "i guess so." harper took his hat from the table, clapped bill on the back, and said, laughingly, "i think i'll get out before you tell me any more!" marvin urged him to have a bite of supper, but harper declined, explaining, as he went to the door, that he had to be in truckee in two hours, and that it would take him fully that time to make it in his car. bill, anxious to retain his audience, added his entreaty to marvin's. that failing, he followed harper to the door, searching for an excuse to hinder his leaving. harper paused at the door. "well, marvin," he said, "i'm going to send the trucks down here to-morrow and start hauling. and you might as well disappear from here for a while; then, if there's any kick, no one here will know anything about it. i'll keep you posted. are you sure you don't want that eight hundred now?" he took out his wallet and again tried to make marvin take the money, but again marvin refused. bill had been listening to every word. now he seemed to have hit on a way to detain harper and at the same time prove his own personal importance. as harper shook hands with marvin, bill took an envelop from his pocket. drawing a paper from it, he offered it to harper. "if you want to get rid of some of that money," he remarked, easily, "maybe you'd cash that check for me." harper, examining it, saw that it was a government check. "oh, a pension check! so you were in the war?" "first man to enlist!" smiling, harper handed him the check to "indorse"--which happened to be a new word on bill. "write your name on the back of it," said harper. "i always do that," said bill, as he complied. then he held the check up to the light, pointing to the signatures on its face. "see all them names," he asked, "secretary of the treasury, and all of 'em?" harper nodded wonderingly. "well, they ain't no good at all--not unless i sign it!" said bill, triumphantly. harper laughed; handed bill the money for the check, and, with a final "good-night!" hurried out of the door. bill poked his head out, watching him crank his machine and drive away in the moonlight. when the car was out of sight bill turned back into the middle of the room and stood watching marvin, who had sat down and was eating his delayed supper. "better join me, bill," marvin again invited, and at the same time noting a change in the old man's manner, now that they were alone. "no," bill said; "i had mine with the boys outside, as i told you--but i'll have a drink with you, john," he added, hesitatingly, knowing marvin's disapproval of his drinking. "i haven't anything in the house, bill," said marvin, as he went on eating. "you know that." bill edged slowly toward the table, his hand in the back pocket of his baggy, slouchy trousers. "yes, you have," he remarked, producing a half-filled flask. "you mean you have," marvin replied, trying not to smile. "and you've had enough for to-night. put it away, bill, and promise me not to drink any more to-night." "all right, john," said bill, unconcernedly, and putting the flask back in his pocket. "i promise--an' i 'ain't never broke a promise yet! i'll keep this for--for emergencies. say, oscar told me the railroad had the sheriff after you. you remember the last promise what i give you?" "what was that, lightnin'?" "that if they goes to court, i'll come an' be a witness. i can swear them trees was cut when you sold the property, an' i'll--" "no, bill!" said marvin, putting down his knife and fork and staring at the old man, whose half-shut eyes had the suggestion of a flash in them. "no; i couldn't let you swear to anything like that." "you can't help yourself--i got a right to swear to anythin' i want!" there was an unexpected finality in bill's usually drawling voice. "but i haven't got to prove when those trees were cut," said marvin. "i know it," bill responded; then, catching the smiling doubt in the other's eyes, he added, "i was a lawyer once." "then why don't you practise?" asked marvin, inwardly chuckling. "don't need no practice." and bill resorted to his bag of tobacco and papers, rolling himself a cigarette. by this time marvin had finished his meal. "look here, lightnin'," he said, as he cleared the table, "you seem to have something on your mind. how are things going up at your place? anybody at home know that you are here?" "not unless they're mind-readers." "i thought so. well?" "it's a wonder you 'ain't come up to take a look yourself," bill countered. "you 'ain't even been up to--to see millie," he added, thoughtfully. marvin flushed. "that's true, bill," he said, slowly. "but i've been mighty busy with this timber here, as you know; and, besides--well, millie seems to be a bit interested elsewhere." "that's just the trouble, i guess," said bill, settling himself on the corner of the table. marvin looked at him quickly. "what do you mean, bill?" he demanded. lightnin' crossed his legs, took a final puff of his cigarette, and let it drop from his fingers. "oh, there ain't nothin' much to that, john!" he replied. "nothin' to worry about. but it's what lays back o' that." "for the lord's sake stop talking in riddles, lightnin'!" marvin exclaimed. "what lies back of what?" "well," said bill, looking up shrewdly, "this here thomas has shown his hand--an' we gotter admit, john, that he plays a mighty smooth an' slick game! he wants to buy our place, waterfall an' all." "so that's it!" marvin knew that thomas had been buying up property in the section, and he knew from experience what sort of treatment the sellers were likely to get. that old bill and his family should now be involved filled him with concern and anger. "but surely you're not going to sell, bill!" lightnin' looked up, then down. "the property belongs to mother, john; an' this here thomas person sure knows how to go after what he wants! he made himself solid with mother an' millie some time ago, as you know. they think he's santa claus, or somethin'. why, he's got mother an' millie all het up so's they don't know whether they're standin' on their head or feet! mother's kinder simple about some things, john--but millie oughter have more sense! he's been tellin' them that this here hotel idea won't pay for long, an' that he's willin' to buy the place at once for a good price. he tells 'em as how they can enjoy themselves an' live comfortable on the proceeds--an' i can have a nice, easy old age! he 'ain't said much to me, o' course--i don't give him a chance to find me around, much. but he's got the womenfolk all fed up, eatin' out o' his yaller gloves, an' crazy to sell. an'--an' mother an' millie is kinder sore at me 'cause i ain't takin' much interest in the proposition. say, what was the name o' that feller what acted as agent for the railroad an' bought your property from thomas when he done you out of it?" "hammond, everett hammond," said marvin. "go on, bill--i'm listening!" "hammond, eh? to--be--sure. well, mister everett hammond is up at the hotel now, john, with thomas--hammond come up in a hurry, an' they got a deed to the property all ready fer mother an' me to sign. mother's crazy to sign, but i ain't--not yet. an' it seems they gotter have my name on it, to make sure." "what--you mean to say it has gone that far!" exclaimed marvin. "sure thing," said bill, rolling another cigarette. "an' say, i happen to think them two--hammond an' thomas--has been in cahoots fer some time--got an idea they is actually partners." "what makes you think that?" "i was a detective once," said bill, with a sudden return to his usual manner, as he lighted the cigarette. marvin made an impatient gesture. "hang it! this is really too bad, bill! look here, i'll see if i can do anything! i'm going to come up to the hotel to-morrow as soon as i can get away from here! you're not going to sign that deed, are you, lightnin'?" "no," replied bill, slowly, a little nervously; "no--but mother an' millie is kinder hot on my trail fer to make me do it. them two fellers has sure got 'em goin', john! well, i guess as they'll all be in bed by the time i gets back now, so i'll be gettin' along. you'll be up to-morrow, john?" "i'll come--don't worry, lightnin'," said marvin. "better go now, bill; you've got a long walk ahead of you, you know." he dropped into his chair and reached thoughtfully for one of his law-books. bill opened the door; then turned back for a moment. "studyin' them books?" he inquired. "trying to," marvin remarked, turning a page. "that's right--that's how i got _my_ start!" said bill, as he went out. chapter v the following morning, rising at dawn, mrs. jones again tried to awaken her husband to a full sense of his shortcomings anent his foolish reluctance to sign the deed to the property. bill, however, merely turned on the pillow, gave her a brief smile, and dropped quickly into a gentle snore. after several more attempts to awaken him and impress on him the fact that his absence the day before had kept thomas and hammond on a day longer when they had important business calling them to the city, she gave up in despair and went below to look after breakfast, taking with her the packet of letters that should have been in the hands of the guests the afternoon previous. the morning was a busy one for mrs. jones and millie. bill, coming down unexpectedly, escaped them, calling through the door, on his way out, that he was going for the mail. when noon came and bill did not turn up, mrs. jones's anxiety reached fever pitch, and she sought millie in the hope that she could offer some solution of the problem of forcing the deed through bill's unwilling hands. at breakfast, thomas and hammond again had painted to her and millie golden pictures of the ease and even luxury that would be theirs as a result of the sale of the property. trembling with anticipation, mrs. jones had then and there put her name to the deed which disposed of her last bit of land; and she was determined that, no matter what it cost her in seeming coldness and harshness toward him, bill should be made to place his name directly under hers. she made up her mind that he should be brought to terms as soon as he got back; hence her extreme annoyance as the morning went by without his showing up. as she went about the house, looking for millie, her determination took on a hard and bitter aspect which was only softened when she caught the sound of raymond thomas's voice. he was speaking softly to millie in the lobby. mrs. jones belonged to a generation not so long past when eavesdropping was not considered a wholly unworthy occupation if it tended to place the culprit in a position to know the inner secrets of those bound by the tie of relationship. for some time, so cleverly did he manage her, mrs. jones had felt a motherly tenderness for thomas springing up within her, and she hoped and dreamed that her affection would have a chance to express itself. that thomas was in love with millie she had fully decided on. it was for this reason that the very sight of john marvin, whom she knew to be a poor young man with no particular prospects, filled her with displeasure. then, too, she did not approve of her husband's friendship with marvin, having a strong suspicion that marvin was influencing bill against thomas, and an intuition that bill, in his unworldliness, would stand back of marvin's love for millie. and so it was that the sight of millie smiling up at thomas as he looked earnestly down into the girl's brown eyes set mrs. jones's heart beating hopefully--and sent her behind a curtain to listen to what was being said. thomas had just come in from the veranda, where he had begged to be excused from accompanying two prospective widows on a walk to see the waterfall at the edge of the place. he was smiling with affected indifference when he met mildred, who had just come down one of the stairways, of which there were two, one leading to the nevada side of the house and the other to the california side. "it's a shame to miss a stroll with them!" belying his words with a sneering toss of the head and shrug of the shoulders. millie's brow was drawn thoughtfully into wrinkles and there was a wistful pucker to her mouth. at once he was all attention. "what is the matter, millie?" he asked, a note bordering on tenderness in his voice. "it's daddy again. he did not get back until midnight, and he was off again this morning before mother or i could prevent him. i just heard the boarders complaining about the mail service. it's all so hard on mother, and yet"--she hesitated, her mind reverting to her foster-father's kindness to her through all the years of her babyhood and girlhood--"and yet," she went on, "he's really so good and kind at heart, he really would feel dreadfully if he understood what he puts us through." she stood by the newel-post, her eyes pleading for advice. thomas took her hand and looked at it thoughtfully. for a moment millie let it lie in his; then her lids dropped and she blushed, withdrawing her hand and walking slowly toward one of the desks, of which there were also two, one on each side of the hall. thomas followed her, bending down and looking into her face. "i would not let his absence bother you. i'm going up-stairs to pack my grips. as soon as i finish i'll go after him," he said, soothingly, as, one hand in pocket, he let the other flip a pack of cards on the table. "oh, you've been too kind already," millie protested, again meeting his eyes and turning away, her lips quivering. "oh, i'm not so kind as you think!" he laughed, an honest humor rising to infrequent expression. "i've got to see lightnin' myself before i go. he hasn't signed the deed yet, and--" "i really can't see what he's got to do with it!" millie interrupted. "the place is mother's. oh, well"--she sighed and shook her head in despair--"i suppose to be safe his signature must be obtained. i do hope he'll turn up before you leave. it's too bad--" "well, if he doesn't, maybe you and mrs. jones can make him see the light. i'll leave the papers with you, and when he signs them you can send for me and i'll be up and--" "you don't know how much i appreciate all you've done for us. now don't say it's nothing." millie turned and put her hand on his arm, her eyes resting intently on his. he bent over her for a minute, then straightened up as he heard a slight movement in the portiã¨re, a gleam of wisdom illuminating his face. he smiled with a nonchalant disregard of his former intention and backed away from the girl. millie's color mounted her forehead. shyly she withdrew her hand from his arm and fumbled with the bunch of keys about her neck. after an awkward silence she continued: "you've been so good to us. when mother and i've been in such distress that we did not know where to turn and mother was nearly frantic, you come forward and in no time arrange everything so that mother and daddy are going to be better off than they ever dreamed of. for years, you know, mother and i have worried about her and daddy's old age. piece by piece we've sold the land and the timber. even if this place does pay it will only be running expenses, with nothing saved up, as you said. and then the nevada divorce laws might change. oh! you've been so kind," she breathed, in deep sincerity. "now don't make me ashamed," thomas coaxed in his soothing way, backing slowly toward the stairs on the california side. "what i've done is just the simplest thing in the world. i grew to be very fond of you when you were in my office, millie, and i'm glad to be of what service i can." as he was half-way up the stairs, mrs. jones emerged from behind the portiã¨re. he stopped and bent in a nattering bow, a twinkle in his eye. "why, good morning, mrs. jones!" he called down. "oh, excuse me!" mrs. jones, a guilty conscience bringing his courtly sarcasm, which would otherwise have escaped her gullible nature, into notice, stepped back, turning to the kitchen, whence she had come when she stopped to listen. but millie followed her, and, with arm around her waist, drew her into the room and seated her near the table. "you're not going into that hot kitchen again to-day," remonstrated millie, planting a daughterly kiss on her cheek. "you've been out there working like a slave for three mortal hours." mrs. jones hid her hands awkwardly under her apron and reddened as she glanced up at thomas, who had come back from above-stairs. "i don't look presentable," she murmured, fidgeting in the chair. "come now, you mustn't mind me," said thomas, millie adding her word to his: "please stay there just for a few minutes, mother. you look ready to drop." "she's always tellin' me that." mrs. jones showed her pleasure in millie's concern by beaming knowingly from one to the other, an act which sent millie to the desk, where she pretended to look at the register. thomas smiled. "millie's right," he responded. "you do work a great deal too hard; but it won't be long now before you can say good-by to hard work for the rest of your life." "oh, mr. thomas!" mrs. jones arose, forgetting the red, hardened hands she had been endeavoring to hide behind the blue and white checked apron, and hastened to thomas, holding them toward him in a gesture half of gratitude, half of pleading. "i can scarcely realize that all this is going to come true and we owe it all to you. i only wish i could tell you how grateful i am." thomas was quite determined to escape further enthusiasm, either on millie's or on mrs. jones's part. his game nearly played, he wished to withdraw gracefully and without detriment to a certain lurking decency which had not quite been swept away. thwarting mrs. jones's attempt to wring his hand in gratitude, he took two light bounds up the stairs, stopping to laugh back: "well, i'm going to get out for fear you'll spoil me with a thankfulness i don't deserve. hang on to her, millie." he directed a gleam toward the young girl as she went up to her mother. "make her take a rest." "oh dear! do you think i've driven him away?" there was genuine concern in mrs. jones's voice as she sank back into the chair and gazed anxiously after thomas. "no, you haven't." millie smoothed the brown hair which was fast streaking with gray from her brow, damp with excitement. "he is going up-stairs to pack. he's arranged everything about selling the place, and there's nothing more for him to stay--" "you're here, ain't you?" mrs. jones folded her arms stiffly across her chest and assumed a rigid position in her chair as she questioned millie with eyes suddenly grown fierce with the look of an angry hen when she thinks her brood has been disturbed. "oh, mother!" the girl pursed her lips into a pouting smile as she leaned over the back of the chair, an affectionate arm on mrs. jones's shoulder. "please get that foolish idea out of your head. you know--" "know nothin'." mrs. jones's head jerked vehemently while she insisted: "every letter you wrote home all the time you was workin' in his office showed that he cared for you." "i never wrote anything of the sort!" millie drew a surprised breath as her mouth was drawn into a tiny o of expostulation. "never!" she reiterated, with a slight stamp of her foot, as she went to the california desk and became absorbed in the register. "oh, i could read between the lines! i ain't that stupid. if he isn't in love with you, why is he plannin' for us to come and live in san francisco? oh, won't it be grand!" mrs. jones, carried away by the recollection of a long-ago visit to the city, and by a dream of what a permanent life there would be, resumed her own hearty enthusiasm. "i want to live in the city real bad, but i'm just skeered to death i won't know how to dress. i want to get a lot o' pretty things 'n' be like the women i saw when i was at the palace. do ye think bill 'll think i'm getting crazy?" an indulgent smile from millie met her uneasy but smiling gaze, and she went on: "i know i've talked about the city ever since i can remember, but now that it's in sight i'm awful afraid i'll be out o' place." "well, you'll not," answered millie, going behind the counter to look at the letter-rack, almost empty. "i'm going to see that you have just as nice things as any of the women stopping here." there was a silence as both of the women smiled in contented anticipation. mrs. jones was the first to speak, a sudden doubt expressing itself in an anxious frown and a narrowing of the eyes. "but there's bill," she said, with a start. "i'm so afraid of the way he'll act!" "daddy 'll be all right, i'm sure." mrs. jones composed herself and began planning. "when his pension comes, you must take him to town and buy him some new clothes. them others we got before didn't fit a bit good." millie turned quickly at the mention of her father's pension, remembering that it was time for it to arrive. she reminded her mother of this fact. mrs. jones's gaiety had brief life after millie's remark. "he ain't back with the mail! i'll bet--" "oh, mother!" millie, deeply concerned, came from behind the desk and went up to the older woman, questioning, "you don't suppose his pension has come?" "i think it's gone!" mrs. jones bowed emphatically in a rising voice and hurried to the desk on the nevada side, where she took a cursory but none the less exhaustive look at the mail indexes. "i found him hanging around this desk this morning, and when i come in he beat it, sayin', before i could stop him, that he was goin' after the mail. i wonder--" she stopped and gave a deep groan of acquiescence. "huh! huh!" she had opened up the top of the desk to find a half-filled flask. "there!" she exclaimed, holding it to the light. "he was waiting for a chance to get this when i shooed him away!" millie put her arm around her and drew her into the middle of the room, trying to soothe her. "anyway, don't let's blame him for anything until we're sure. he may come home perfectly all right. you know he loves the woods and the lake and the autumn coloring which is so wonderful now. he always lingers like this. please go up-stairs and have a good rest." millie tried to lead her mother toward the stairs, but mrs. jones gently shook the girl's arm from about her waist and went toward the kitchen. "where are you going?" millie asked, standing still, a puzzled frown giving place to an understanding laugh as mrs. jones hesitated and looked at the floor, answering in a manner half ashamed: "why--well--i thought--" she stammered, "he might come home soon, an' he's used to findin' somethin' good kept warm--though he don't deserve it!" she hesitated, her kindly, better nature shining in her eyes, battling for expression. "yes--please set a place for him, millie!" and mrs. jones hastily disappeared into the kitchen to avoid the girl's rippling laugh of gentle amusement. smiling to herself, millie crossed the lobby and went into the dining-room. the moment she had left the lobby the street door of the hotel was pushed open cautiously and an inquiring head thrust itself in. the head was that of bill jones. evidently satisfied that the coast was clear, bill came slowly into the lobby. looking warily up at the stairs on either side, and toward the dining-room and kitchen doors, he eased himself softly over to the nevada desk, raised the top and fumbled expectantly inside. chapter vi as bill reached the desk and lifted the top, another gray-haired old man, possibly the same age as lightnin', though larger and huskier in build, stole in through the street door and stood there doubtfully, puffing a cigar. he looked about fearfully, evidently ready to decamp at an instant's notice; but his glance, traveling back to the figure at the desk, bespoke a childlike trustfulness in bill jones. this gentleman's clothes were as disreputable as might be, as was his battered slouch-hat. his face was very red and very unshaven, and his expression was a comical mixture of uncertainty as to his welcome on the premises and maudlin kindliness toward the world at large. he rejoiced in the name of "zeb," and was a down-and-out prospector, a relic of the past. his only reason for existence these days seemed to be that he was a crony and devout satellite of bill's--to the great aggravation of mrs. jones. there was a legend in the district that zeb and bill had spent many years together in the old days, up and down the trails. there seemed to be considerable truth in the story. anyway, no efforts of mrs. jones's or of anybody else's could make bill forget his pal. zeb was always sure of a meal, or a drink and a cigar, provided lightnin' could find a way of producing those necessities of a broken-down prospector's life. bill felt around in the desk for a minute, while zeb watched, fearfully, hopefully; then lightnin' turned around, disappointment in his face. but before he could break the sad news regarding the strange disappearance of a half-filled flask, zeb held up a warning finger and began to back through the door. his ear, ever keen for the swish of mrs. jones's skirts, reported danger. "what's the matter, zeb?" bill asked. "aw, come back. what ye 'fraid of?" with a disgusted motion he beckoned zeb into the room again. but zeb, answering the warning that had never failed him, stayed close to the door, whispering back to bill, "where's your old woman?" "that's all right. come on in. she ain't here now." bill, determined in his search, lifted the lid a second time and began to take out the contents of the drawer. zeb, taking heart, tiptoed up to him and, looking over his shoulder, murmured, contemptuously, "i don't believe you've got a drop." "i'll show ye!" looking intently under the lid, bill's voice was half smothered. it stopped short when the kitchen door flew open and mrs. jones burst with emphatic and quick tread into the room. she did not pay heed to bill at once. zeb received the full force of her mood. "clear out now!" she called, in no gentle tone, as she swept up to him--an unnecessary action, as zeb, catching one glance of the irate woman, made double-quick time in getting out of the door and down the steps of the veranda. zeb disposed of, mrs. jones turned her attention to her errant husband. both arms akimbo, she stood still in the middle of the floor and concentrated her glare upon him. "bill jones," she asked, in a loud, rasping tone, "where have you been?" bill had put down the lid at the first hint of her entrance. while she was addressing zeb he had quietly slipped behind the desk and busied himself with the mail which he had drawn from the back pocket of his trousers. whistling softly to himself, he sorted the letters, placing them in their proper pigeonholes. he did not answer mrs. jones at once, but went on whistling. after a second in which he decided that a soft answer might draw the sting from her wrath, he stood still and, without looking around, said, gently, "hello, mother." without waiting for a reply, he went on sorting the mail. the fire in mrs. jones's eye flamed brighter. nothing exasperated her as did bill's refusal to take her tempers seriously. it was not easy to do all of the fighting--one reason why bill usually succeeded in carrying his idleness with a high hand. but this time she was not going to be ignored. the conference with hammond and thomas, the knowledge that he had been looking for his flask--that he was looking for it more for zeb's sake than his own, this time, made no difference--as well as complaints by the guests because of bill's tardiness with the mail, had exhausted her patience and whetted her into bringing bill to quick order. "do you know what time it is?" she took a step closer to bill, her voice retaining its hard ring. bill paid no attention to the question, but went on whistling and sorting the mail. "it's after two o'clock!" she stamped her foot and glared at him. her glare fell on unseeing eyes, her tones on unheeding ears, for the uneven tenor of bill's whistle kept up and the spasmodic sorting of the mail went on. "let's see," he said, softly, to himself, "mrs. taft's letter--she's in number four, ain't she?" he addressed his wife. receiving no answer himself this time, he kept on with his soliloquy, changing the letter to its proper place. "there! that's right. this one," he said, holding the envelop to the light and studying it, "is for mr. thomas." he hesitated and looked at it more closely. placing the other letters on the desk, he came from behind it and went toward mrs. jones. noting that mrs. jones was interested in the letter and that she had made a quick move toward him, he changed his mind and sauntered to the other side of the room, still scrutinizing the letter in his hand. as he paused, he placed the envelop close to his eyes and read, "raymond thomas es-_q._" mrs. jones, her arms folded across her adamant breast, narrowed her eyes into a quizzical stare. satisfied that her estimate of bill's condition was correct, she hastened to verify it. going close to him, she demanded, "bill, have you been drinkin'?" for once in his life bill could prove his innocence. he was quick to avail himself of the opportunity, and, much to her surprise, he turned and blew his blameless breath at her. mrs. jones relaxed, exclaiming, in tones of relief, "thank the lord!" "what's he got to do with it?" bill asked, quickly. mrs. jones smiled. for the time being her manner was mollified. she followed him to the desk behind which he had returned to the mail-rack. "you know," she explained, "it's 'way past dinner-time, and if you won't work, the least you can do is to be on time for your meals." "i been workin'," bill chirped, as he placed the last letter in its box and went toward the dining-room door. mrs. jones placed herself in the middle of the room and in such a way that bill could not reach his goal without passing her. "what work have you been doin'?" the sarcasm in the glance which pierced bill's shifting gaze did not pierce his good humor. he continued to chirp. "i got the mail." "the mail?" there was contempt in his wife's question and in the answer she gave to it. "the mail came at ten o'clock." "i got it, didn't i?" bill registered another cheerful quip. suddenly mrs. jones's mind recurred to the day of the month. her contempt gave place to anxiety and she stepped close to her husband and looked into his face again. "bill, was there a letter for you?" she asked. bill did not answer her with words. instead he looked away from her and shook his head slowly. "bill jones," his wife persisted, her tones reverting to their former clear coldness, "didn't your pension come to-day?" "to-day?" bill smiled a self-congratulatory smile for the word which gave him the loophole of escape. had his wife omitted that one word he would have, for his honor's sake, been forced to admit that he had it. for it was a part of his peculiar code that under no circumstances was "mother" ever to be lied to. prevarications, yes, but downright, indisputable lies, no. and that with vigorous emphasis. but now she had mentioned the day. the pension had not come to-day. it had reposed in his pocket since yesterday, where, true to his promise to john marvin, it should remain until he had made up his mind to hand it over to his family. so he felt the coins in his pocket and looked up at her with a half-guilty grin, drawing out his words one by one, in halting tones. "not--to--day." "well, when it does come," she said, pleasantly, "millie's going to go to truckee with you and buy you some clothes. you gotta have some new ones for when we goes to the city." it was on the tip of bill's tongue to reaffirm, as he had countless times, that he was never going to the city as long as he lived; but he had begun to realize in the last few days that tact must enter into his negotiations with his dissatisfied spouse. so he responded, mildly, "i got clothes enough." mrs. jones made an impatient gesture and tossed her head in dismay. "i don't know what's got into you, bill jones. when you came courtin' me you had good clothes." "this is the same suit." bill's jest might have brought further nagging upon his shoulders, but millie's entrance from the dining-room turned mrs. jones's attention to her. "oh, daddy, you're back!" millie went quickly to her foster-father and attempted to put her arms about his neck. he drew away from her, asking, quickly, "what of it?" "are you all right?" her tones were anxious and her gaze not less so. whereupon bill proved his sobriety just as he had proved it to her mother. "now are you satisfied?" he asked, as she smiled at him. kissing him, millie reminded him gently that it was past dinner-time and that he had better go into the dining-room, where something hot awaited him. "please come now, daddy," she added. "the girls want to get their work done." bill hesitated. he glanced surreptitiously over at the nevada desk, where, to the best of his knowledge, he had deposited a half-filled flask the night previous. his wife's eye, however, was on him. suddenly she stepped up to him and took him firmly by the arm. "bill jones," she said, "you're comin' right inside now an' eat! whatever else is on your mind can wait--an' it might be a waste o' time, anyway!" finding himself propelled toward the dining-room, lightnin' cast an appealing, whimsical glance at millie, but she covertly shook her head to indicate that even she could not gainsay mrs. jones just then. left alone, millie busied herself at the desk with some accounts which she wanted to finish before the arrival of a fresh contingent of guests, due that afternoon. she put down her pencil after a few minutes of work, however, and leaned her elbows on the desk, her chin in her hands thoughtfully. she had a well-defined suspicion as to where lightnin' had been the night previous, and--well, millie was curious about it. her reflections were interrupted by the entrance of lemuel townsend. there was an air of importance about him. he was frock-coated and altogether spick and span. "hello, millie!" he said, walking up to the desk and shaking hands with her. "i've been trying to get around here all week, but i'm mighty pressed for time these days, you know! how is everything? you're all filled up, i suppose?" "nevada is full," millie answered, smiling; "it always is, but the california side is often empty. oh, it's great fun--i call it the hotel lopside! sometimes i'm sorry that we're giving it up." "oh! then you've really decided to put through the idea of selling the place!" "yes. mother made up her mind this morning, and i more than approve it, all things considered. daddy hasn't--hasn't quite agreed, though, but it's for his own good. i don't quite understand daddy's objections. i wanted to talk to him this morning about it, but i didn't get a chance. there's been something mysterious in his manner lately." "something mysterious--about lightnin'?" "yes," said millie, thoughtfully. "mother hasn't noticed it, of course, being so busy and worried--and outwardly daddy is his usual easy-going, amiable self. but i have a feeling that he has--or thinks he has--something up his sleeve. daddy can't hide things from me, you know! another thing, he doesn't seem to like mr. thomas at all--is downright rude to him at times. i can't understand it, for it isn't like daddy!" townsend frowned in a puzzled way. "perhaps you're taking some of dear old lightnin's notions too seriously, millie," he remarked. "though i must say that i have a great deal of faith in bill. i've been a little out of touch with the situation lately," he went on, judicially, "but from what you and mother have told me about the proposed sale, and from the one or two talks i have had with mr. thomas, i am inclined to agree with you and mother that this sale is an excellent idea. so far as i can judge, it is a sound investment and all for the best." "of course it is!" said millie. "but now--how about yourself? how is the campaign going, mr. townsend?" "splendidly! but it's rather trying, as i have to do most of the campaigning myself--even the odd jobs!" he looked down at a bundle of large, printed placards which he carried under his arm. withdrawing one, he held it up for her inspection. millie read, "vote for lemuel townsend for superior judge of the second judicial district." "would you mind if i tacked up some of these in the lobby?" he asked, joining in her laugh. "not at all!" millie exclaimed. "i've a hammer and tacks right here in the desk. let me help you--and i do so hope you'll win!" chatting, they proceeded to embellish the lobby with lem townsend's name and ambition. their operations were brought to a pause by the arrival of the expected new guests. chapter vii as the motor-stage drew up to the door, millie ran out on the veranda to deliver a few commissions to the driver to execute when he got back to town. she noted that sheriff blodgett was a passenger, and that he jumped down and preceded the guests into the lobby. the first of the new arrivals to step out of the stage and enter the hotel was a chic little woman of about twenty-four, with big brown eyes and auburn hair, dressed in a bright blue outing-flannel coat and skirt and a tiny red hat from which hung a heavy veil. it was obvious that she was suffering from great embarrassment, as she walked quickly about the lobby, going from one register to the other, while a maid followed her with an armful of bundles. the woman looked helplessly from wall to wall and desk to desk. the presence of blodgett and townsend seemed to add to her embarrassment, a condition still further aggravated by the appearance of a third man, everett hammond, who chanced to come strolling down from up-stairs at the moment. she fluttered up to millie as the girl came in from the veranda. "would you like to register?" millie asked. "how do you do," was the reply, uttered in a timid treble. "i am mrs. harper. i understand--" her head turned from side to side as she hesitated. she clasped her hands and gazed pleadingly at millie. "i've been told--" again she hesitated nervously, tears in her eyes. she noticed blodgett and hammond gazing at her. in desperation, her blushes showing under the heavy veil, she whispered, quaveringly, "could i speak to you privately?" "certainly," said millie, hiding her amusement. "just step into this room," and she led the little woman away. as they left the room, followed by the faithful maid, another guest entered, an attractive woman of thirty. she was highly colored as to hair and complexion, and she had about her an air far removed from the chic, haughty member of the millionaire divorce colony that centered about the reno hotels. in type she was not unlike mrs. harper, except that she did not show any special evidence of timidity. on the contrary, she seemed perfectly at home. but she came in with the aid of a crutch and leaning on the arm of the stage-driver. her eyes took a calm inventory of the lobby--including townsend, on whom she smiled coquettishly as she sighed with relief and sank into a chair. townsend was leaning against the california desk, and he had been watching blodgett and hammond, who, conversing in low tones, had strolled out to the veranda. he was surprised to note that the pair had met before and seemed to know each other quite well. his attention, however, was now drawn to the attractive new guest. her smile was not without effect. she turned to the driver. "i'm all right now, thank you," she drawled, though her voice was soft and pleasant. "just drop my bag here." fumbling in her purse for change that did not seem to be there, she directed a glance toward townsend and smiled again. "will you change five dollars for me?" she asked. townsend drew out his wallet and examined its contents, but put it back again disappointedly. "i'm afraid i can't," he said, with obvious regret. "well, then," said the attractive woman, with a frown, "pay the driver, please." townsend gave a slight start of chagrin, feeling that his standing as a candidate for a judgeship was suffering by her lack of discernment. then, as the truth of the situation dawned on him, he suppressed a chuckle. without a word, he handed some change to the driver. "charge it to my account," she ordered, settling herself comfortably in the chair, extending one foot which was bound in a heavy bandage about the ankle and clad in a soft slipper. townsend, still smiling, began: "well--er--" "i'm mrs. davis," she interrupted, ignoring his embarrassment. "mrs. margaret davis." she turned her wide blue eyes full upon him as she switched in her chair, the movement bringing a twinge of pain to her face. townsend left the desk and came toward her. "i'm very glad to meet you." he extended an affable hand. "i'm lemuel townsend, and i--" mrs. davis did not offer him her hand at once, but gave him an inquisitive glance. "will you show me to my room?" she asked. "i don't know where it is," he said, laughing. by this time his ruffled dignity was assuaged by the twinkle in mrs. davis's eye and the deep dimple in her chin. "why, weren't you expecting me?" she asked, in astonishment, her mind as yet refusing to grasp the situation. "no, i wasn't." he was bending over her, a courtly flattery in his gaze. "but i wrote you!" she turned clear about on her chair, forgetting for the moment the pain in her foot, her eyes and mouth wide open with surprise at the thought that she could be thus forgotten. "no, you didn't write me. you see, i'm only a guest, just as you are." here they both laughed, while townsend placed a chair close to hers and sat down beside her. mrs. davis prolonged her giggle and bent her head, her eyes seeking his under her heavily beaded lashes. "and i said--oh!" she put her two hands to her mouth and sidled, "i took you for the clerk." he nodded indulgently. "oh, and i made you pay the driver! i couldn't allow that. just as soon as somebody comes i'll return it. i hope you'll forgive me." by this time her manner was as friendly as townsend's feminine-loving soul could wish. she sidled her chair a little closer to his, still holding him with her eyes, wide as the innocent stare of a baby. "i'm glad it happened," said townsend. "will you allow me to introduce myself properly?" she nodded, and he got up and went to the desk, returning with one of his campaign cards and handing it to her. "permit me," he said, "my card." as she took it from him he explained, "i'm candidate for judge at the next election." immediately mrs. davis's interest was aroused to fever pitch. with a knowing look she leaned forward, placing a hand on his arm, while she slowly and attentively dwelt upon the words on the card. "oh, really?" she drawled. "where will you be judge?" "if i'm elected--in reno." "will you try divorce cases?" the question was snapped out. he nodded. "oh, i'm awfully glad to meet you!" she gushed, shaking his arm. "the pleasure is mutual, believe me," he responded, placing his hand on top of hers. as she withdrew hers with a giggle, he went on, unabashed, "do you intend remaining here long?" "i'm in for six months." she sighed like a hurt baby. he was all sympathy as he leaned toward her and apologized: "oh, i'm very sorry for you, mrs. davis--if--" "oh, my case doesn't call for sympathy. congratulations! congratulations!" she emphasized with a long-drawn-out inflection. "oh!!!" he shook his head wisely, adding, laughingly, "it's that way?" a twinge from the invalid ankle concentrated mrs. davis's full attention as she lifted her foot, adjusting it against the crutch, thinking to stop the pain. when it had subsided she smiled up at townsend again, pointed to it and said, with an ingã©nue turn of the head, "i'd probably never have been able to get a divorce if it had not been for this." "you don't mean that your husband was brute enough to--" townsend was shocked at the thought, but was not allowed to deliver himself of his full sympathy. mrs. davis was just getting into the lines of her part and she was quick to catch her cues. "oh, heavens, no!" she broke in upon his condolences. "this was an accident. it's a sprain, and it is quite serious, as i'm a dancer." she beamed up at him and wriggled in the chair, continuing her explanation. "it's probably all for the best. of course it'll break into my engagements. i'm in vaudeville, you know. i've wanted a divorce for years, but i'm always booked solid and i never stay in one place long enough to get one. when this happened i saw my chance to get a good long rest, and my freedom in the bargain." her eyes begged his for understanding and received it. while she had been talking townsend had been drinking in every word she said. her variety of attractiveness was a new one to him. it appealed to his small-town idea of being a gay blade. he had often cast longing eyes at the eastern wives sojourning in reno for the six months necessary to establish a residence and therefore their right to a quick freedom which brought with it no restrictions in the matter of remarrying. the majority of these prospective divorcã©es were of a larger world and reckoned in figures of which lemuel townsend did not know the simplest rules. the only notice he had received for his ambitions being a smile to his face and a snicker at his back. but here was some one who not only was taking notice of him, but was actually meeting his advances half-way. besides, she was pretty, and he could never withstand a pretty woman. as she finished the first lap of her story he exclaimed, "that certainly is a scheme!" "it's nice of you to listen to it all," she murmured, apologetically, moving her idle crutch up and down as if writing her mood in invisible letters on the floor. "i'm glad you told it to me. do you know--" and he sidled in his chair, while a sugar-laden approval beamed at her in a steady flow from over the top of his glasses, "from the minute i saw you enter the door i was worried about you--i was afraid--well, it was a great relief to find that you had two good--" he halted in hopeless confusion, as his eyes sought her ankle. he took his handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose furiously, hoping to hide the real reason for a blush that seemed to have come to stay, having settled in a deep crimson even from the nape of his neck to the top of a head whose sparse hair refused to hide his embarrassment. but margaret davis, seeing no reason for shyness, just smiled graciously upon him and hastened to standardize her reputation. "any one who has seen me dance can inform you about--well--about--_them_," she said seriously, adding by way of flavor to her remark another languishing droop of her eyelids. there was a moment of coy silence for the two of them. then mrs. davis asked, "are you stopping here for pleasure or are you doing time?" "i'm a bachelor." "how nice!" she replied, in honeyed accents, as she leaned toward him and put a soft hand on his arm. undoubtedly in lem townsend she saw the possibility of an easy divorce trial. besides, townsend was by no means without personal attractions. mrs. davis gazed at him, her languishing smile concealing the feminine appraisal in her eyes. she decided to cultivate the possibility, and was about to say something in furtherance of her object when she was startled by a gentle voice coming from directly behind her and inquiring, pleasantly, "rheumatism?" bill jones had entered the lobby unobserved by the pair and was leaning over the desk idly, looking at his new guest with kindly interest. townsend introduced bill, and mrs. davis, with lem's assistance, rose and took up a pen. "no," she said; "i have not acquired rheumatism as yet, mr. jones. i'll register--you're reserving a room for me." "how long you here for?" bill asked. "the usual," she sighed, and rolled her eyes toward townsend. "eh?" bill grinned and walked slowly from behind the desk. "six months," she drawled, wearily. politely staying her hand and taking the pen from her, bill pointed to the other desk. "this is the six months' side--over here," he said, sauntering to the back of the nevada desk. when the lady was at last settled in her room, and townsend had left--having made an arrangement to dine with mrs. davis that evening--bill found himself strangely alone for the moment. instantly he seized on the opportunity to make a thorough investigation into the mysterious disappearance of a half-filled flask. after turning the nevada desk inside out, at last he was convinced that the disappearance was a fact and not a matter of imagination. "guess mother has seequesterated it," he remarked, to himself. "not that i'm hankerin' after it so much myself, but i told zeb i had it, an' when he finds that i 'ain't, the moral effect on zeb will sure be bad." as bill, rolling a cigarette, meditated on this, mrs. harper, followed by her maid and still casting about like a frightened bird in search of cover, tiptoed into the lobby, went uncertainly to the california desk and took up a pen. wisdom twitching at the corners of his mouth, bill was beside her at once. "is either o' you ladies gettin' a divorce?" he inquired, in a helpful tone, his question including the indignant maid. "'cause, if you are," he explained, "i just wanted to let you know that you are flockin' round the wrong desk." mrs. harper fluttered some more. "oh, i--er--but--where--" "this way, my dears," bill said, in a gentle, fatherly tone, as he led them to the nevada desk. mrs. harper signed her name. as bill read it he looked up at her with sudden interest. he put a detaining hand on her arm before she could flutter away, and at the same time, turning to the maid, he directed her to have a chair for a moment--at the other side of the lobby, out of earshot. when the maid had complied bill looked down at the register. "mrs. harper, truckee," he repeated. then, glancing up at the surprised and startled little woman, he asked, "does your husband happen to drive a green automobile, ma'am?" mrs. harper stared at him with the big, frightened eyes of a child. "why--er--yes. but--why do you ask?" "i met him last night," said bill. "he's a fast driver, ain't he? gets to truckee in two hours!" the color rose to the little woman's face. "i don't see--" "he's a mighty fine feller!" bill went on, calmly. "got a pile o' money, too, an' i bet he's some generous with it--specially to them what he loves. people is always makin' fool mistakes. say, you ain't really goin' to git a divorce, are you?" now the astonished little woman's eyes filled with angry tears. "oh!" she gasped. "oh! how dare you speak to me like this! it's none of your business!" "sure it is," said lightnin', his voice kindly, confidential. "i know all about it. he didn't git that present for his stenographer." "how do you know?" she snapped. "i heard him tellin' all about it to marvin, the boy what sold him that timber up yonder. i knocked," bill explained, whimsically, "but they didn't seem to hear, an' i was kinder forced to listen in from the outside. your husband was all het up an' near committin' suicide 'cause you thought he done what he didn't. he told marvin he bought that present for you when he was in noo york. he was just a-showin' it to his office lady when you walked in." "nonsense!" "no, it ain't. it's truth. there's some things i don't go wrong on, an' this is one, mrs. harper. your husband's a mighty fine feller an'--" with a stamp of her foot, the little woman flung away from the desk and, followed by the faithful maid, hurried up-stairs, where--and perhaps bill suspected this--she buried her head in a pillow and cried and cried. bill stood at the desk with his head cocked on one side, idly tapping his ear with a pen. he heard the door of mrs. harper's room slam and he grinned amiably. "eatin' her heart out for him," he mused. "just eatin' her heart out, but too spunky to back down!" he gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling for a few minutes; then slowly he reached into the drawer and took out a telegram blank. his eyes twinkled as he wrote a brief message. he folded up the blank, stuffed it into his pocket, and was turning away from the desk with the intention of seeking the telegraph-office, when hammond and sheriff blodgett came strolling back into the lobby. "oh, so you're actually here, are you?" exclaimed hammond, glaring at bill. "have you signed that deed yet?" hammond, direct, bulldozing, totally lacking in thomas's smooth diplomacy, had lost all patience with bill jones. that morning he had decided that the only way to handle bill was to ride over him rough-shod. "have you signed that deed?" he repeated, loudly. "deed?" remarked lightnin', carelessly. "oh, i'd kinder forgot about that little matter. nope. 'ain't had time, old top--nope!" ignoring the glares of the two men, he started to amble toward the door. "look here," hammond called after him, "is mr. thomas in?" "i guess so," replied bill, pausing directly in front of hammond and gazing up at him with a calm, shrewd light in his half-shut eyes. "he seems to stick around pretty close." "well," said hammond, with a heavy frown, "just be good enough to step up and tell him that sheriff blodgett and i would like to see him!" "step up yourself," said old bill, quietly, without shifting either his gaze or his position. "you ain't crippled, be you? an' i don't think as your friend thomas'll fall off'n his chair with surprise if you drop in on him unexpected." without waiting for a reply, bill turned away and ambled out of the lobby. hammond swore; then strode angrily up-stairs, followed by blodgett. chapter viii a few minutes after lightnin' disappeared down the trail, headed for the local telegraph-office, john marvin approached the hotel from the opposite direction. he paused when some distance away and viewed the place. it was his first visit in many weeks, and naturally his first since the great transformation. it could be surmised, however, that this visit was not one of idle curiosity; neither was his pause due to a mere desire to observe the various changes recently made. he watched the establishment closely for a minute; then came on slowly, keeping a sharp eye on his surroundings. as he reached the steps millie came out on the veranda. she was engaged in what, these days, had become one of the chief occupations of nearly every one in the hotel calivada--searching for lightnin' bill jones, whose persistent faculty of being absent when most wanted was fast assuming the dimensions of a public aggravation. "why, hello, stranger!" millie exclaimed, with a welcoming smile. "i thought you had forgotten all about us! you haven't been here for ever so long!" marvin came up the steps and seized both her hands, which she let him hold for a moment. "i haven't forgotten _you_, millie," he said, gently, smiling down into her brown eyes. "but--well, you know i went away last time with an idea that you didn't care to see me." "silly boy!" her tone was gaily impersonal, but her red lips puckered into a pretty pout as she walked to a chair in the corner of the veranda and sat down. "i thought that maybe you had returned to mr. thomas's office," he remarked, following her and standing beside her chair. "no; i'm not going back, not now," said millie, thoughtfully. she did not look up at him, but fixed her gaze on her hands, folded in her lap. "what a tremendous student you were in his office! i never saw any one work so hard as you did." "except when you were in the room--then i was looking at you, most of the time!" marvin bent over her, but she gave no sign that she read his attitude. "if you'd been looking at me, i'd have seen you." she smiled and raised her eyes. "you've not given up the study of law, have you?" there was concern in the lift of her brow. "oh no! but i'm not going back into mr. thomas's office. why did you leave him, millie? was there any trouble?" "trouble? of course not! how could any one have trouble with mr. thomas?" surprise and annoyance stood in her eyes. marvin did not reply at once, but drew up another chair and sat down facing her. he leaned forward, his eyes searching hers as he questioned, "you like mr. thomas--like him very much, don't you, millie?" "i more than like him!" an angry color suffused her cheeks as she looked marvin up and down. "i adore him!" she added. "you've no idea how fine he is!" marvin started at this--naturally. the situation was going to be more difficult than he had anticipated. could it be that millie was really in love with raymond thomas? or had he merely convinced her that his business motives were all that they should be? perhaps it was both! anyway, it was obvious that the girl had thomas up on some sort of pedestal; she was in a spunky mood, and marvin saw that he was going to have his hands full trying to convince her that the feet on the pedestal were made of clay. marvin flushed himself; he did not relish his position; he shrank from seemingly disparaging another man behind his back, especially to a girl. if there had been only himself to consider, he would not have spoken at all. neither was it altogether for millie's sake. she was young, capable, quick-witted; she would see through thomas of her own accord, soon enough--if she were not actually in love with him! but marvin was thinking of the old people, of hard-working, simple mrs. jones, and of amiable, careless bill. millie was the young, strong member of the jones household, and it was millie who must be convinced and won over, if possible. thus ran marvin's thoughts--but quite honestly he admitted to himself that his love for the girl might be coloring his logic and his motives just a little. "i'd like to tell you something i know about thomas--" "oh, i know!" millie interrupted, quickly. "he sold some property for your mother, isn't that it?" "yes; he sold it to the railroad--for a big price." "i know--he told me all about it. he's a splendid business man! why, that's exactly what he is doing for us! hasn't daddy told you about it?" she glanced at him quickly, but he gave no sign of having heard this wonderful news. "i should think you'd like to see mr. thomas. he's up-stairs packing, now. he's leaving this evening. he came all the way from san francisco just to help me--to help us all!" "to help you?" marvin asked. millie clasped her hands over her knees and went on, enthusiastically: "why, this hotel idea has turned out splendidly, you know. but a week or two ago, mr. thomas wrote to mother, saying that he had heard that the railroad company had got wind of our success and contemplated putting up a rival hotel just back of us. mother was nearly crazy at the news, and i wrote to mr. thomas, asking him his advice. he telegraphed that he would be right out to see us! wasn't that just like him?" "exactly," said marvin, dryly. "and i presume that when mr. thomas arrived he suggested that you let him persuade the railroad to buy this place and erect the new hotel here, instead of next door!" "why, john--aren't you clever!" millie exclaimed. "how did you guess it? that is exactly what he suggested, and now it's all arranged! and they're going to pay enough to make mother and daddy comfortable for the rest of their lives!" with a hopeless gesture, marvin got to his feet and took a pace or two up and down the veranda. the girl watched him, puzzled. "are they going to pay cash?" marvin asked, pausing in front of her. "it's much better than cash! it's shares of stock that pay ten per cent. a year! it seems almost too good to be true." "it does--it certainly does!" came from marvin. the girl had risen, glowing with enthusiasm. quite naturally she put her hand on his arm and looked up at him happily, intimately, naã¯vely seeking his approval. in the midst of his perplexity marvin's heart gave a bound. that naã¯ve touch on his arm and the intimate light in the brown eyes told him that, in one respect at least, all was not lost--not yet! he was about to take her hands and break into a rush of words when the girl suddenly turned her attention from him, remarking, eagerly: "here comes daddy. we were afraid he'd deserted again!" marvin swung around. much as he wanted to see lightnin' to-day, he wished, just then, that bill could have seen fit to delay his appearance a few minutes longer. bill jones, however, came serenely up the steps and stood with his hands in his pockets, shrewdly and humorously inspecting the pair. "sorry to interrupt the billin' an' cooin'," he remarked. "but say, john, ain't you takin' some chances round here? did you know that blodgett's here? i seen him go up-stairs when i went out." millie had flushed and turned away at her foster-father's first words, but now she looked curiously from one to the other. "what on earth do you mean, daddy?" she questioned. "he's just _helping me_, millie," said marvin, grinning at bill. "thanks for the tip, lightnin', but i wanted to see you particularly to-day, so i--" he stopped abruptly, for bill had raised a warning hand. marvin recognized a familiar voice talking in the lobby. glancing in, he saw raymond thomas standing in the center of the room, holding mrs. jones in conversation. hammond and blodgett had just come down the stairs and were joining the other two. "better beat it, john!" lightnin' whispered. but marvin stood there. he was thinking quickly. he had caught a word or two of what thomas was saying, and he gathered that matters were coming to a climax. suddenly his expression cleared and he grinned. "never mind about that, lightnin'," he said, mechanically opening the door for millie, who, seeing that they were ignoring her, tripped in with a petulant toss of her head. "i think i have a little scheme that will fool our friend blodgett. but first--bill, promise me that you won't sign that deed without consulting me!" "all right," said lightnin', slowly. "i promise. but you better be careful, john, an'--" "come on!" marvin interrupted, leading the way himself. "i've a great desire to be in on these proceedings!" seeing that the young man was not to be stopped, bill said no more as he slid through the door and ambled after him into the lobby. chapter ix "i think it is only fair to tell you, mrs. jones," thomas was saying, a delicate, apologetic note creeping into his voice as he caught sight of millie, "that this marvin is not a proper person for your daughter to see. i fully believed that he was a fine young man myself once, and you cannot imagine my surprise when i discovered that he is the head of a gang of thieves who are going all over this part of the country, stealing timber." "mercy me!" cried mrs. jones. "a thief, no less!" then, seeing marvin unexpectedly present in person, she glared at him. "somethin' always warned me against you, john marvin! oh, millie, millie! how many times have i told you you was makin' a terrible mistake lettin' him annoy you!" millie was evidently too astonished and puzzled to say anything. meanwhile, thomas had flushed deeply on finding himself confronted by the man he was in the act of damning. instinctively he took a step back. blodgett made a quick move toward marvin, but hammond seized his arm and stopped him. "hold on a minute, blodgett," he whispered. "you can nab him later--he can't very well get away from us now. i want to have a word, first--i'm going to show this young cub just where he stands!" meanwhile, though the sheriff's move did not escape him, marvin, a grim smile on his face, was gazing steadily at thomas. "go on, thomas," he said, quietly. "i'm interested! what else were you going to say to mrs. jones?" indifferently he strolled over beside lightnin', who was in front of the california desk, his hands in his pockets, his half-shut eyes roving from one to another of the group. to look at him, one would not imagine that bill jones had any special interest in the proceedings. he drew out his bag of tobacco and papers and idly rolled a cigarette. thomas, having regained his poise again, turned to mrs. jones with his dazzling smile. "i'm really very glad that the young man chanced to present himself at this moment, mrs. jones, because--" "that's all right, thomas!" hammond interrupted, suddenly thrusting himself forward and waving the other aside. "but we have something much more important on hand. let's get to it! i can't monkey around here any longer. "mrs. jones," he went on, "i've been trying to get you all together before i left, but you seem such busy people that it is as if i wouldn't have this opportunity. i wanted to tell you that the company for which i am acting has just wired me to close the transaction, and so i am ready to take over the property at once!" mrs. jones, bewildered by his briskness and the swift sequence of events, stared at him, then transferred a gaze no less confounded to thomas. "you mean," she questioned, "that--that you want us to leave at once?" "oh no! that's not necessary. but now that you have put your signature to the deed, the transfer will be made at once and we'll take over the management, allowing you to remain on until you have made your arrangements for the future." with a sharp nod to her and an insolent sneer directed at bill, hammond swung on his heel and busied himself with a portfolio of papers he had dropped on the nevada desk. "i'm sure you can have no objections to these arrangements, mrs. jones," said thomas, his voice as smooth as glass, though there was a slight quiver of his eyelids as he avoided marvin's steady gaze and caught a strange gleam that emanated from bill's puckered-up eyes. mrs. jones had forgotten all about bill and his part in the signing of the deed. but a multitude of thoughts were running through her mind, confused as it was. all that she could think of now was the simplest answer to thomas's question. she stepped up to him and put a hand of confidence on his arm. "certainly i do not mind," she said. "i'm delighted and relieved that it is all settled!" turning to hammond, she added: "i want to leave the whole matter in mr. thomas's hands. i'll do just as he advises." "all right, hammond," said thomas, deliberately turning his back on old bill. "we shall deliver the deed to you at once, and you can take charge of the place immediately. i presume you will want to have--" "hold on there, young feller!" lightnin's usual lackadaisical monotone was raised to a degree which bespoke a greater interest than his careless attitude indicated. he stepped forward and stood in front of thomas, looking up at him with his shrewd gaze. when he felt that the man was ready to give him sufficient attention, bill returned to his customary drawl. "we ain't goin' to sell this place, my boy," he said. "not until i consult my lawyer!" his words brought his wife to his side instantly, her eyes blazing. "bill jones," she cried, "you just be quiet! what in the world's the matter with you--tryin' to throw away a chance to be nice and comfortable the rest o' your life! are you crazy?" "nope. i'm the only one that ain't--'cept john, here." bill's steady, quiet grin exasperated hammond and thomas to white heat, but they were too near their goal to miss it by a step. they knew that under ordinary conditions bill, in spite of his many shortcomings, held first place in mrs. jones's affections, and that any show of harshness toward him on their part might rally her unexpectedly to his support. so they smothered their rage. hammond leaned an elbow on the desk and nonchalantly twirled his watch-chain, his mouth drawn into an ugly sneer. thomas continued his air of deference toward mrs. jones, leaning over her with an appealing smile. reacting to it, she took bill by the arm and shook it roughly. "you just got to listen to reason, bill!" she said, transfixing him with angry eyes. "i set my heart on sellin' the place an' goin' to the city, as you oughter know by now. an', besides, it's 'most all fixed up, anyways--all but you signin' that deed. you got to do it, bill!" "you're all het up, mother," replied bill, gazing at her with kindly eyes. "ease up a bit! nope. i ain't goin' to sign no deed for them two scamps--leastways not until i consult my lawyer!" and bill pushed back his battered slouch-hat and stuck his thumbs in his faded vest. "scamps--!" but before mrs. jones could complete her sentence marvin stepped forward and put a friendly arm over bill's shoulder. "bill's right, mrs. jones," he said, gently, though there was a fighting light in his eyes as he met those of thomas. "lightnin' has no need to apologize for anything he may say about these two men. this sale is a nice little scheme of theirs. they are trying to rob you." millie, who had been listening to it all, amazed and abashed, now stared at marvin defiantly. "how dare you say that?" she blazed. "what right have you to interfere?" she rallied to mrs. jones's side and placed an affectionate arm around her waist. mrs. jones was crying by this time. she wiped her eyes on her apron and looked at marvin. "so it's you who's been puttin' bill up to this!" she exclaimed. "i might have known--it's right in line with what we just heard about you! well, he don't need none o' your advice--you just leave bill alone!" marvin held out a deprecating hand. "but, mrs. jones, you don't understand--" blodgett, at a sign from hammond, strode up to marvin and put a hand on his shoulder. marvin shook him off. "don't interrupt me now!" he said. "i've something more important to--" "i'll show you how important it is!" said blodgett, jingling a pair of handcuffs in front of marvin. "i got a warrant for your arrest for stealin' timber! put out your hands!" mrs. jones and millie stood by, bewildered, while thomas, with supercilious satisfaction in his smile, sank into a chair and crossed his legs with an air. hammond laughed coarsely. bill, his arm drawn through marvin's, looked on, his enigmatic grin between his half-closed eyes and half-open mouth betokening an unswerving confidence in the ultimate. "i can't be bothered with you now," said marvin, addressing blodgett. "bill needs--" "none o' your lip!" blodgett grabbed him roughly and attempted to place a handcuff on one of his wrists, but marvin flung him off and the sheriff went sprawling. marvin stepped back a pace or two as blodgett got up and came at him again, bawling, "now you're worse off than ever--resisting an officer of the law!" marvin, however, did not seem to be worried. he faced blodgett with an amused smile and pointed to the floor, where an uncovered space left between two rugs indicated the now famous state line. "law?" marvin echoed. "why, blodgett, old boy, don't you know any more about law than to try to serve me with a nevada warrant when i'm in the state of california?" "by jiminy, he's right!" cried lightnin', clapping marvin on the back. "you got 'em where--where the rugs is short, john. guess i didn't build this house on the state line for nothin'!" blodgett started back with a howl of disgust, while thomas and hammond looked at each other, making no effort to hide their chagrin. millie had given an exclamation--an exclamation that sounded very much like one of relief, when she saw the sudden turn of the tables; but if it was an expression of her inner and secret feelings, she quickly smothered it. mrs. jones glared at marvin with keen disgust and disappointment. lightnin', grinning, evidently was enjoying the scene hugely. cocking his old hat over one ear, he struck a pose of comic nonchalance against the california desk and looked across the lobby at the furious hammond. "hello, hammond, old top!" he called, airily. "how's everythin' in nevada? come on over to california, an'--an' have a glass o' water!" chapter x the unexpected dã©nouement between marvin and sheriff blodgett brought consternation to those who had contrived toward his apprehension. everett hammond, in consultation with thomas, would have taken the young man by force--for hammond was a strapping six feet two or thereabouts, and marvin was but a stripling in strength. but thomas, cool and controlled, and always an advocate of keeping within the letter of the law, counseled him against any such hot-headed procedure, explaining that it might militate against them in a court where outside operators in land or mining stocks were not looked upon with any too friendly a spirit. mrs. jones and millie, astounded and uncomfortable in a situation far afield from their uneventful lives, were too perplexed to speak, contenting themselves with staring at marvin in unbridled disgust. millie felt something of compassion for his predicament, but the thought that any one she knew should be accused of theft filled her with horror. besides, it was he who was preventing her foster-father from signing the deed which would place them all in easy circumstances as against the difficulties of the present. whatever of pity she had quickly disappeared. with one long look of disdain toward marvin, she led mrs. jones up-stairs. blodgett, after his first surprise, was overcome with rage at the knowledge that a whippersnapper such as he considered marvin should have placed him in such a ludicrous position. he, too, like hammond, would have liked to have tried force, but he knew that marvin stood well among the lumbermen in washoe county and his attempt at re-election was too close at hand to permit of his taking any chances when those to gain by them were strangers without a voice in the politics of the section. with a covert eye he watched marvin, who stood a few feet from the line and smiled down at bill, the latter grinning up at him, warming to the affectionate arm placed about his shoulder. as the two women went up the stairs, marvin watched them, a half-shadow in his eyes as he caught millie's disdainful glance. giving bill a good-by pat, marvin, hat in hand, made a sweeping bow which took in hammond, thomas, and blodgett. "good evening, gentlemen," he laughed ironically. sidling with his back to the california desk, he reached the door, where he waved his hand at his astonished persecutors and slid out upon the veranda and down the steps, where he wandered off in the twilight. blodgett walked to the door and looked after him. "guess i'll stick 'round a bit," he grumbled to thomas, who had followed him to the door and was gazing after marvin. hammond remained where he was, leaning up against the desk, watching thomas and blodgett with surly eyes. "you two are a nice pair of mollycoddles," he sneered, "letting him make a get-away like that. if either of you had any gumption you'd have knocked him over the line." "yes?" drawled the sheriff. "'n' be arrested for assault. my jurisdiction stops on this side of the line." he was silent, while he took a piece of tobacco from his pocket and cut off a bite. after a minute he grunted: "humph! he'ain't gone yet. i'm goin' to stay here 'til to-morrow mornin'. by that time he'll be home, for he 'ain't got no place else to go. then i'll nab him good 'n' quick." all this time bill had stood in the middle of the floor, listening to all that was said, saying never a word himself. now he went slowly to one side of the room, took a chair that stood against the california wall and placed it in front of the table, close to the dividing line. blodgett, thinking there was reason for his act, so deliberate was it, took a chair from its place near the nevada wall and placed it parallel with bill's, seating himself in it. the two men contemplated each other in silence. thomas and hammond stood in short consultation, and then the latter went to his room on the california side of the hotel, thomas sauntering to a rocking-chair on the veranda. he lighted a cigar and sat looking out over the lake, where the moon was rising over the rim of the bordering sierras. there was scrutiny in the eye with which blodgett viewed bill. there was distrust in the steady look which thrust itself between bill's half-open lids and struck straight in the center of blodgett's pupil. the latter opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again, as steps were heard on the veranda and rodney harper entered the lobby. "do you know where i can find john marvin?" he asked of the two men whose backs he faced. both immediately turned in their chairs, the sheriff alert for any news he might obtain of the habits and customs of the man he was pursuing. bill, when he saw who it was, arose and slowly went toward him, holding out his hand. "oh! hello, old chap! i got your telegram, also one from marvin. where is he?" harper grasped bill's hand and gave it a hearty shake, glancing anxiously about the lobby. bill ignored the last question, keeping a slanting eye on blodgett. "your wife's up-stairs," he whispered, with a nod toward the nevada up-stairs hallway. "where?" harper turned in the direction of bill's nod. "in nevada," bill drawled, with a slow grin. harper shrugged his shoulders and smiled at bill, continuing with his subject, "what's the number of her room?" "you'd better go slow." bill thrust his hands in his pockets, assuming an air of counselor. "i told her i thought you'd be here." "what did she say?" harper was at the register and going quickly down the list. he came to his wife's name, letting his finger run across the page until he came to the number of her room; then he swept past bill and had his foot on the first step when bill stopped him. "ye'll spoil it all, if ye ain't careful." the old man drew the younger one's head close to his mouth, speaking in low tones. "what makes you say that? in your telegram you made me believe everything was all right," harper said, as he leaned against the newel-post. "so 'twill be if you listen to some one that knows summat 'bout women. if you chase chickens they run like wild-fire 'n' ye can't catch 'em unless you get 'em in a corner. but if you holds out your hand with a little feed, by 'n' by they eat right out of it." harper laughed. "that's what you think, is it?" "i know," bill chuckled. "you oughter heard what she said to me." bill loved to think that he knew something the other fellow would like to know. even his sympathy with harper and his desire to see all well between him and his wife could not contain him when it came to holding out in a matter of mere curiosity. "i was goin' to tell you, but i'd better not," he added, with a wise look. "'twan't very encouragin'," he added. harper walked away from the stairway, his arm through bill's. "don't you think you'd better tell me?" there was real concern in harper's voice and bill knew it was the expression of the anxiety in his heart. too, bill knew that it required tact to approach mrs. harper in her present hysterical mood. so he answered, with a brusk shake of his head, "nope." "well, of all the damned-fool things!" harper stood still, letting go of bill's arm. "i wouldn't call her that," bill remonstrated, moving away from harper with a quick look of astonishment. "who's calling her that?" harper paced up and down, a scowl on his face. "i mean the whole situation. it's such a silly mistake. and yet she won't believe it." "same here." there was a warm sense of comradeship in the same sad cause in the air with which bill made his last remark. it brought harper to a standstill. with a smile he listened to the old man's explanation. "folks don't believe nothin' i tell 'em. women never do believe you when you tell 'em the truth, but tell 'em a lie 'n' they swallows it hook 'n' bait. why don't you write her a letter? ef she knows yer here 'n' ain't too anxious ye got a good chance." "i believe i'll do that. it sounds like a good scheme. give her a chance to think things over instead of running in on her all of a sudden. have you got a room?" harper went to the nevada desk and took up the pen to register, but bill interrupted him. "come on over here," bill nodded to the california desk, following his own gesture to a place back of the counter. "we always got plenty of room on this side." "where's the bar?" at this question put by harper, bill's head struck an interesting and inquisitive attitude. "down to the saloon," he said. but he was doomed to disappointment. "never mind, then," was harper's disheartening reply. bill's interest slackened, but was quickly revived as harper, in the middle of scribbling a note to his wife, looked up long enough to add, "i've got a flask in my bag." it did not take bill long to get from behind the desk. that bag was a friend. he had promised marvin that he would not spend his pension, and mrs. jones had carefully removed the flask from its corner in the nevada desk. "i'll show you right up," he exclaimed, making an undue and unaccustomed haste toward the stairs, bag in hand. at the top of the stairs he stood, waiting for harper to seal the envelop. harper came up the stairs, two at a time, and handed the letter to bill, offering to take the bag from bill as he did so. but bill shook his hand loose. "i'd better take the bag to the room for you first. ye must be pretty tired." there was a hidden implication in the monotone in which the last speech was delivered. rodney harper was too possessed of his own affairs to feel it, and with an impatient gesture he stooped to take his bag from bill, pleading, "please, old man, won't you deliver the letter?" but bill, attuned to a rare occasion, had quickly evaded harper's outstretched hand and was down the hallway with the bag. he opened the door of harper's room and went in first, depositing the bag on the floor. then he went up to the frowning guest, caught hold of his arm, and whispered: "marvin's here, but i didn't want them folks down-stairs to know it. they come to git him fer cuttin' down your timber, but he jumped over the california line. he'll be back by 'n' by, i'm thinkin'." harper was interested in the news and asked bill to let him know when marvin was about again, but he was not interested enough to make him forget what was his present paramount concern. he gave a desperate glance toward the letter in bill's hand. but bill had no intention of leaving until his own possessive intention was fulfilled. he backed away from the bed where he had placed the bag, slowly retreating until he came to the door, which harper had left open for bill's exit. when he reached the sill he grasped the knob with one hand, half closing it, while he stood in front of it on the inside. the anxiety in harper's contracted brow met the slow grin that wrinkled about bill's eyes and mouth. a question started from harper's tongue. bill forestalled it. "i'm sorry," he said, slowly and gently, but with a wise twinkle in his blue eyes, "thet there ain't no bar. mother she doesn't like drink." he paused a moment to see what effect his words were having. as he saw his intention was slowly penetrating through harper's absorption in his own affairs, bill made his final coup. "she lifted my flask from the desk, or i could be askin' you to have a swig." harper threw back his head and laughed. "so that's it!" he exclaimed, hurriedly opening his bag and extracting the flask. "well, i tell you what i'll do. if you'll beat it in quick time with that note i'll treat you to the whole darned flask." bill needed no second bidding. with flask secure in his back pocket he lost no time in descending the california stairs and mounting the flight to the nevada half of the hotel and leaving the letter with mrs. harper. on the way back to the lobby he slightly diminished the contents of the flask. he entered the lobby with a smile whose target was the whole world and threw himself whole-heartedly into the pleasure of tormenting blodgett. he knew that blodgett was furious at the manner of marvin's escape as much as at the fact itself. so he dropped into the chair next to the sheriff, drawling, "you goin' over to truckee to get a california warrant?" blodgett gave bill a mean look, sneering, as he sniffed at the air, "say, you're collecting something, ain't you?" "i didn't get nothin' from you," bill answered, shortly. which answer was not without its point, blodgett's reputation as one of the closest men in washoe county not being unknown to bill. "don't get sore. i wished i was in your place," said blodgett, as he fidgeted about in his chair and looked through the doorway. thomas, who had been on the veranda all this time, came indoors just as blodgett finished his remark. bill caught it quickly, his smile flashing into a gleam of humor toward thomas. "in my place?" asked bill, with a twinkle. with a nod toward thomas, he added, "you're like that other fellow." thomas flushed, but ignored the innuendo. taking a paper from his pocket, he looked through it. at the california desk he stopped to sign his name at the end of it. then he called to bill, "did you tell your wife we were waiting for her?" "no, i didn't. i've been up visiting my friend harper. he's a big millionaire. havin' trouble with his wife. patched it up. told him to write her a note 'n' i brought it to her. he gimme this fer the idea." bill produced the flask from his pocket and extended it toward blodgett, but when it was half-way on its journey he jerked it back, just as mrs. harper emerged from between the portiã¨res of the nevada upper hallway. clad in a fluffy, silken nã©gligã©e, she tiptoed half-way down the stairs before she saw thomas, who had left the desk and was standing in the doorway with his face toward the moonlit lake. she gave a smothered cry and was about to turn back. bill held up a warning finger toward blodgett, who quickly obeyed the injunction to look straight ahead. arising from his seat, the old man made a friendly motion toward the frightened little creature on the stairs and she came down to where he stood in the middle of the floor, casting bewildered glances to right and left and trembling as he whispered in her ear: "he's in number four. hurry now, before any one catches on." "do they all know he's my husband?" she flittered as she sped lightly up the california stairs. "i won't say nothin' about it." bill could not resist a wink, which met with a toss of mrs. harper's pretty head as she glided between the portiã¨res toward her husband's room. bill went back to his chair again. everett hammond came into the room from the porch outside. laying his hat on the california desk, he went around behind the counter and turned the pages of the register. bill did not sit down, but wandered over to the desk where hammond stood and gazed at him through half-open eyes. "oh, you runnin' the place now?" he questioned. hammond did not answer him at once, but kept on running over the names on the list. but there was a compelling force in the mild gaze of the old man which made hammond stop to reckon with him. "yes," he said, bruskly, while he frowned at bill. "i've just settled everything with your wife. all that's needed now is for you to sign that deed." there was no answer forthcoming from bill. instead, he slowly took the flask from his pocket and held it in front of him. "i'll take a drink with you," he said, with a slow smile. hammond did not glance up, but answered, with a half-smile, "i'm sorry, but i, haven't got anything." "i have," said bill, shuffling toward him with the flask. blodgett twisted about in his chair and called, "you look and act as if you'd had enough." bill left the desk and seated himself beside blodgett again. "i don't want it for myself," he said, putting the spurned flask back in his pocket; "it's just for social--ability. i don't drink." "don't tell me that," scoffed the sheriff. "you're a booze-fighter." "no, i ain't," bill answered, quickly. then seeing a chance for romance, he added, "i'm an indian-fighter." "is that so?" blodgett drew out his answer in an accent that spoke of disbelief. "you bet it's so. did you ever know buffalo bill?" bill leaned forward so he could see what impression he was making upon the sheriff. out of the corner of his eyes blodgett was watching bill. "yes, i knew him well," said the sheriff, gruffly. bill leaned closer to blodgett and looked squarely into his eyes, which showed the same doubt as his own. "i learned him all he knew about killing indians. did he ever tell you about the duel i fought with settin' bull?" "settin' bull?" the sheriff sat up straight and let his glance travel the length of bill's body and back again to the old man's eyes, which were not quivering a lash. "he was standin' when i shot him," grinned bill. "i never took advantage of nobody, not even an indian." the sheriff relaxed contemptuously into his chair again. "you've got a bee in your bonnet, 'ain't you?" "what do you know 'bout bees?" bill started to roll a cigarette. "not much. do you?" was blodgett's reply as he looked straight ahead. bill slowly rolled the weed, put it in his mouth, and chewed on the end of it. then he made slow answer, halting between sentences, his eyes slanting toward blodgett to gather the effect of his words: "i know all about 'em. i used to be in the bee business. drove a swarm of bees across the plains in the dead of winter once. and never lost a bee. got stung twice." the sheriff jumped to his feet and directed a scornful glance bill's way as he straightened his coat about his shoulders, twisted his belt, and started for the door, taking his chair and putting it in its place against the wall on his way. "i got enough. i'm going outside." hammond, who had been busy going over the register all this while, now came from behind the desk and walked toward bill. "now look here, mr. jones--" "won't do no good fer you to talk," bill interrupted him, but did not even glance up, remaining seated in the middle of the lobby. "i ain't goin' to sign nothin'--understand that," he said, not ungently. hammond planted himself squarely in front of bill, setting his doubled fists on his hips. "well, if you don't," he snarled in a loud voice, "you'll find yourself without a home. you understand that--if you're not too drunk." he delivered the last remark with a sneer that was almost a bark. "do you think i'm drunk?" bill went close to hammond, his head thrown back the better to look into his opponent's shifting eyes. but hammond made him no answer, for just then mrs. jones, dressed in an evening gown of the latest cut, appeared on the stairs leading from the california side and walked self-consciously down on the arm of thomas. at first bill did not recognize her. he thought it was some one of the boarders, who often wore evening dress for dinner. he hurried toward the nevada desk, asking, as his eyes began at mrs. jones's feet incased in shining silver slippers and wandered slowly up the folds of handsome yellow brocade to the wide expanse of bare neck and shoulder, "do you want your key?" mrs. jones blushed, and the tears sprang to her eyes, as she wrapped the lace scarf flung over her shoulders closer across her bosom. turning toward bill, she did not answer him, but took up the pen and pointed to the paper which hammond had placed on the desk, ready for them both to sign. by this time bill's glance had reached her face. for a moment he stared in astonishment. then he gave a gasp and stood back, his arms limp at his sides. "mother, 'tain't you?" he gasped. "yes, it's me," mrs. jones replied, angrily, as she gulped to keep back the tears which were forcing themselves to the surface, part in timidity and part in rage at her spouse, who she thought was making fun of her. bill straightened himself and, with a droll nod of his head, replied to hammond, "you're right, i'm drunk." thomas stifled the smile that rose to his lips in spite of himself. he was standing on the other side of mrs. jones. now he came around and stood in front of bill. "don't you approve, lightnin'?" he asked, pleasantly. "she's dressed in the height of fashion." "looks higher 'n that to me," bill drawled, as his eyes twinkled at the eight inches of bare ankle between mrs. jones's skirt edge and her silver pumps. mrs. jones, with an insulted toss of her head, dropped the pen with which she had signed the paper and hurried across the lobby to the dining-room door. she was crying, but bill did not see her tears. his eyes were still fastened upon her ankles. "the mosquitoes 'll give you hell in that this summer," he called out as she slammed the door behind her. thomas shrugged his shoulders and smiled indulgently. he had made up his mind to leave matters entirely in hammond's hands now; so he went up the california stairs, calling out to bill, "you'll get yourself disliked around here, if you don't look out." "so'll you," bill called back as he shambled to the same stairway. but he got no farther than the first step. hammond laid a detaining hand on his arm, pulling him around in front of him. "see here, jones," he said, harshly, "i've taken over the management of this place and i don't propose to stand any more nonsense from you, and unless you do as your wife tells you to, sign this deed, i'll kick you out." bill pulled himself loose from hammond and stood facing him, a defiant grin antagonizing hammond to greater fury. "no, you won't!" bill laughed, never flinching in the half-open eyes with which he held hammond's eyes. "what's the reason i won't?" hammond asked, making a threatening move. still bill remained unmoved. "'cause you talk too much about it." hammond stood and looked in fury at bill. but he knew that any harsh treatment on his part might spoil the whole game, which he now felt to be near an end, which meant victory for his plans, so he smothered his desire to lay hands on the old man, and with sudden impulse, born of a desire to end the discussion, he hurried up-stairs to his room, calling back, "you'll see whether i will or not." chapter xi when bill was once more alone he meandered slowly to the nevada desk and leaned against it, looking abstractedly toward the veranda. outside, the moon was shining in long shafts of silver light through the branches of the tall cedars. beyond the lake lay, itself a moon of silver on the floor of the valley. he could hear the hoot of a hundred billy owls. unthinkingly he went to the door and stood there, sniffing at the fragrance of the pines. then he went back to the desk again. as mrs. jones had closed the dining-room door behind her, he had seen that she was crying. her tears had acted like a knife on his obstinacy. if there was one method of bringing bill to a realization of his shortcomings, it was the knowledge that he had brought his wife to tears. no matter what the occasion, through the years of his many omissions, he had never failed to awaken to a sense of duty at the slightest hint of a sob on her part. and now remorse was gnawing heavily at his heart. he knew that she was sorely tried by his laziness. he knew that ever since she had come from the city she had longed for some of the luxuries which she had tasted for the first and only time in those few brief days when thomas had given her a bit of every woman's paradise. and as he looked out he wondered in his slow, but none the less logical, way what it mattered, after all, if the place did go, just so long as mother was happy. to be sure, the place was worth much more than hammond was willing to pay them. but it was enough for their humble needs. from the door beyond he could hear the sound of her sobs. he went half-way across the room. "yes," he reasoned with himself, "after all, the property is hers. i gave her my part of it to do as she pleased with." and a sudden resolve to do her will possessed him. but as he reached the middle of the lobby he heard some one on tiptoe behind him. he turned to see marvin, crouched down by the desk, so that any one coming from up-stairs could not see him. "'sh!" bill put up a warning hand. "blodgett's outside there some place." "he's snoring in his buggy," marvin whispered back, with a half-smile. "bill," he added, quickly, "i've been outside and i've heard every word they've been saying to you. i haven't time to tell you all i want to just now. promise me again that you won't sign that deed until you've talked further with me about it." [illustration: "promise me you won't sign the deed." ... bill hesitated] bill hesitated. "well, mother wants to awful bad," he answered, slowly. from the dining-room voices could be heard. "ye'd better get out," said bill. "not until you promise," persisted marvin. bill wavered an instant. he wanted mother to be happy, and yet, another day did not make so much difference--especially when marvin was in danger. the door in back of him swung open. leaning quickly down to marvin, as the latter crept toward the outer door, he whispered: "all right. i promise." mrs. jones walked into the room with a swagger, half of indignation, half of sorrow. she was still wiping the tears from her eyes. the deed and the pen were in her hand. bill went to her, placing an affectionate hand on her bare arm. "mother, ain't you cold?" he could not resist another tilt at her unusual costume. "no." she stamped her foot at him, withdrawing her arm from his hand. "i'm hot all over at you, insulting me before those gentlemen." hurrying to the california desk, she buried her head on her crossed arms and began to cry. "makin' fun of me," she sobbed, "because i try to look presentable for once in my life." following her to the desk, bill patted her gently on the back. "it's gettin' late, mother," he coaxed. "you're tired and you've been working hard. you're all tuckered out. now you go up-stairs and put on some clothes and go to bed." mrs. jones shook him from her and went to the other desk, where she stood facing him, her face red and swollen from her tears. "oh!" she wrung her hands as she looked at him with blazing eyes. "you ought to be ashamed of yourself with the gentlemen here to buy the place and you around the office drinking liquor." "no, i ain't." bill answered her outburst mildly, backing away from her lest she should discover the flask in his back pocket. he was too late. her eye, accustomed to just such investigations, had detected the lines of the flask as it protruded from his back pocket. taking hold of him, she put her hand in his pocket and produced the flask, holding it, half empty, to the light. "that belongs to mr. harper," was bill's ready excuse, given in the monotone which invariably masked a world of guilt. seeing the doubt in his wife's eye, he added, "you can go up-stairs and ask him, if you don't believe it." mrs. jones did not reply to his last remark. instead of which she went back to the california desk, where she set down the flask, taking up the deed and holding it out to him. "now, bill," she said, in a coaxing voice, "i want you to put your name to this paper." she smiled kindly upon him for the first time in many hours. bill wavered before her smile. it was difficult for him to withstand it, especially as he knew how sorely he had tried her. but a promise was a promise with bill, and his one pride was that he had kept intact through all the years of his digressions this one principle--he never broke his word. he had told marvin he would not sign the deed without consulting him further, so he turned his eyes from his wife's face and answered, in a low voice, "i can't, mother." "what's the reason you can't?" mrs. jones planted herself in front of him, determined that he should not evade her this time. "because i promised my lawyer i wouldn't," he answered, his head turned away from her. mrs. jones took him by the arm and swung him into line with her gaze. "now see here, bill," she snapped, "i've been working my fingers to the bone and i'm entitled to a rest and you sha'n't stop my having it. mr. thomas is going to take millie and me to the city to live. if you sign that you can come with us. if you don't you've got to look out for yourself for a while." bill had not paid much heed to hammond's threat delivered a few minutes back. but now something in his wife's tone brought it, recurrent, to his mind. he wondered if, after all, there was some truth behind it. pausing to gather his points together, bill nodded toward the stairs. "mother, that fellow, hammond, said he'd throw me out. do you want me to get out? is that what you mean?" it was not what mrs. jones had meant at all. but the events of the day had strained her nerves to breaking-point. since daylight thomas and hammond had been after her to force bill to do as she wished him to. to their suggestions that she teach him a lesson by leaving him for a while she had turned a deaf ear. but now they came surging back and, in answer to her call for a method of persuasion, clamored for recognition. before she had time to stifle them they had their way. "i mean just that, bill." there was silence as she thrust the words from her mouth. bill stood still, gazing steadily at her. she lowered her lids. then he came closer and looked up under her eyes, in the hope that he would find a relenting gleam there. but she turned away from him. "all right, mother--i'll go." without another word he turned and walked toward the door. mrs. jones took a quick step forward, then paused. "where'll you go?" she asked, half in surprise, half in defiance, for she had not believed that he would accept her challenge. "oh, 'most anywhere," he said, gaily, forcing a whistle, though his lips quivered. "i'll be all right, mother." his wife stepped forward again, extending a staying hand, but her resentment had her in its grip. her hand fell back to her side. "well," she called out to him as suddenly she turned from him and hurried up the stairs, "i mean every word i've said! it's one thing or the other! either you make up your mind to sign this," and she tapped the paper in her hand, "or i'm through with you!" without a backward glance--fearing, perhaps, that she might weaken--she disappeared along the upper hallway. bill took his hand from the door and came slowly back into the room. he strolled to the california desk, pushed back his old hat, and stood there with his hands in his pockets, thoughtfully. of a sudden his absent eyes lighted on the flask resting on the desk, where mrs. jones had put it down. bill stroked his stubbled chin and gazed at the flask. it seemed to suggest an idea to him. satisfying himself that there was no one around at the moment, he strolled to the door, poked his head out, and gave a peculiar whistle; then he walked back to the desk and leaned against it, waiting. in a few minutes zeb's unkempt visage silently framed itself in the softly opened door. lightnin' jerked his head as a sign to enter. stealthily, with many a wary glance to right and left, his disreputable partner of the past eased himself across the lobby and stood before bill, childlike, trustful inquiry in his eyes. "what's the idee, lightnin'?" he rumbled, puffing at the frayed remains of a cigar. with a gesture of calm triumph bill pointed to the flask on the desk. "i said i had it, zeb," he remarked, in the tone one uses when confronting and confounding a skeptic with ocular proof, "an' there it is!" "why, so it be!" said zeb, reaching out for the prize. but lightnin' stopped him. "hold on a minute, partner. the evidence ain't to be absorbed just yet. in fact, brother, we better keep it intact for future use, 'cause you're goin' on a long journey, zeb. you an' me is goin' to hit the trail again, old-timer!" "gosh! you mean it, lightnin'?" zeb showed almost human delight and anticipation. "but for why? you had a row with your old woman?" "nope," bill replied. "can't call it that, exactly. you needn't worry them brains o' yours about why we're goin', zeb. it's just that i got a notion to teach some people 'round here a lesson, an'--an' maybe i can bring poor mother to her senses," he added, gently. "when we goin'?" zeb questioned, his eyes on the flask. "right away--this here minute, in fact," said bill. zeb looked at him dazedly. "just as we is? where 're we hittin' fer?" "i ain't telling that just yet," said bill, slowly. "where we are goin' is a secret." "oh," zeb answered, with a nod of wisdom. "i--see. you ain't tellin' 'em you be goin'--not even your old woman, eh?" "them brains o' yours is pickin' up a bit, ain't they, zeb?" bill commented, with encouraging approval. "well, you hit it, all right! nope, we ain't tellin' nobody. we're goin' to kinder disappear completely for a pretty good space. mother ain't to be able to locate me a-tall. there's some others as 'll likely find out, but i ain't worryin' about them--they want to get rid o' me, an' they ain't likely to exhaust themselves any tryin' to find me. i got a object, zeb. it ain't none o' your business what that object is--by which i merely mean to say, old-timer, that you wouldn't have no particular interest in it. come on--let's get out now, afore they begins to gather 'round me again!" picking up the flask and sliding it into his coat pocket, lightnin' walked away toward the door. nodding wisely, zeb followed, eyes hopefully on the pleasant bulge in his old partner's coat. chapter xii "well!" millie, appearing with a tray of late supper to take up-stairs to one of the guests' rooms along about ten o'clock that evening, almost ran into marvin, who had returned to the hotel in the hope of seeing bill and giving him the full reason for his not being a party to the sale of the place. the lights in the lobby were turned low and he had managed to evade the sheriff, who was sitting in his buck-board outside, waiting for lemuel townsend, who was to return to reno with him. millie's exclamation, because of her surprise in seeing marvin again, escaped her in pleasant tones, but her memory asserted itself and the smile rapidly faded from her face and she gave a haughty toss of her head, saying, as he stepped in front of her when she started for the stairs, "will you please let me pass?" but marvin had wanted to see her quite as much as he did bill, the impression she had given him of her liking for thomas having cut deeper than the events of the earlier part of the day had given him time to realize. ignoring her request, he removed his hat and said, as he searched her eyes for some play of the old light that had often gladdened his heart in the days when they were together in thomas's office in san francisco, "i suppose you are surprised to find me here still?" millie swayed toward the nevada desk, depositing her tray upon it. she faced him, her eyes flashing, her cheeks flushed. her first impulse was not to answer him. she could not understand his interference in the matter of the deed. neither did she believe one word he had uttered against hammond and thomas. on the contrary, thomas's apparent interest in her and her mother and his constant flattery and attentions had attained their end. she believed in him implicitly and therefore had given credence to every word he had said against marvin. nevertheless, the charge that he was not honest could not quite overcome the quickening of her interest which had manifested itself lately in a heart that ran far ahead of itself at his approach. after a silence in which she stared at him steadily, his eyes answering hers with an unflinching candor mixed with a vague wistfulness, she answered him. "i don't think anything you could do would surprise me, after all that has happened to-day and all that i've been told about you." "millie!" marvin awkwardly rolled his hat in his hands, while his speech faltered. "i've been waiting around here now for two hours in the hope that i could explain to you why i wanted to stop that sale. and i cannot bear to have you believe that i am a thief and--" millie was touched by his attitude. her hand left her hip and started toward his arm in friendly contact. but again returned the whole picture of the afternoon's events and she coolly turned from him and went to take up her tray again. "will you please let me pass?" she asked a second time, as he tried to prevail upon her by taking the tray from her and setting it down again. "i wish to have nothing to say to you. i do not believe your excuses. mr. thomas is the best friend i have in the world. i won't listen to a word against him, and i am sure he is too fine a gentleman to say anything about any one unless he were sure that it was true." as she came to the last words she swallowed to keep back the tears, for although they were uttered in perfect faith, her words burned into her own heart with as much bitterness as they were directed toward marvin. he was too filled with his mission and too sure that millie's interest in him was gone to notice the catch in her voice or to attribute it to any sense of affection for him, had he noticed it. he took her hands in his and shook them gently in an endeavor to get her to look into his eyes again. "millie, please listen to me! i know what i'm talking about when i say that mrs. jones is being cheated and robbed--" she broke away from him, and stood glaring at him, as she stamped her foot. "don't you dare to say another word about raymond thomas to me! anyway, it is none of your business if he is cheating us!" "millie, millie." marvin's voice was full of pleading as he persisted, going close to her again and shaking his head sadly. "why do you allow yourself to be taken in this way? don't you know that the only reason i am concerned is because i care--oh, well." he turned away with a sigh and went over to the nevada desk and took up the tray. "i won't say any more. will you let me carry the tray up-stairs for you? i'll go then, and you won't be bothered with me any more." the glare in her eyes melted and she made a gesture as if she would call him to her side again. but she could not forget so easily, and she said, without turning to look at him, in tones less sharp, "why didn't you tell me before that you suspected him?" "how could i? you told me how much you thought of raymond thomas. i hadn't realized that before--" he put the tray down and came to her side once more. "do you mean to say," millie was again angered, "that i told you i loved mr. thomas?" "that's what i understood," marvin replied. the two stood there, millie glancing at him in contempt, while his whole heart went out to her from his eyes. he was the first to break the silence. almost touching her hand with his, he said, softly, "you mean you don't love him?" millie snatched her hand away and went back to the desk. "you're always wrong! i told you he was my best friend and he is. i never said i loved him." if marvin had not been attracted by the arabesque of the faded rose-garlanded rug at that moment, he would have found some solace in the lowered lids and half-smile which millie vouchsafed him. but he did not see it. slowly he followed her back to the desk, this time standing aside as she made her way toward the stairs. "well, say it now--i mean"--he hesitated, embarrassed, then went on--"i mean--say you don't care for him. and then if you'll only give me time i'll find out what their game is." millie stood at the newel-post, steadying the tray against it. looking down at him, the hard gleam returned to her eyes as she replied, emphatically: "oh, i don't want you to find out anything about it! i know you're mistaken and you're not going to prevent mother's selling the place, because it's already sold. as soon as daddy's name is signed to it we get the money." "well, you sha'n't have that, millie." marvin swung his hat against the post without looking up at her. through the window he traced the moonbeams as they filtered through the pines outside. above the hoot of an owl the swish of the lake came in to them. they both stood there, gazing out to where so few weeks ago they had walked in the happiness of an unconscious awakening. it was within millie's heart to relax as she saw him sigh. from above just then came the sound of mrs. jones's voice. it brought back her concern for the tired woman above-stairs. with it returned her anger at marvin. "you're trying to prevent this sale just to hurt mr. thomas in my eyes!" she snapped. he turned and met her with the question, "thomas told you that, didn't he?" she nodded. "just the same, millie," and here marvin mounted the step and stood close to her as he looked squarely in her eyes, "i'll never let bill sign that deed. some day you'll thank me for it." this was more than her patience could stand. in her anger she almost dropped the tray, but she managed to hold it taut against the balustrade as she frowned at him and stamped her foot. "thank you?" she asked, in no gentle voice. "i shall always hate and despise you for it. always! i hope i shall never see you again, and if i do i shall never notice you--nor speak to you the longest day i live!" exhausted with her temper, she turned to mount the stairs, when she looked out toward the veranda and saw a figure slowly and stealthily coming up the steps. she recognized it at once and shrieked out, just as the sheriff entered the door, "john, look out!" but marvin had been watching her, and the fear in her eyes as she saw blodgett had been warning enough for him. he gave three quick skips to the other side of the lobby, making mock obeisance toward her, laughter in his voice because of her betrayal of her solicitude in spite of all that she had said. "thank you, miss buckley," he called as he went up the california stairs to the hall above, just as the sheriff had reached out for him, "thank you, miss buckley! i shall be grateful to you--always!" chapter xiii bill's disappearance brought quick changes to the little hotel at calivada. his ready acceptance of mrs. jones's alternative was a complete surprise, and it was several days before she and millie realized that he had taken her at her word. even then they thought he had gone off on one of his temporary jaunts in the hills. when the days grew into a fortnight and he did not return they instituted a search among the near-by villages and mining-camps. everett hammond and raymond thomas were solicitous aids in the inquiry, not for the two women they were defrauding, nor because they felt any concern for bill's welfare. rather was their full attention turned toward securing a deed which the pacific railroad would consider law-proof. had the property been entirely within the state of nevada, bill's signature would not have been imperative, but the california laws regarding the sale of property were evadable by numerous small technicalities, and shrewd counsel demanded that bona-fide deeds must appear as freewill transfers from both the husband and wife. it was for this reason that bill's disappearance was a matter of deep satisfaction to both hammond and thomas. they had begun to despair of his putting his name to the deed. now, should he not return within six months, they evolved a new scheme and one which would be law-proof if it could be carried through. if mrs. jones could be persuaded into a divorce, and the decree obtained with full rights to the property, the deed would be legal without bill's name. it was for this reason that hammond and thomas put themselves at mrs. jones's service and did everything in their power to discover bill's whereabouts. it was several weeks before they traced him to sacramento and from there to the veterans' home at yountville. by this time mrs. jones was quite beside herself, for, in spite of bill's shiftlessness, which was quite enough to wear away the patience of the average woman, she felt a deep affection for the generous-hearted, whimsical old creature and his companionship through fifteen years, and at a time when her father's death had left her desolate had relieved the monotony of a life which had had little else but hard work. millie, too, missed her foster-father, whose frequent sallies kept humor alive when work and poverty pressed hard. in reverent and grateful memory she held the thought of his care for her when she had been left a waif by her own father's death. and so, together, millie and mrs. jones pressed thomas for news of bill. he knew that if they learned his whereabouts they would not rest until they had brought him home again. mrs. jones's persistent melancholy since bill's departure told thomas that in order to get bill back, the deed itself would be abrogated by her, should that be one of his conditions of return. therefore both he and hammond determined that they would not let the two women know of bill's whereabouts. instead, they said they had traced him as far as placerville, known to old-timers as the hangtown of the gold days, and that from there he had taken the trail up over the georgetown divide, where he said he was going to find work in the mines. search throughout the entire district, hammond and thomas informed her, had failed to locate him, and they assured her and millie that inquiry should be kept up until he was found. winter came, bringing with it no news from bill, and mrs. jones settled into a melancholy resignation wherein she seldom smiled and where she spent most of her time in the rocking-chair by the front window, gazing down the path up which bill had usually zigzagged his recalcitrant way. thomas was quick to recognize her symptoms and he resolved upon his master-stroke. one day toward the end of march when a heavy storm had blown up from the lake and the entire forest was torn and twisted by a wind in high and angry mood, mrs. jones sat crying in front of the window, wondering where bill was and beset with the fear that some place beyond the ridge in that vast ocean of mountain billows bill might be homeless and cold and without food. a sudden gust shook the hillside, bringing down a grizzled pine that had stood close to the house. the crash of its falling resounded down the slope and mrs. jones, keyed to high pitch by her vigil of three months, was brought to a sudden burst of despair just as thomas, who had come to calivada to superintend the wiring of the house which was now to be put on modern basis, came down the stairs. it was his chance and he took it. "mrs. jones!" there was a surcharge of pity in his voice as he glided across the room and stood over her chair, placing a gentle hand upon her shoulder. "i hate to see you upset. we've done everything in our power to find mr. jones and we will leave no stone unturned until we succeed. in the mean time you must think of yourself and millie." "it was thinking of myself and millie that drove him out of his home." mrs. jones buried her head on her hand and leaned against the window-sill. the wind, with renewed shock, beat the sleet against the window-pane. "he may be out this minute wandering the hills with no place to go," she sobbed, "and he ain't young no more, neither. "of course, i thought all along," she went on, "that by selling the place i could take care of him in his old age, and now he ain't here and the place can't be sold." "the place can be sold, mrs. jones, and you will then have enough money to institute a real search for mr. jones." thomas's emphasis of the possibility of a sale without bill's signature relaxed mrs. jones's mood and she sat up straight in her chair, lifting questioning eyes toward him. "there is a way." he answered her unspoken inquiry with calm deliberation, while he scrutinized her for the least sign of encouragement or of antagonism as his plan unfolded. "it is a difficult way and one which you may balk at pursuing, but it will justify itself in the end." "oh, what is it, mr. thomas?" mrs. jones's brown eyes widened and hope returned to them as she smoothed out an imaginary wrinkle in her gingham apron and folded her arms across her waist, rocking expectantly back and forth. "i'd do 'most anything if i thought it'd bring bill back," she exclaimed, raising her voice to an enthusiastic pitch. thomas brought an arm-chair from the center-table and sat down beside her. clasping his hands, he leaned forward, "you can get a divorce, and--" "oh, i could never do that!" mrs. jones protested and stopped rocking as she lifted up her hands in horror. "he 'ain't never done anything; and besides--" "that's not the question." thomas was quick to interrupt her flow of excuses. "i know he has done nothing, mrs. jones. but as things stand at present you have neither bill nor the money for the place. you can't give a clear title to the place while you are married to mr. jones unless it bears his signature. you have not the money to find him. a divorce will straighten all this out. you can sell the place for enough money to find bill. you can remarry him and you will both have a comfortable old age." "oh!!!" mrs. jones drew the word out with a long inflection of surprise, and she shook her head in the wisdom of a new light. "i see what ye mean." after a moment's abstraction in which she pondered thomas's suggestion, she continued, "some way or 'nuther it don't seem straight by bill." "it's the only way i see to settle matters. but i sha'n't try to persuade you against your will, mrs. jones." thomas brought to bear on the situation his finest modulations, both in voice and manner, as he sat nonchalantly in his chair, one knee cocked over the other and his foot swinging listlessly back and forth, portraying a personal indifference which mrs. jones's simple mind could not penetrate. "it does seem a good way," she mused aloud, adding, in little spurts, "but i guess--maybe--well--i think i'll talk it over with millie." mrs. jones did talk it over with millie. also, she had several prolonged interviews with thomas on the subject, and three days later she put her name to the petition which asked for a divorce from bill jones without so much as giving the document a thorough reading. whatever thomas proposed was to her, by the very fact of its being his idea, a thing worthy to be done. millie, being of the same turn of mind, aided her in accepting his decision. and it was only when the first publication of summons appeared in the reno papers that her heart sank at the words which characterized bill as a drunkard and a man who was cruel to his wife--lies which thomas justified as necessary to strengthen the one truthful ground for the divorce--that of failure to provide. even that mrs. jones felt was beside the truth, for although bill had never exerted himself needlessly, he had performed the chores, gone after the mail, made beds, and, by his gift to her on their marriage day of his three hundred and twenty acres, which were far the better portion of the property, he had made some slight concession to his responsibilities. bill's digressions had been those of omission rather than those of commission, and mrs. jones's misgivings were frequent during the three months that followed. in the mean time, thomas and hammond were quick to inaugurate a new regime at the hotel. mrs. jones and millie remained on in the capacity of guests, while a clerk and a housekeeper were brought from the city to take over the management. modern improvements and equipment soon turned it into a hostelry that verged on the fashionable. with the early spring freshet augmenting the waterfall and the stream into a cataract whose potential horse-power did not escape everett hammond, he made a hurried trip from san francisco with an official of the pacific railroad and succeeded in persuading the company to advance a comfortable sum of money for an option on the jones property. mrs. jones and millie, fretting under the suspense and without funds, were given a small amount to tide them over until the sale should be consummated, when they were to receive a large block of certificates in the golden gate land company. all would have been well with thomas, who saw life spreading before him in a panorama of ease and elegance, had it not been for two people--lemuel townsend and john marvin. lemuel townsend had been placed by the november elections on the list of superior court judges, where he immediately came into his own as presiding judge in the majority of divorce cases in reno. thomas, unable to withstand the rã´le of popular and irresistible beau brummell among the prospective divorcã©es at the hotel, had run against townsend's displeasure two days before the election, when he had dared to play interloper in lemuel townsend's attentions to mrs. margaret davis. with townsend, it had been love at first sight. with mrs. davis it was something less, her only idea at that time being a quick snatch at freedom and a hurried trip back to broadway, where she hoped to sign up for the summer circuit. lem townsend did well enough to pass the time, and it was her own diversion rather than any feeling for him which bade her accept his attentions. thomas on frequent trips had scattered his flatteries between millie and the various divorcã©es. mrs. davis came in for her full share and several times there had been clashes between the two men, thomas invariably stepping aside, but only after verbal skirmishes with townsend. marvin had not been seen in the neighborhood since a few days after bill jones had disappeared. he had returned to his cabin, after having established himself in an office in san francisco with the intention of taking bill back with him. during the days spent on the trails in search of the old man he had successfully evaded sheriff blodgett and had gone back to his office, where he had received a forwarded letter from bill at the veterans' home at yountville. he had taken one trip to the home with the purpose of persuading bill to return with him to the city. but when he saw how comfortable bill was there in the hillside country, surrounded by the old veterans who vied with one another in recounting their past prowess, he decided to let him alone until such time as he could effect a reconciliation between bill and mrs. jones. this, he trusted, would be at the termination of the case brought against him by the pacific railroad to recover the timber which he had sold to rodney harper previous to the sale of his timber-land to the golden gate land company by mrs. marvin. then, too, he hoped the way would be made straight for him and millie, although he had half lost hope under his realization of thomas's superior eligibility. these things, known to the latter, destroyed his composure and made the lapse between the filing of mrs. jones's divorce suit and the termination of its three months' summons by publication, required by law, a period of anxiety. he knew that if marvin were vindicated before mrs. jones could secure her divorce his whole framework would collapse, as millie and mrs. jones, straightforward as they were, would brook no hint of dishonesty on his part. once discovered as unworthy of trust, their confidence in him would be broken and marvin would be restored to full standing, not only in millie's affections, but in mrs. jones's approval. in the latter part of march he took a hurried trip to reno, where, in conference with blodgett, who had never been able to forgive marvin's evasion of arrest, maneuvers to have the two suits tried at the same time sent him back to san francisco rejoicing in the anticipation that his days of discomfort would soon be over and he could return to his own world again. chapter xiv mid-april came with its arabesquan days of sunlight and shadow and its fragile broidery of new leaf and timid blossom. it was as if its coming had stirred anew the life in reno's divorce colony. all winter the courts had been dull, most of the men and women seeking divorces arriving in the early fall and biding their time of six months by hibernating through the long, cold season. but now there was a renewed activity in divorce circles. the court calendars were full and there was a steady stream of gaily clad applicants making their way in and out of the washoe county court-house, going in with nervous, hasty, anxious tread and coming out with a gait which spoke of a new freedom and a smile that bespoke life as once again worth living. it was one morning just after the flux of spring divorces had begun that sheriff blodgett stood looking over the calendar in judge lemuel townsend's court-room. he scowled as he read the words announcing that the first case was that of the railroad company versus john marvin. he patted the warrant which still occupied the waiting list in his pocket. placing a chair close to the court-room door, he waited for the crowd to begin to file in. he knew that he could not arrest a man in the court-room, but he intended to keep his eye on the corridor, and to that end had propped one of the doors open with a chair so that he could see clear to the swinging doors that led in from the street. if marvin put in an appearance, he intended to arrest him at once. the thought gave him satisfaction and he sat twirling his long, drooping mustache with one hand and fondling the handcuffs in his coat pocket with the other. revenge at last would play its part to-day, for, even if marvin failed to appear and therefore balked him again, the railroad company would get judgment, anyway. it was at this point in his reverie that thomas entered the court-room, greeting the sheriff with a genial, "oh, hello there, blodgett! i guess our day's come." with a patronizing pat on blodgett's shoulder, thomas passed and went to the clerk, where he procured a list of the day's cases. he, too, nodded in satisfaction, as he saw that the pacific railroad case, in which he was attorney, was to come up first. running his finger down the line, he stopped at another close to the end, smiled again, and turned to the sheriff. "the marvin case is first," he observed. the sheriff nodded and a frown slowly puckered his brow. he walked slowly up to thomas, who stood at the clerk's desk just within the railing. he hesitated, clearing his throat, and found the courage to ask, with a slight timidity in his voice and manner, "you ain't a-goin' to bring up the old story of my serving the warrant at calivada, are you?" thomas laughed. "no," he replied; "i don't think i'll have to go into that. but i will ask you about the time you went to marvin's camp." blodgett heaved his shoulders in relief, and, with hands in his pockets, went back to his station at the door. "that's all right!" he exhaled a full breath once again. thomas turned the leaves of the calendar, looked ahead for a day or two, without noticing much that he saw, then turned the leaves back again to the day's list. he went to the court-room window and looked out upon the valley that ran from reno up toward the foothills. he sniffed the keen, cool air that was blown up to him. he stood contemplating the rushing waters of the truckee river below. after several minutes' thought he faced blodgett again. "i'm going to ask you what time you were at marvin's camp, for i want to show he was taking down the timber," he announced. "i didn't get out where the timber was," the sheriff replied. "but you know he had a gang of lumbermen there?" in thomas's tone and in the gleam on his cold, blue eyes the sheriff caught the message of persuasion. "oh, sure." he nodded with the air of a man who understood what was wanted of him. "and they drove you off by force?" blodgett nodded again. "and you remember the date?" "i guess i won't fergit it." there was emphasis in blodgett's answer and he arose impatiently from his chair and stood, his arms akimbo, peering down the corridor. "do you think marvin'll be here to-day?" this time he was interlocutor. "i got a notion he won't," he added, fathering his disappointment by admitting the possibility of frustration in the one desire that had held him ever since marvin had foiled him by the technicality of the state boundary-line. he was bound, however, that there should be no opportunity for escape this time. "i don't care whether he turns up or not," thomas answered, going to the lawyers' table, opening his brief-case, and setting them out before him as he swung gracefully into a chair. "the case is a cinch," he emphasized, with a grin that found reflection in blodgett's eyes. with a warning to the clerk to keep an eye on things until he should return, blodgett left the court-room and swaggered up the corridor, stopping at the door of the other rooms and taking a frowning survey of the occupants, hoping that marvin had entered one of them by mistake. if john marvin was in reno he was not going to escape arrest this day. with this comforting conclusion in mind, he took up his stand just outside of the court-house door at the top of the steps. in the mean time everett hammond, escorting mrs. jones and millie buckley, entered judge townsend's court-room and were greeted effusively by thomas. "oh, good morning!" he bowed low over mrs. jones's hand, which he held in his. "i'm glad to see you." staring at millie, who looked very fetching in a trim blue serge tailor suit, he beamed. "how fine you look this morning; quite irresistible, i assure you!" millie blushed and looked with frightened glance from the judge's bench to the lawyers' table, and from there to the witness-stand and back toward the door, for all the world as if she were contemplating a rapid escape. she took a deep breath. "i don't feel irresistible," she said. "i feel just as if i wanted to cry and run away." she pouted at thomas, with entreaty in her pretty eyes. thomas laughed, put his hand on her arm in deprecation, and shrugged her fears away. "oh, the trial won't amount to anything, little lady. what do you say to that, mrs. jones?" the older woman's brown eyes were staring straight ahead, as if she saw a real horror and was without power to controvert it. "all i can say," she replied, in a high-pitched, high-strung voice, "is that i'm here." she waited for a moment, casting furtive glances at hammond and thomas, who stood one on each side of her. having found the courage to assert herself, she burst out, "and i wish i wasn't!" "now, now, mrs. jones!" there was banter in hammond's voice, but there was concern in the wise direction of his eyes toward thomas. "you're a mighty brave woman and i know you're going through with this, for it means that you'll be in a much better position to find your husband and look out for your old age after you get the money for the place." mrs. jones made no response, but cast anxious eyes about the room, and she folded her hands in resignation across her ample waist-line. "it's like going to the dentist. the worst part is making up your mind to it." thomas leaned over mrs. jones and smiled his most engaging smile. he received no answer to it, so he turned to millie, who stood at the other side of him. before he could speak, the girl rid herself of the question that had been ever present in her mind now for six months, and one which she had never failed to ask him every time she saw him or wrote to him. "have you heard anything of daddy?" thomas's smile disappeared. he left the little group of four in the middle of the space inside of the rails and sat down again at the table, annoyance in the slump with which he threw himself into his chair. "no, we haven't been able to locate him." he would have been sullen had he dared, but his game was too nearly played and he did not wish to foozle at the last, so he controlled his mood and forced a smile as he thought of a method of getting away from his client's importunity for awhile. "it must be distasteful for you two women to remain in here any longer than possible," he said, rising from his chair again and pointing to a door at one side of the court-room. "lennon," he called to the clerk, "my clients can wait in there, can't they?" the clerk acquiescing, he and hammond courteously escorted mrs. jones and millie to the door and showed them into a small room which had been fitted up for hysterical women overcome with the proceeding in their cases, or for those who, like mrs. jones and millie, wished to avoid the embarrassment of a long wait in the court-room. as the two women went through the door, thomas turned to hammond and advised, in a low voice: "you better go, too, hammond. keep them cheered up." with bad grace in his shrug and in his eyes, he followed thomas's suggestion, first murmuring in his partner's ear: "i'll be damn glad when this day is over. all i've been doing this last week is to keep these darned women from backing out." chapter xv by this time the court-room was filling up with its usual motley crowd of interested parties and spectators. there were the seekers after freedom, a heterogeneous collection of them, in all sorts and conditions of clothes, of all ages and of all kinds of faces and figures. there were the women from the millionaire colonies of the east, chic, sleek, and composed. they retired into a far corner with their attorneys, conferring in low tones, or else sitting, apparently unperturbed, while waiting for their cases to be called. there were always the adventuress types, chic, too, but made up with an eye to future conquest, their skirts always tighter or wider or shorter or longer than the style decreed, their hair a little more so-so, their lips redder, their cheeks rosier, and their faces whiter than their more conservative sisters of a narrower way. there were tired women from far states not allowing divorces for cruelty or desertion. they sat, in nondescript clothes, most of them, with eyes heavy-lidded, as if they were too weary to care much what happened to them. there were gay young creatures, dancers and small-time vaudeville actresses, who refused to take life seriously and who availed themselves of a dull season to make themselves free for another venture. there was a sprinkling of men, one of them a lumber magnate from an eastern state, another a noted cabaret entertainer. they sat around, restlessly out of place, but at the same time taking an interest in those about them. supplementing these were the spectators. among them were tourists who came to reno for the express purpose of attending the divorce trials. inquisitive folk, regular residents of the town, dropped in to pass an hour's time and to gather gossip for the afternoon tea-table. club-women, anxious to find food for reform, took up their seats close to the railing, determined that no word of the testimony or proceedings should escape them. and there were the usual hangers-on, old men and women with nothing to do, who found entertainment in listening to the human dramas unfolded from the witness-stand. raymond thomas, before taking his seat at the lawyers' table, took a comprehensive view of his audience. lifting the skirt of his frock-coat, he sat down, viewing the world and himself complacently. he heard the court-room door swing to, and, looking up, he saw the sheriff coming toward him with mrs. margaret davis by his side. mrs. davis's six months' residence in nevada had been established and she had come over from calivada, where she had become quite one of the jones family, to get her decree. she had expected to meet mrs. jones at the riverside hotel, but she had been late and had hurried over, her effort flushing her cheeks even beyond the heavy coat of peach-bloom with which she hid the natural roses of her cheeks. she had been scurrying like a chicken around the corridors when she had caught sight of sheriff blodgett and importuned him to see her safely to a seat in the court-room. as soon as she saw thomas she dismissed the sheriff summarily, while thomas arose and went forward, opening the swinging gates that admitted the lawyers and witnesses behind the railing. their greeting was effusive, and thomas held mrs. davis's hand for a moment. she blushed vigorously and simpered: "oh, mr. thomas, my case comes up to-day, and i'm just worried sick about it. do you think i could see lem--" she stopped, hung her head, and looked coquettishly up at thomas as she bit her lip, correcting herself, "i mean judge townsend?" thomas looked around to see if any one were listening. "i'm afraid you can't see him just now," he replied, leading her to a chair just under the judge's desk, which was set upon a high platform. "is there anything i can do?" he asked, in his smooth, bland voice. "i don't know." mrs. davis whined and twisted in her chair. "my lawyer's sick. i telephoned his doctor, who was just as mean as could be and said he couldn't come to court to-day. if i could only tell the judge--" she gave thomas a look laden with understanding. "there shouldn't be any trouble about that," laughed thomas, dropping easily into the chair beside her. "you can explain the circumstances to the judge when your case is called, and--" "but i don't want it postponed! a court-room scares me just half to death. i'll die if i have to put it off and go through screwing up my courage again. i just will!" she nodded her head emphatically until the bright blue plumes that fell from the back of her enormous picture-hat threatened thomas's eyes. he moved away from them, offering, after a moment's thought: "well, i'll be very glad to represent you if you care to have me. there's nothing to your case, anyhow. the judge is a friend of yours, isn't he?" mrs. davis hesitated and rolled her baby-blue eyes at him from under her heavily beaded lashes as she giggled. "oh yes--he's a friend," and then, thinking better of her confidence, she ended, with a sigh, "that is, i know him--slightly." thomas smiled to himself, reassuring her. "then don't give it a thought. just leave everything to me." a grateful hand was laid upon his arm and she looked up at him with fervid admiration. "you are so smart and so kind, mr. thomas. you've taken such a load off my mind. if anything went wrong after waiting all these months i'd just die--that's all there is about it." at this moment the door of the judge's chambers opened and lemuel townsend appeared, clad in a prince albert suit and beaming on mrs. davis, who arose and walked well into the middle of the floor so that she should not escape his immediate attention. this was a moment of great satisfaction for thomas, who looked about the court-room, scrutinizing every man in it, his face brightening as he saw that john marvin had not put in an appearance. when the sheriff had finished opening court he arose from his place at the lawyers' table, for he knew that the case of the railroad against john marvin was the first upon the day's calendar. he pulled his revers together with a pompous gesture and opened his mouth to speak. before he could do so judge townsend called to the clerk, whose desk was at one side of the bench, and suggested in low tones: "i think this first case can go over--" thomas caught the words and disappointment drove the self-satisfaction from his face. he ventured to address the court: "if it please your honor, this is an action for the wrongful taking of timber, and i've come a long way and i would like to get home--" townsend had not been listening to a word, his attention being concentrated on the tip of an upstanding feather on mrs. davis's hat, which could barely be seen over the top of his desk. "eh? what's that?" he asked, sharply, not too pleased to be interrupted in his endeavor to catch further sight of mrs. davis. marvin not having put in an appearance, thomas's hopes of winning the case for the railroad by default were high. he did not think marvin would appear, but every delay might be fatal and it took an effort on his part to appear unperturbed. however, he managed to answer in urbane tones, "i was saying, your honor, that--" "oh yes." townsend bent his head and looked down with severe eyes over the top of his glasses. "just a moment, please," he added, as thomas would have finished his plea. turning to the clerk, he ordered, "let me see the list." the list was handed to him and he ran down it, finally remarking to the clerk, "i think i will dispose of these short cases first." half rising in his chair, he looked over the top of his desk to where mrs. davis was twisting and turning in her chair in an effort to get a look at him. "mrs. davis," he called in gentle tones, "are you ready?" she hurriedly precipitated herself into the middle of the space in front of the platform. "why, yes," she answered, looking about as if she did not know where to turn and gathering her sealskin cape about her. "i'll take your case at two o'clock," the judge said to thomas, who shrugged his shoulders, but did not sit down as townsend had expected him to do. as the clerk called the case, "davis _versus_ davis," thomas moved close to the bench, exclaiming, "if it please your honor--" he was interrupted by a glower from townsend, who said, "this case is davis _versus_ davis, mr. thomas," his eyes wrinkling into a broad smile as he again turned his attention to mrs. davis, who stood, bewildered, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. "i am quite aware that it is the davis case, your honor," thomas answered, not without a note of triumph in his voice and demeanor. "i am the attorney for mrs. davis." thomas's announcement shocked townsend into dropping a document he held in his hand. it fell on the desk and was blown by the strong east wind that came in from the window clear across the room. "_you_ are?" he asked, with a mouth fallen half open from surprise and annoyance, his spectacles tilting to the end of his nose. thomas did not answer at once, but flushed, turning, for the sake of a few moments in which to think, toward the clerk, who was scrambling after the paper. his glance on its way back to the judge met that of blodgett, which had both a warning and an "i-told-you-so" quality in it. "well?" the judge's question was drawn into a length which further embarrassed thomas. being a young man of poise, however, he straightened the revers of his coat and settled them with a shake upon his shoulder, replying, graciously, "mrs. davis has appointed me in the place of mr. adams." townsend continued to stare most ungraciously at the young man in front of him, but thomas, unabashed, went on: "your honor, i believe, is familiar with the complaint and has gone over the depositions submitted by the plaintiff. as the defendant has neither entered a denial, put in an appearance, nor been represented in court, i move that the plaintiff be granted an absolute separation from the defendant." swift shafts of indignation bolted from townsend's eyes back and forth between thomas and margaret davis. he saw that consternation was plainly written on the latter's baby face and that tears were gathering in her big blue eyes now pleadingly uplifted to his. his jaw relaxed and a smile played at the corners of his mouth. but thomas' complacency at the softening in the judge's attitude was too much, and townsend snapped out, "the motion is denied." from her chair directly in front of the judge's desk margaret davis immediately jumped up, her eyes opening into large, round, moist orbs which threatened to grow moister as she asked, in a voice that fear had robbed of its ingenuousness, "does that mean i can't get a divorce?" thomas was about to reassure her, when he was again interrupted by the judge, whose voice flattened as he looked away from her, afraid to trust the melting effect of her coy glances. "it means that the motion of your counsel is unusual and that i have good and sufficient reasons for denying it," he said, with emphasis. margaret put her handkerchief to her eyes to stem the threatening tide, while thomas hastened to forestall the avalanche by informing her, as he placed a comforting hand on her arm, that he would be able, at least, to try the case. had lem townsend been able to prevent the latter, he would have done so, but he was too young as a jurist to allow criticism of his knowledge of points of law, and he reluctantly gave consent to the trial of the case. it was with a beating heart and a jaw set against the impending quiver of a not too slender frame that she held up her hand for the oath and took her place upon the stand, looking about with a terror that was new born in eyes heretofore ungiven to everything but treacle. her lips trembled an almost inaudible reply to the clerk's question. she was still standing, and thomas, noticing this, motioned her to be seated, beginning at the same time her examination. "mrs. davis, where do you live?" he asked. his own tones were of no certain quality, for the firm pressure of townsend's white lips and his obvious intention of steering clear of any attempt at honeyed coercion on margaret davis's part were not encouraging. in vain she cast her eyes about in an effort to inveigle the sympathy of lem townsend. he stared straight ahead at the paper in front of him, although he saw not a word. her answer to thomas's question came with a gasp. "new york." then realizing that her case was lost and her entire six months' sojourn at calivada was as nothing unless she immediately corrected her mistake, she gasped a second time as she drew the folds of her blue-velvet cape about her. "oh no! i don't mean that at all. i live here--i live here in nevada and i've lived here long enough to get a divorce. the judge--" and here she stopped for breath, making another attempt to corral his stubborn favor--"his honor--" she jerked, with a quick breath, "can tell--you that." but the judge did not smile and his eyes remained rigid in their sockets as they glared at the paper in his hand. "just answer the questions, please, mrs. davis," thomas cautioned her pleasantly, although as a witness she was disconcerting. "well," she drawled, fidgeting in her chair, "that's not easy when you're sworn to tell the truth." a titter ran through the court-room and was brought to an abrupt end by the sheriff's gavel. thomas resumed his examination. "you are the wife of gerald davis, are you not?" she nodded. "and when and where were you married to him?" "seven years ago, october fifth--in peoria." she glanced about at the sea of smiling faces, again seeking sympathy from the judge. again he was adamant. "you were living in peoria?" the insinuation that anything less than a metropolis should be her abiding-place was more than she could bear and in turbulent leaps, broken by her gasps for breath, she blurted, her lips quivering and her eyes filling with tears: "i should--say--not! my husband and i were playing there. we were partners doing a dancing act--" thomas tried to interrupt her and succeeded with half a question. "when did your husband first show signs of not loving you and--" he got no farther, for she went on, determined to get over the disagreeable business of being truthful. "he stopped loving me about a year before we were married." this time a storm of laughter surged through the court-room and it took several taps of blodgett's gavel to regain quiet. undaunted, she finished her story. "it's really hard to explain why we were married. you see"--she hesitated and resumed jerkily--"we were in peoria--and we were partners--and--and--it rained all week--well, somehow it seemed a good idea at the time." at this point it became necessary for townsend, in order to maintain the dignity of the bench, to caution the spectators that if there were any more such outbursts of joy he would have the court-room cleared. thomas still maintained his control, although cold perspiration was wilting his highly polished collar. "but after you were married he was cruel to you, was he not?" he asked. "i should say he was!" the answer was accompanied by an emphatic nod of the head and again she flew onward, over his head, determined that she should tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. "why," she opened her left hand and enumerated the said gerald davis's shortcomings by pressing its fingers with the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, "he put his name on the bill in larger type than mine. he tried to strike me once--but he was a poor judge of distance. and--and--" she stopped. this time her appeal was directed to thomas. "he deserted you, did he not?" thomas eagerly took up the thread, hoping to unravel the snarl she had worked with it. "well, we parted--" "after he deserted you?" before mrs. davis could answer the last question, townsend straightened the spectacles on his nose and entered the case. slowly welling within him was a jealousy now overwhelming. his political ambitions alone had stood in the way of his descending from the bench and throwing thomas out of the court-room. it was only by remaining silent that he had curbed his temper. now it broke away from him, and he turned, thundering, "so far, mr. thomas, the witness has not testified that her husband deserted her!" "oh--" margaret davis turned squarely in her chair, pursing her carmine lips into an irresistible moue. "of course he deserted me! we were playing in chicago, and i went west and he stayed there and--" "that looks to me, madam, as if you deserted him. so far, your testimony has not brought out anything to substantiate your complaint." tears unrestrained burst forth at this moment. the thought that not only had she lost all chance of securing her freedom, but that lemuel townsend, whose attentions had helped to while away a six months which would otherwise have been dull to one accustomed to a barrage of suitors at the stage door, was more than she could bear. pointing to thomas, she sobbed into a purple silk handkerchief that smelled not faintly of patchouli. "that's because he told me to do nothing but answer his questions, and then he asked me all the wrong things--" her emotion, out of bounds, spent itself in a cataract of tears. unable to go on, she sat there, trying to stem the tears with a handkerchief inadequate for their volume. thomas tried to save his case. "your honor--i--" he hesitated, margaret davis coming to his rescue. "oh, i don't mean to blame you," she said to him, addressing the last of her remark to the judge. "he doesn't know anything about my case!" what lemuel townsend would have liked to do at that moment was to have taken her in his arms and reassure her, as old fools are apt to do with naã¯ve young creatures. but her apparent friendliness with thomas and her deceitfulness in employing him for her attorney was more than he could condone. he would not relax his stern exterior, although his interior was softening. "then, why," he asked, in measured tones, "is he appearing for you if he does not understand your case?" recognizing the opportunity for explanation, margaret wiped her eyes, sniffed, and, went on: "my lawyer's sick, you see. and i wanted to tell you all about it, but mr. thomas explained that i couldn't see you. and he said he'd do everything for me, and you'd give me a divorce without any trouble at all." thomas whitened and turned to the table, where he fingered his brief-case nervously. he could not brave the glare which he knew townsend was directing at him, nor the tirade he feared would follow. "when did he tell you all that?" the judge asked, his nostrils quivering with rage, his voice strained to a tenor. "just now." margaret grew happily voluble and she nodded her head back and forth like a child of six as she ogled the judge. "when i came into court he was here and i told him the trouble i was in. it's the only time i've seen him since you asked me not to." townsend was so relieved that he did not hear the last of her remark and the noisy delight of the spectators also escaped him. he was bent upon one purpose, that of chastising thomas. "why didn't you tell me this before?" he asked margaret, in tender tones, forgetting, in his ardor, that there was such a thing as a court-room. he leaned far over the desk and beamed upon her. "there, there, don't let it upset you." he offered her a glass of water. as she took it, thomas stepped up to the bench again and tried to palliate the judge's wounded sensibilities. "if your honor please, i was simply acting from a friendly standpoint and i thought--" "no matter what your motives were, sir, you presumed when you told the plaintiff what the court's rulings would be." he turned abruptly from thomas and leaned graciously toward the plaintiff. "now, mrs. davis," he resumed, "let me question you. why did you leave your husband in chicago?" reassured, margaret bridled coyly and answered, lifting her lids to the judge: "because he didn't show up for a performance and i had to go on alone--and afterward the manager told him the act was better without him. and he sulked and stayed away from the theater all the rest of the week and on our next jump he refused to go with me." her last words dwindled into a plaintive whine. "and you were obliged to go without him?" lem townsend subtly gave a slight nod of his head which margaret caught and interpreted into a vigorous acquiescence with her own curly blond head. "did you try to have him go with you?" again the hint and again margaret scored her point. "of course i did!" she responded. "i mean, yes--your honor. but he said he'd show me how long i could go it on my own; but i showed _him_, for i've never seen him since. i only heard from him once and that was when i sent him money." "have you tried to see him?" lem townsend asked the last question grudgingly, but he felt that his own honor in the case was in danger of impeachment, and he was sure that his slight nod would be followed as it had before. he was right. "of course i did. mr. blackmore--he was our manager--gave me his sworn statement." townsend for the first time really saw the paper in front of him. he read it carefully, answering in tones of quick delight. "yes, here it is and a deposition dated chicago stating that davis left you without warning and refused to dance with you again." "yes, your honor," she cooed. there was silence while townsend scrutinized the papers in front of him. margaret sat with her eyes anxiously fastened on him. with a nod of satisfaction he shoved the papers aside and, smiling down at her, announced in kindly tones, "your decree is granted." "your honor!" she arose from her chair and sat down in it again, a copious flow of tears making it impossible for her to leave the stand. townsend reached for the glass of water and held it toward her once again. "please, please, mrs. davis," he endeavored to calm her, but his compassion only served to bring on another storm. "i'm _so_ emotional," she sobbed, "i can't stop it!" townsend looked about helplessly. a sudden awakening to his own prerogative solved the dilemma. "mr. sheriff, announce a recess," he ordered. and leaving the bench, he went to mrs. davis and guided her into his chambers. the crowd filed out of the court-room, while thomas, weak with shame and disappointment, took his seat at the table again, impatiently toying with a paper-knife that had fallen from his pin-seal brief-case. blodgett went to him and leaned over with the intention of reassuring him, when there was a disturbance at the window which opened from a balcony a few feet above the street. both of the men turned just in time to see john marvin climb through the window and pull his suit-case in after him. the sheriff stepped forward, hesitating as he realized his powers were negative in a court-room. "here, what you doing?" the clerk called out, getting up from his desk. the sheriff glared and handled the manacles in his pocket with an intemperate disgust. marvin looked at him and laughed, answering the clerk. "i've got business in this court. i'm john marvin and i'm appearing in the case the pacific railroad has brought against me." he did not deign to glance at thomas, who had arisen, facing him, white from the blow to his hope of obtaining a judgment by default. marvin went calmly to the other end of the attorneys' table and opened up his shabby brown-canvas brief-case. he whistled to himself softly as he did so and glanced at thomas, whose pallid mouth was drawn into a dogged sneer. blodgett went back to his seat just within the swinging gates that gave entrance behind the railing and sat glaring at marvin. quiet reigned in the court; then a faint shuffle of feet was heard beyond the door. as blodgett looked around, the door of the court-room opened gently and bill jones, clad in a civil war veteran's uniform, faded from the sun, its brass buttons tarnished, and wearing his soldier's black soft hat with its gold cord cocked jauntily over one eye, sauntered down the aisle, holding out his hand to marvin, who had jumped from his seat and bounded around the table to greet him. "hello, john!" lightnin' drawled, grinning. "how's tricks? you look kinder legal this morning?" chapter xvi as bill made his way through the swinging gates, blodgett put out a detaining arm, asking, with a scowl, "here, what do _you_ want?" "been arrestin' any one in california lately?" bill slid past blodgett, ignoring his attempt to stop him, the old twinkle in his eye as he touched what he knew to be the sheriff's sensitive spot. "well, lightnin'," marvin exclaimed, "how did you get here and what in the world have you come for?" "yer case ain't over yet, is it?" marvin shook his head, repeating his first question. bill did not reply at once. not wanting marvin to know that he and zeb had been nearly two weeks getting there, and that they had come in much the same way they had gone, riding when they could get a lift on a train or a wagon, walking when they could not, he pretended to forget the young man's questions, asking one himself instead, "what time your case comin' up?" "two o'clock." the sheriff sauntered up to them. bill knew the purpose of his approach was to catch the drift of their conversation, so he turned abruptly, his hands in his back pockets, and grinned at blodgett. nodding toward marvin, he drawled, "i'm a witness for him. i got to testify how you served a warrant on him." the sheriff glared and slouched over to his chair, throwing himself into it as he pulled his black sombrero down over his eyes. marvin, his arm about bill's shoulders, leaned over him, guiding him gently to the attorneys' table. "well, lightnin'," he questioned, in an indulgent voice, "how did you happen to show up here?" "i promised you, didn't i?" "but that was a long time ago. i supposed you'd forgotten all about it." bill glanced quickly at him and smiled. "i ain't never forgotten nothin' since i was four years old." marvin, happy to see the old lightnin' behind the boast, smiled, asking him, "how did you know the trial was to-day?" "that's easy," bill replied, as he sat against the edge of the table, steadying himself with his hands. "i seen it in a reno paper at the home." "but i told you the time i came to see you that you needn't bother about coming. i wouldn't have had you come all this long way for the world if i had known it." there was concern in marvin's voice as he slowly dropped into a chair in front of bill. "that's why i didn't say nothin'." "where did the money come from?" "i saved my pension." bill glanced slyly at him. catching his questioning eye, he stopped and looked through the window into the distance. "you told me you sent your pension money to your wife!" "i did--some of it. i sent mother six dollars, but i didn't get no answer." the laughter went from bill and he leaned over, looking toward the far hills, strange, unreal purple against the clear, cold blue of the april sky. marvin watched him, asking, "did you tell her you were in the soldiers' home?" "no." bill's voice was devoid of inflection. "then she probably didn't know where you were." "where else could i be?" his lips were puckered into a whistle, although they were quivering and no tune came. it was always this way when he thought of mother, so he straightened himself and stood by marvin's chair, forcing a smile to his lips and jerking out, "and six dollars is six dollars." the court-room was filling again, five minutes having elapsed since recess was declared. a side door opened and townsend came into court. blodgett stood up, pounded the desk with his gavel and announced the opening of the session. bill and marvin, rising to order, started and looked at each other as thomas entered the room just behind the judge. following him was everett hammond, who, when he saw bill and marvin together at the attorneys' table, began vigorous and anxious whispering in thomas's ear as he took his place next to him on the other side of the table. margaret davis entered from the judge's chambers. she was accompanied by mrs. jones and millie. bill did not see them. his eyes were fastened on hammond and thomas in close conference. but suddenly, as he turned to take in the rest of the people in the room, his eyes alighted on his wife. he arose and wandered toward her, exclaiming, as she came to meet him, "why, mother, what are you doing here?" he stared at her and held out his hand. mrs. jones was so surprised to see him that she could not speak and stood still, her hands in the air half-way between her waist and shoulder. millie was the first to answer him. "oh, daddy--" she was going to put her arms around him, when blodgett rapped upon the table for order. tears sprang to mrs. jones's eyes and margaret davis arose and led her to a chair next to hers and just at the foot of the platform, from which townsend smiled happily upon them. "come along, mr. clerk!" there was cheer in townsend's voice as he directed another saccharine shaft toward margaret. "i've got an important engagement and i want to get through. call the next case." bill, his eyes still on his wife, walked slowly to the table and sat down just behind marvin. "jones _versus_ jones," read the clerk, standing at one side of the platform and unfolding the document he held in his hand. bill did not hear him. he was gazing at mrs. jones, an old tenderness in his eyes, a bitter longing in his heart. drifting, living only for the hour, as was his nature, but one scar had remained unobliterated upon his memory, one hope alone flickered in the lonely sanctuary of a soul that had known no conflicts. his affection for his wife had been something deeper than emotion, something lighter than passion. it had been the lasting quantity in a life of fleeting concepts, and his six months at the home had subdued it into a dull ache which found relief only when a faint optimism brought vague dreams of a remote reunion. her presence in court puzzled him. he felt that it must have something to do with the sale of the place, or, perhaps, with marvin's case. and yet he was sure she knew nothing of the transaction between mrs. marvin and thomas, or between rodney harper and marvin. whatever it was, it had brought a ray of expectancy to bill, and he jumped as he was brought out of his reverie by marvin's perplexed whisper: "jones _versus_ jones. by jove, lightnin', i believe that's you!" "me?" bill glanced around as if he were half awake and leaned far forward in his chair, putting his hand to his ear and straining to catch every word as the clerk read the complaint: "to the people of the state of nevada, mary jones, plaintiff _versus_ william jones, defendant. a civil action wherein the said plaintiff deposes and says she was lawfully married to the said defendant on the 14th day of june, eighteen hundred and ninety-six, in the state of nevada. the said plaintiff prays this court for a permanent annulment of her marriage vows, the defendant, william jones, having disregarded and broken all obligations of the marriage contract, thereby causing the plaintiff great suffering and mental agony and the said mary jones claims a final separation and divorce from the said william jones on the grounds of failure to provide, habitual intoxication, and intolerable cruelty. subscribed and sworn to me on the fifth day of april, nineteen hundred and seventeen. alexander bradshaw, notary: raymond thomas, attorney for the plaintiff." when the clerk had finished bill sent a beseeching glance toward his wife. each word of the document had entered far into a mind little given to taking account. one by one he had tolled off the record against him, placing the accusations in two files--the true and the false. that his wife had cause for anger against him he now, for the first time, fully realized. but he was bewildered, and when bill was bewildered it was his habit to seek enlightenment. after a moment, in which mrs. jones darted swift glances from beneath a brow bowed with regret, he turned to marvin, who had arisen and was standing back of his chair, bending over him, and asked, simply, "is that all about me?" blodgett tapped his sheriff's gavel. townsend caught bill's question and asked, "what did you say?" marvin, knowing that bill was inadequate to the test placed upon him, came quickly to the rescue. standing in front of the judge, he explained: "your honor, mr. jones is the unconscious defendant in this case. it just happened that he came to court to-day to be a witness in another case. he has had no previous knowledge of this action." before he could go farther raymond thomas, upon whom the entire situation was reacting in swift, powerful threats to his cause, arose, his face drawn with the agony of frustration, his voice high pitched from the effort to subdue the feelings fast getting beyond his control. "the defendant's whereabouts were unknown to us, your honor, and the court allowed us to serve notice by publication." "publication in what?" marvin demanded, as he darted contempt at thomas. townsend answered him. "proper service was given, if the defendant could not be located." to bill he addressed the next question, "is that what you asked about?" still confused, and not yet quite getting the trend of the whole matter, he asked, in his quiet, disinterested way, "who, me?" "yes," replied the judge. "you made some remark after the complaint was read." "i wasn't sure i'd got it straight," bill said, looking ahead of him, mouth half open. "you mean the grounds on which the action is based?" the judge persisted. there was a pause, in which bill looked first at thomas, whose lids drooped under the old man's scrutiny, and then at his wife, who hung her head. "i guess so," he jerked, drumming his fingers softly on the table. townsend ordered the clerk to repeat that part of the complaint wherein the grounds for the suit were mentioned. the clerk repeated, "failure to provide, habitual intoxication, and intolerable cruelty." bill listened attentively. as the clerk sat down, bill looked up at the judge, asking, "is that all?" [illustration: lightnin', in his faded g. a. r. uniform ... listened attentively] "don't you think it's enough?" there was admonition in his manner, but there was a certain gentleness in his voice and a smile of sympathy lurked at the corners of his mouth. it was difficult for lemuel townsend, who knew the lovable side of the careless old man, but he was determined to maintain the dignity and the integrity of the law, and he knew that he must remain unbiased, no matter how strong his feeling was that here there had been sad tampering with truth and the finer essences of happiness. his severity did not touch bill. his sense of humor, always close to the surface, asserted itself. a gleam that was half derision, half amusement, lighted his eyes as he grinned up at the judge. "sounded as if there was more the first time." marvin again stood before the judge. he knew that bill had no one to defend him and he had not felt the necessity of offering himself. he just took it for granted that bill would turn to him in the dilemma and so he took the case in his hands. "i am counsel for the defendant, your honor," he said, "and he is entering a general denial." "are you counsel for the defense?" townsend's astonishment was evident in his long-drawn inflection. he had not heard of marvin's admission to the bar. neither had he seen the young man about lately, and the whole situation puzzled him. before marvin could answer him, bill was out of his seat, replying for him, "yes, sir, he is my lawyer." it was not the judge's way to admit himself baffled. turning to thomas, he instructed him to call his witnesses. marvin took a seat in front of bill at the attorneys' table, while bill on the edge of his chair leaned forward expectantly, his eyes fastened not on thomas, but upon his wife, who sat with her head bowed and her eyes staring into her lap. thomas beckoned to mrs. jones, calling her name. as she arose, hammond, who sat next to thomas on the other side of the table from marvin and bill, and who had appeared indifferent and bored so far in the proceedings, jumped to his feet, dismay written on every feature, and hastened to whisper in his partner's ear: "are you crazy? the most dangerous thing you can do, now that old jones is in court, is to call her to the stand." thomas in his vaunted shrewdness had overlooked this possibility, but now that hammond mentioned it to him he saw what disastrous complications mrs. jones's presence on the witness-stand might lead to. nodding in answer to hammond's counsel, he again turned to mrs. jones, saying, "i don't think it will be necessary for you to testify at all, mrs. jones." as she sat down, he smiled at millie, addressing her, "miss buckley, will you take the stand, please?" millie had not expected to be called, and as she arose at his summons her face flushed with embarrassment. she stood still momentarily and her eyes met marvin's for the first time since he had appeared in court. with an angry flash they quickly sought the witness-chair, and, although trembling at the ordeal before her, she made an effort to trip lightly to the stand. as she took her place and was sworn in by the clerk her replies were scarcely audible. casting frightened glances up through her long lashes at thomas, she was reassured by a smile. after the preliminary examination as to her adoption by bill and mrs. jones and her residence with them since she was three years old, he began upon the intimate questions which he hoped would weave a web of incriminating evidence against bill, evidence which would redound to his justification in the part he had played in bringing about the divorce. "miss buckley," he asked, pulling nervously at his cuffs and bringing them down two or three inches below his sleeves, "mrs. jones has toiled early and late to provide for the family ever since you can remember, has she not?" millie nodded, gazing anxiously at bill, who, far forward on his chair, was drinking in every word she said. there was a pitiful accusation behind the sadness in the eyes with which he returned her gaze. as thomas continued she, like her mother, concentrated her attention on her hands folded tight in her lap. "why did you leave home three years ago, miss buckley?" "to earn my living, of course," was the reply, in low, reluctant tones. "what did you do with your wages?" millie hesitated. after taking out barely enough to live on in meager fashion she had sent most of the remainder home, not because either mrs. jones or bill had asked for help, but because she knew how difficult was their living during the long winter months when their only source of income was bill's pension and the few mountain people who dropped in when passing back and forth and remain overnight and for a meal or so. had she known that she was to be called as a witness she might even have refused to accompany mrs. jones to court, for bill's derelictions could never outweigh the knowledge that it was he who had saved her from an orphanage. she swallowed the lump in her throat, but even this did not keep back her tears at the thought that her answer might be the betrayal of the old man who had been a father to her through all the years. thomas saw her disinclination and understood the condition of mind which prompted it. he knew he must call his persuasive powers to his aid, so he went very close to the witness-stand, and, leaning over her, spoke in his softest tones. "i am sorry to have to ask these questions, miss buckley, because i know how you dread to testify in this case, but it is unavoidable. will you answer my question? you sent the greater part of your wages home, did you not?" he spoke as if he, too, were distressed. millie, falling into the trap, sighed, "yes, sir." "and you really left home to earn money in order to help support the jones family, didn't you?" again, overcome by the complications of the situation in which she found herself, she was unable to answer except with a reluctant nod. "did you ever see mrs. jones's husband drunk?" as thomas asked this question he looked toward bill. millie did not answer. the tears gathered in her eyes and she wiped them away, burying her face in the handkerchief she held in one of her hands. thomas insisted. "you have seen him in that condition hundreds of times, have you not?" there was a malicious note in his voice this time, as well as in the look he directed at the old man at the table. millie caught it, and a slight antagonism crept into her voice as she straightened in her chair, answering, in surprise, "why, i never counted." thomas was deriving a long-desired satisfaction in his prodding of bill, and it threatened his shrewder self-control. "but he was in the habit of coming home drunk, wasn't he?" there was real glee in the question, but it escaped millie this time. with a beseeching glance at thomas, and one which pleaded for forgiveness toward bill, she said, slowly, "sometimes." "and because of the poverty brought about by those bad habits you were obliged to leave--" here millie broke in. forgetting her embarrassment and the crowded court-room in the realization that words were being put into her mouth, words which fell far short of the truth, she burst out, indignantly: "why, i never said any such thing! i went away to work because there was no opportunity in calivada to earn any money, and i thought as long as i was going at all i might just as well go to san francisco where i could make a salary large enough to take care of myself and to help mr. and mrs. jones, who have been very good to me." thomas saw that he had overstepped himself and he groped in his mind for new questions, until a scowl from hammond reminded him that it might be better to stop rather than to bring out evidence which might turn against them and in favor of bill. so he dismissed millie from the stand. she stood up while thomas took his place next to hammond at the table. but marvin, after a few whispered words with bill, took thomas's place by the witness-chair, holding up a detaining hand and calling, "miss buckley!" millie glared at him, blushed deeply, and walked off the stand. she had not been able to forgive him for his advice to bill and still held him responsible for bill's leaving home, as she had felt that if bill had not been prejudiced against thomas and hammond the place would have been sold and they would have all been living together in comfort. but she did not get very far. as she left the platform townsend motioned her to return and, submerging his personal friendship for her beneath his judicial duties he exclaimed, severely: "one moment, miss buckley. the counsel for the defense has asked you a question." millie turned her back on marvin as she dropped into the chair again. a smile played on marvin's lips, but it was a rueful one. to come thus face to face with her in a situation where he was compelled to be her antagonist in order to see that justice was done to his old friend was not a happy ordeal for him. townsend knew what was going on between the young people and he felt keenly for them, but it was a part of him to hold to his duty always and not to his own personal biases. his severity did not relax even when millie pouted: "i don't want to answer _his_ questions! must i?" the people in the court-room, interested and amused at the unusual dã©nouement, went into a peal of laughter which received swift check from the sheriff's gavel. she flushed violently and obeyed judge townsend's admonishment that she must answer all of marvin's questions. marvin's first inquiry did not tend to make things any easier for her. "who employed you as a stenographer?" he asked. his back was turned to thomas, but he could feel the latter shifting in his chair. finding no mercy in townsend's manner, she succumbed to the inevitable, snapping, with a toss of her head, "mr. thomas!" "_this_ mr. thomas?" marvin asked. "yes," said millie. there had been nothing in her heart but deepest misery and shame at having to testify against bill during her examination by thomas. now she was fired by a resentment against marvin, bill being forced out of the equation. her answers came in a swift defiance that bespoke a determination to make it as difficult for him as possible. marvin, seeing at once that she and mrs. jones were still plastic in the hands of thomas and hammond, was tempted into battle. "did mr. thomas," he asked, "give you this position because you told him you wanted to be of financial assistance to the jones family?" millie opened her mouth to reply, but thomas was on his feet at once, objecting to the question. facing the judge, marvin ignored thomas, saying, "i am quite willing to withdraw it if it is found objectionable, your honor." thomas stepped quickly to marvin's side. he was a few inches the taller and he glared down at marvin, who stared back, his jaw set in the resolution to stand firm against the man he knew to be a fraud. that he was standing on thin ice thomas knew, and he knew also that bluff was the only feasible strategy to employ against the unforeseen crisis wrought by bill's sudden and unexpected arrival. "don't flatter yourself that i mind any question you might ask," he emphasized, "only this one has no bearing on the case." at this, townsend sustained the objection. marvin, resorting to a legal trick, changed the form of the question, for he was bound to prove his point. "well, miss buckley," he asked, "mr. thomas has taken an interest in your affairs and given you advice?" the insinuation was more than millie could bear calmly. she turned quickly, meeting his eyes in anger as she flashed a significant smile toward thomas. "mr. thomas has been more than kind to me always. he has given me advice when i had no one else to turn to." "and you have always followed his advice?" following his key, millie replied, "always, implicitly, in spite of what _others_--" and she paused long enough to send a pointed shaft marvin's way--"have said against him." marvin grinned and continued, "miss buckley, you have never known mr. jones to be cruel or even unkind to his wife, have you?" an objection from thomas was overruled, the judge contending that cruelty was one of the grounds in the complaint. as he had forgotten how the question read, he asked the stenographer to repeat it. millie answered in the negative and marvin prodded her further, "you have never seen him unkind to any one or anything, have you?" gentleness had always been such an ever-present quality in bill's treatment of millie that she forgot her anger for the moment and hastened to reply, as she smiled sweetly at bill, "daddy has always been most kind to me and every one else." this was an opportunity to lead her into an admission which might immediately quash all of the grounds of the complaint. marvin saw it at once and took advantage of it. "now, miss buckley," he argued, "the complaint asks for a divorce on the grounds of drunkenness, failure to provide and cruelty. in all honesty you know that not one of these is the real reason that mrs. jones has asked for a divorce, don't you?" unused to the ways of the law and its peculiar methods of arriving at conclusions, millie was perplexed. the only excuse in her mind for the divorce had been that it would bring about the sale of the property and that mrs. jones would thereby have sufficient money with which to find bill, which would mean happiness for the three of them. had thomas not intervened with an objection which the judge sustained, she would have given her answer, but as it was she remained silent. marvin, determined to prove bill jones's simple sweetness, so that he would at least be understood by the world, went to his purpose again. "miss buckley, you know that mr. jones loved his wife, loved her devotedly, don't you?" he asked. townsend beamed in judicial humor upon marvin and laughed. "how can she know that? that's not an astute question for a lawyer to ask, and i don't sanction such methods." the question, however, had brought back a certain softness in millie's attitude. forgetting for the moment her dislike of marvin, she smiled, but to regret it and to efface the smile with a frown. his examination of millie had been difficult for marvin. into his mind had crowded old memories--happy walks along the cliff in san francisco, afternoons in golden gate park, and days in the office when he had dared to hope that some day she might learn to care. his heart leaped at the thought of moonlight strolls in the mountain woods and along the shores of the lake. those were days when she had interested herself in his plans and it all came back to him with desperate force as her unintentional smile awakened a poignant longing within him. a whirlwind of reminiscent emotion caught him in its teeth. "if it please your honor," he said, his eyes shining, "there is one thing that a woman does know, and that is whether a man loves her or not! she may believe a man to be a contemptible liar. she may say that she will hate and despise him always, but somehow down in her heart, if he really loves her, she knows it!" forgetting that there was such a place as a court-room, or that he was defending a divorce suit against bill jones, all he saw was the scorn in the eyes of the girl he loved. all he felt was that he was fighting single-handed against overwhelming odds for his own happiness. he leaned close to the witness-chair and looked into the girl's eyes, and she, seeing in his eyes the thing that she had tried to forget through all the long and sorrowful months, turned away from him, lest she should betray the longing that lurked in her own heart. but marvin's fervid plea flamed higher and higher and he went on: "if a woman is a man's ideal--if he would gladly lay down his life for her--she knows it and no matter what she says about him or what anybody else says about him the knowledge that he cares more for her than for anything else in the entire universe must count for something, and i contend, your honor--" he got no farther. the whole court-room was in roars of laughter and the sheriff's gavel was knocking loudly on his table. millie, unable to bear the situation any longer, was sobbing aloud. townsend arose quickly and, leaning over his desk, shook a warning finger at marvin. "hold on there!" he called, half in humor and half in anger. "are you trying a divorce case or are you making love?" the laughter in the court-room began again, but subsided, for there was something in the situation that struck deep into the hearts of the spectators and they knew that, grotesque as it might appear, shattered romance was stalking before them. marvin, himself once again, lowered his voice and pleaded, apologetically: "i beg your pardon, your honor. i did not mean to go so far." smiling sadly at millie, he added, "that is all, miss buckley." "i should say it is quite enough!" satirized the judge. "i think we had better get back to business." without looking at marvin, millie left the stand and took her seat beside her mother. thomas called everett hammond as the next witness. hammond, although outwardly nonchalant, was inwardly ill at ease. marvin's appearance in court followed so closely by bill's arrival was a contact that puzzled him. millie's hesitancy as a witness was another feature which he felt was not altogether in favor of the cause of the golden gate land company. during her testimony he had kept close watch of her mother, who several times wept audibly, burying her face in her handkerchief. he knew that he and thomas were playing a close game and that the slightest contradiction in his testimony might set mrs. jones to thinking in the wrong direction; especially with bill jones in the court-room, his eyes divided between the witness-stand and his wife. he assumed an air of bravado as he took the stand, glaring down at marvin, who was seated not far from him and who was smiling blandly upon him. preliminaries over, thomas launched into hammond's direct examination. "how long have you known mr. and mrs. jones?" he asked. "i met them first," hammond answered, pausing to think, "about seven months ago." "kindly tell the court how you happened to meet them." hammond, looking at the judge, answered: "i was asked to consider the purchase of a piece of property belonging to mrs. jones. i had some other business near by and stopped off at the joneses' place." "what was the other business?" was thomas's next question. he glanced at marvin, who met his look with straightforward, unswerving eyes, which turned thomas's attention to his witness. "the pacific railroad," said hammond, scowling at marvin, "was being robbed of timber in that locality and they sent me with the sheriff," he nodded toward blodgett, who flushed at the memory of that embarrassing incident, "to arrest the thief." "who was the thief?" there was triumph in thomas's voice as he asked the question. "his name is john marvin." "since that time, you have had dealings with mrs. jones, have you not?" "i have, and i have always found her to be an honest and splendid woman." hammond smiled over at her. "and mr. jones was a source of trouble and great embarrassment to her, wasn't he?" this time hammond made bill the goal of his insulting focus. "yes, sir, he was! he was shiftless and drinking, cruel and untruthful." with a malicious sneer he added, "why, to my knowledge, he's the biggest liar in the county!" all this time, without a word, bill had been sitting on the edge of his chair, accepting the testimony against him in the same indifferent manner in which he met most of life's difficulties. hammond's last remark proved to be the first telling blow at his equanimity. it was too much! this hammond person had called him, bill jones, a liar! in lightnin's code, shrunken and old though he was, there could be but one answer. calmly and quietly bill stood up and began to draw his faded blue coat from his bent old shoulders. chapter xvii every eye in the court-room was on bill. there was even a cheer, which the judge, half out of his chair, failed to reprove. townsend knew that bill was sore tried and had been brought to the point where his temper was not an impulse, but a last resort. his personal sympathies were with lightnin's fistic intent. however, the order of his court must be observed and he signed to blodgett, who raised his gavel. before it was necessary to bring it down upon the table marvin was quickly on his feet. he put a restraining hand on bill's arm and with the other hand drew the coat back into its place on the bent shoulders. in amused contempt, thomas continued his examination. "did you ever see mr. jones drunk?" he asked. "yes, sir, i never saw him any other way." hammond laughed lightly. "and you saw him abuse his wife?" "yes, sir." "you heard him tell lies?" "i did indeed. why, he broke the law by harboring a fugitive from justice in his house." thomas, having brought skilfully to the attention of the court the numerous charges that he hoped would result in securing mrs. jones a divorce, dismissed hammond from the stand. his experience as a witness had not been a joyous one to hammond, and he prepared to take quick action on his dismissal, but marvin had other intentions. standing between hammond and his way of escape, marvin exclaimed: "i am not through with the witness, mr. thomas! i also have some questions to ask him." with a scowl hammond threw himself back into the chair. "you say, mr. hammond, that you had business dealings with mrs. jones? do you mind telling the court what that business was?" "not at all," said hammond, defiantly. "i purchased three hundred and twenty-nine acres of land, including buildings, from mrs. jones for some clients of mine." "why didn't you consult mr. jones?" asked marvin. "because mrs. jones was the sole owner," sneered hammond. marvin looked him in the eye and said, slowly: "you had seen the records?" hammond grunted in acquiescence and marvin went on, each question bringing his victim nearer to an outburst of temper, which he hoped would lead to the self-contradictions he was sparring for. "now you testified that you first met mr. and mrs. jones about seven months ago. do you remember the exact date?" "no, i don't recall the exact date. perhaps you can," he emphasized, with a contemptuous twist of his black mustache. "it was the day i brought the sheriff there with a warrant for your arrest." marvin, undaunted by this attempt to slander him, took occasion to give a thrust at blodgett, who had been glaring at him all through the case. "possibly the sheriff will remember the date," he said, with a smile, while blodgett squirmed in his chair. "and you also met mr. thomas on that same day, did you not?" hammond made no reply. it was his desire to make the court think that he and thomas had never known each other previous to this transaction. he directed an imploring and searching squint toward thomas. receiving no help and seeing trouble in the gray pallor that had spread over thomas's face, he floundered on, "yes, i think that was the day i met raymond thomas--and miss buckley was there, too." "are you sure you had never met miss buckley or mr. thomas before? in his office in san francisco, for instance?" hammond hesitated. he had been in thomas's office several times while millie was employed there, and, though he had not met her, it was more than likely that she had seen him. the moment was dangerous. "no, i don't think i had ever met them before," he said, slowly. "all right," said marvin, nodding his head complacently and going closer to the witness-stand. "mr. hammond," he went on, "you have told the court that mr. jones was a lawbreaker." hammond fairly jumped to this question. "yes," he flared. "you were a fugitive from justice and jones was harboring you in his house." marvin smiled. "didn't you just testify that mrs. jones was the sole owner of that house? that being so, how could mr. jones harbor a fugitive in his house, if he didn't own a house?" caught in his own net, hammond twisted angrily in his chair, reddening as the spectators laughed and the sheriff pounded for order. "well, i don't suppose he could," he blurted. "then you will withdraw the statement that he broke the law?" "yes, i withdraw it," hammond drawled. bill got up smiling from his chair and went over to marvin, patting him proudly on the shoulder; but a look from the judge and a snarl from blodgett sent him back again. marvin continued. "now, up to the time you met mr. jones you did not know anything about him, did you?" hammond shrugged, drawing his mouth into an angry curve. "of course not, but it didn't take me long to find out about him." marvin gave the arm of the witness-chair two angry thumps. "i agree with you there, mr. hammond," he said. "eight hours after you first saw mr. jones he was driven from his house and you have never set eyes on him since. yet you have testified that he is a drunkard, a loafer, a liar, and a lawbreaker!" hammond, startled at the swiftness with which marvin had turned his testimony to profit, shrugged himself into a straight position. "well, it didn't take me one hour to see what jones was," he said. marvin nodded with half-closed eyes at hammond and smiled reassuringly at bill. "you also said he was cruel to his wife?" hammond nodded. "in what way?" hammond hesitated, moving uneasily from side to side. "well," he snarled, "his manner was insulting. he criticized the dress she was wearing before the other guests." this amused the court-room, which in turn had to be quieted. "and do you think the claim of intolerable cruelty is substantiated by a husband's criticizing his wife's dress?" asked marvin, smiling. thomas arose at once. "i object to that question," he said, his lips twitching and his face livid from disappointment and fear of what was coming next. "i should think you would!" marvin said, laughing. the objection sustained, he went at his witness again. "you testified that mr. jones was a drunkard and that you had never seen him sober?" "i never have," emphasized hammond, insolently. going to the table, marvin took bill by the arm, assisted him to his feet and guided him into the middle of the court-room until he stood before the witness-stand. then he asked of hammond, motioning with his head toward bill, "is he drunk now?" bill stood quietly, a quizzical smile half closing his eyes, half opening his mouth. hammond, infuriated, swallowed in order to control himself, and then blurted with a disgusted shrug of his shoulders, "i don't know." having fulfilled marvin's intention, bill took his seat again and the cross-examination was resumed. "if you don't know whether he is drunk or not now, how did you know the other time when you saw him?" hammond gazed fiercely into space, replying, finally, "oh, it was plain enough then!" seeing that hammond was ruffled and that he was also confused, marvin felt that the time was now right to bring forth by a few swift, well-put questions the full purpose of hammond and thomas in bringing about the divorce between bill and mrs. jones. "it was not possible for you to get a good title to the property unless mr. jones signed the deed?" he asked. at once thomas was on his feet, objecting. on marvin's explanation that the complaint charged intoxication and that his question had a direct bearing on that point, the judge overruled the objection and thomas took his seat again. not discerning the trap that marvin had set for him, hammond turned to the judge and said, in more even tones: "i don't mind answering in the least. the property belonged entirely to mrs. jones, but the husband's signature was wanted on the deed." "and he refused to sign it?" marvin's question came back. "yes," hammond sneered, "after you told him not to." marvin once more challenged hammond's soul with the searchlight of his own straightforward eye. "was he drunk then?" he asked. hammond paused, then shrugged his shoulders. "yes, i think he was." "i am not asking you what you think," marvin remarked. "you said under oath that you never saw him sober. was he drunk when he refused to sign that deed?" "yes, he was!" hammond reiterated, quickly. "and you tried to induce him to sign such an important document as that when he was drunk?" marvin asked the question in a slow, concise tone and looked up at the judge to gather the impression made by hammond's evident duplicity. the deep water into which hammond had walked was making itself felt and he tried to wade toward shore. "i never tried to get him to sign! he didn't sign it!" he snapped. "no, he wasn't drunk enough for that! he wasn't drunk at all. he was as sober as he is at this moment!" "you mean to call me a liar?" hammond, his red neck swelling over the top of his collar, and his small, close-together black eyes flashing angrily, got up and made a threatening move toward his questioner. marvin, although much smaller, did not flinch. "no, i mean to _prove_ it," he answered. judge townsend made a quieting gesture to hammond, who sat down in the witness-chair again as marvin went on with his rapid-fire. "now you called mr. jones a liar, didn't you?" "yes," was hammond's gruff reply. "and everybody who knows him says the same thing!" "oh," said marvin, with a shake of his head. "so you testified that he was a liar because you heard others say so?" "no," jerked hammond, "he lied to me." "what did he tell you that was untrue?" "everything," said hammond. "can you repeat one lie that mr. jones told you?" "oh, he told me so many," was the impatient reply, "i can't recall them. oh yes," after a pause, "he said he drove a swarm of bees across the plains in the dead of winter." bill, who was facing him, and who had not taken his eyes from him, burst into a loud laugh, the whole court-room, even to the judge, following suit, while marvin raised his voice above the uproar to ask, "now, how do you know that is a lie?" "why, i know the thing is impossible!" hammond said, contemptuously. "why?" "it's all nonsense," sneered hammond, with an angry gesture. "that is precisely what it is, mr. hammond, and that is just what mr. jones meant it to be! what else did he say?" "what's the difference?" asked hammond. "you admit it's all nonsense." "not all, mr. hammond." marvin raised his voice and he looked searchingly at the judge. "he said at least one thing that was not nonsense. he said to his wife, 'mother, these two men are trying to rob you.' do you remember that, mr. hammond? you were all there. do you remember that he said you and mr. thomas were trying to rob mrs. jones?" in order to make his question more impressive, marvin nodded at hammond and pointed to mr. thomas, and then directed a glance toward mrs. jones. her hands were still folded in her lap and her head bent toward them. everett hammond, his face purple with rage, shouted at marvin, "i don't propose to sit here and be insulted by a criminal like you!" thomas, too, had risen and come forward. standing on the other side of marvin and looking down upon him, he exclaimed, with quivering, blue lips: "this is insufferable, your honor! this gentleman has come here to give disinterested testimony, as a favor, and he is subjected to the insults--" judge townsend interrupted him calmly: "i think the defense has brought out quite clearly that this witness's testimony is not disinterested. this divorce has got to be obtained to give him a deed to the jones property, hasn't it?" thomas grew conciliatory, endeavoring to impress upon the judge that the property sale had nothing to do, at all, with the testimony of hammond. "well, i wouldn't call him exactly disinterested," responded townsend, with a wise glance. "nevertheless, your honor, i protest against this man's insulting manner," thomas shouted. "how it is possible for such a person, a person who even now ought to be serving a jail sentence, to be admitted to the bar, i can't see!" he backed to his chair and sat down, taking up a book and slamming it back on the table. until now marvin had been complete master of the situation, but thomas's last words drove the blood from his face and he grew troubled as he looked up at the judge and then away and out through the window into space. there had been something on his mind, but he had been able to keep it in the background because of bill's predicament. and now it came to the surface again. townsend studied marvin intently for several moments and then he asked, quietly, "you are an attorney in good standing, are you not?" at the judge's question, thomas got up and looked down upon marvin, in insolent inquiry. marvin did not answer at once; then he walked over to the judge's bench and with his head bowed said, "no, your honor, i am not." "do you mean to say that you are not a member of the bar?" there was surprise and injured dignity and at the same time a strong savor of pity in lem townsend's voice. thomas and hammond exchanged smiles of triumph, the former advancing to a place by marvin's side in front of the judge. the horror in millie's face told marvin that her last shred of consideration for him had been torn away. bill alone held faith, smiling encouragement at the lad who had been his only friend when his hour was at its worst. with eyes on the ground, slowly, and in low voice, marvin explained, "no, i have never been admitted to the bar, your honor. but mr. jones had taken a long journey from the soldiers' home, on his own account and at his own expense, to testify in my case. when, without warning, this action for divorce was called, i knew it was a conspiracy." the injustice accorded bill drew marvin from himself again. pointing at hammond and thomas, he raised his voice. "i knew that these two conspirators--" thomas interrupted him by jumping from his seat and making a menace with his right arm. "sit down, mr. thomas," townsend commanded. "i will attend to this. you are making a very serious charge, mr. marvin, and if you believe you can substantiate it you will find the courts open to you. in the mean time you must be aware that you had no right whatever to undertake the trial of this case under the guise of being an attorney. you are guilty of a reprehensible act, and if i did not believe there were mitigating circumstances i would punish you most severely for contempt of court." he ordered the stenographer to strike out all of the cross-examination. "mr. thomas," he asked, "have you finished with your witness?" "if the cross-examination is to be stricken out, i will not take up the court's time with any redirect testimony. we have had enough," thomas said. hammond got up and shook himself as if he were rid of a heavy burden; but as he walked from the stand marvin made one more plea. "one moment, please, your honor," he asked. "before the witness is excused--" townsend interrupted him. "you have no standing in this court, young man. if you wish to remain, you may take a seat on the visitors' bench," and he pointed to a vacant seat just outside of the railing. if there was one person in the court-room who was pleased at that moment, it was blodgett. he arose, caressing his mustache, and opened the gate. "this way," he called out, giving an overbearing wave of his hand. as he came to the gate, marvin stopped. he was thinking hard. it did not seem right that bill should be left alone to fight his way with those two keen schemers. he knew that lem townsend would look after lightnin' in so far as he could justifiably do so, but the figure of the lonely old man, smiling complacently in the midst of his trouble, touched marvin deeply, and he delved into his mind in an effort to find a way to help him. then, unexpectedly, lightnin' solved the problem. getting to his feet, he stood quietly before the bench, looking up at townsend with an odd excitement in his eyes. "your honor," he asked, in his usual drawl, "a defendant has the right to plead his own case, ain't he?" "yes, he has," townsend replied, with a nod. "well," said bill, "i guess i'll plead this case myself!" marvin hesitated. he had thought of this himself, of course, but had dismissed the idea, not feeling quite sure as to the advisability of it. now, however, the deed was done. quickly he put an arm over bill's shoulder and led him beside the witness-stand, where hammond still sat. bill looked up at townsend and smiled. "it's all right, judge," he remarked, with his humorous twinkle. "i was a lawyer once!" chapter xviii the court-room fairly seethed with interest. the crowd was smiling, amused; but, under the surface smile, every face reflected a strong sympathy for the quaint old figure standing there, about to fight his own battle. as bill turned to conduct his case, blodgett took marvin by the arm. "you come out here!" he commanded, roughly. marvin pulled his arm free and appealed to the judge. "i am a witness for the defense, your honor," he said. "then you may remain where you are," replied townsend, with a nod. he looked at lightnin'. "examine your witness," he directed. for a moment lightnin' stood in front of the frowning man in the chair and silently inspected him with humorous interest, from the top of his sleek, pomaded head to the gleaming toes of his immaculate boots. "looks kinder all polished up, don't he?" bill remarked. the noise of the general laughter and the pounding of the sheriff's gavel seemed to distract townsend's attention; anyway, he uttered no objection when marvin slipped from his place among the witnesses and dropped into his former chair directly behind bill. looking up at townsend, lightnin' resumed: "the things marvin asked him were all right, your honor," he said. then, with a terse but rather humorous shrug, he addressed hammond, "answer 'em!" "you mean the testimony he has already given will stand?" asked the judge. "i got a right to ask 'em again, 'ain't i?" questioned bill. townsend nodded. hammond could much better stand the young and impatient manner of john marvin than he could the wise humor of bill. he grew red and shifted in his chair angrily, asking the judge: "do i have to go all over that, your honor?" "would your replies be the same?" townsend's eyes as well as his question begged hammond for the answer and he was not comfortable. but there was nothing else for him to do, and after a moment's hesitation, in which he lowered his lids to avoid the judge's scrutiny, he replied: "certainly." the cross-examination reinstated, hammond for the fourth time started to leave the stand. bill held up his hand and snapped in a determined tone, but with a smile playing among the wrinkles of his face: "hold on! i got some more for you!" his victim threw himself back into the chair with a shrug and a sneer as he gave his head an irate shake. "mr. hammond," bill went on, "when you went after mr. marvin with the sheriff, what was the charge against him?" hammond answered, with a ready enthusiasm, "trespassing on the property of the pacific railroad company." bill nodded his head and said: "uh, ha." he assumed an air of wisdom and raised his voice to the pitch that it seldom knew, but to have the floor again after so many months was having its effect upon him and he was taking the task in the same way and with the same glee as if it were the opportunity for telling a good story. "if he was on their property," he began--then he seemed to forget what it was he was going to ask. he turned to marvin in whispered conference. the unusual character of his procedure did not affect lemuel townsend, who was anxious to give the old man his full chance. his way evidently made clearer by marvin's advice, bill sauntered slowly back to hammond. "if he was on the railroad's property, what did you have to do with it?" he asked. "oh, that's easy enough!" said hammond, nonchalantly crossing one leg over the other. "i went at the request of the president of the road." bill grinned. "you sold the railroad the land he was trespassing on, didn't you?" thomas broke in with an endeavor to show that the question was irrelevant, but townsend, knowing bill's natural acumen, felt that the question did have some real connection with the case. "mr. thomas," he said, "you and your witness have been accused of conspiracy. if i were you, i would allow him to answer mr. jones." thomas knew that he was sparring for his life and he didn't intend to let the question get by if he could help it, so he tried another subterfuge. "your honor," he deplored, his voice hoarse with anger, "i don't propose to defend the witness and myself from such a ridiculous charge at this time. we are not on trial. this is a divorce action." he glared at marvin, pulling his cuffs angrily, in a way that he had, down over his wrists. but the judge's opinion was unchanged. "if there is any conspiracy about this action, the court wants to know it. answer the question." with an insulting drawl, hammond did as he was bid. "i purchased the property for the railroad, acting as their agent." "who did you buy it from?" bill snapped. "mr. thomas." "when did you buy it?" asked bill. "about ten months ago." bill's shoulders straightened at hammond's reply and he drew himself together with a quick shrug, taking a swift step forward and peering into hammond's face. "that was three months before you bought mother's place?" he asked. "yes," jerked hammond, sulkily. "then, why did you say you had never met him until you met him at the hotel?" hammond started, alarm in the quick glance that traveled from bill to raymond thomas. he realized he had overstepped himself. thinking the better plan would be to brave it out, he bellowed: "because i never did!" bill smiled at him and said, in his slow, gentle monotone: "you bought all that land of him and never saw him about it?" he looked up at the judge and laughed. "and he called _me_ a liar!" hammond got up, but bill detained him. "don't go away," he admonished, with a jaunty toss of his head. "we got some more for you, 'ain't we?" and he looked at marvin, who smiled in approval. "i've got a good one for him!" bill went on. "you know the railroad company leased the waterfall on mother's place and put a power-plant there?" "i believe they have," said hammond, impatiently. "and you know that the railroad pays you more for that lease in a month than you agreed to give mother in a year?" it was a surprise to hammond, and evidently to marvin, too, that bill should know anything of the details of either the lease of the railroad company or of what payment had been promised to mrs. jones. a great light flashed on marvin--obviously bill jones had not been altogether wasting his time during his prolonged disappearance! hammond, beginning to suspect that bill knew more than he had been given credit for, decided that ignorance was the best stand to take. "how should i know the petty details of the railroad's lease?" he said. "how should _you_ know?" echoed bill, his voice raised, unwontedly clear and ringing. "didn't the railroad lease the waterfall from a bum concern called the golden gate land company? didn't you, actin' for the golden gate company, put through the deal? don't you know that the golden gate land company is controlled by yourself and raymond thomas--ain't you and thomas the whole works o' that--" thomas was on his feet with an objection, but the judge had no opportunity to overrule it, for bill had something to say and he was going to say it. he lifted his voice above that of thomas, calling out and waving his arms violently in an excitement he had never known before. "and all your stocks in the name of rummies?" his eyes twinkled as marvin came up to him and whispered. again waving his arms, bill shouted: "dummies, i mean--dummies!" thomas had been tried to the point of despair. there was a lump in his throat as he beseeched the judge: "i protest against this!" the judge interrupted him. "i am beginning to believe in this plot story." "then let him go on," was bill's agreeable reply. hammond jumped up out of his chair and descended from the witness-stand. "your honor," he said, in an angry tone, "i absolutely refuse to submit to this any longer--to stand here and be made to look like a criminal!" bill could not withstand the chance for another quip and he smiled at his antagonist. "well, you look natural," he remarked. "do you expect me to stand for this?" hammond stormed. "sit down, if you want to," said bill, restored to his old nonchalance. "i'm through with you," and he turned his back on hammond and went over to marvin. thomas, keyed to a high pitch, knew that something must be done at once, for he saw that not only the jones case was crumbling, but he sensed trouble ahead in his afternoon's venture, so he resorted to everett hammond's tactics of placing the matter in an absurd light. "all this ridiculous testimony," he argued, "has no possible connection with the case in point, but i propose to prove that all the accusations against the witness and myself are not only groundless but absolutely malicious, and i shall do this at the first opportunity." unable to stand the situation any longer, he went back and took his seat. marvin had sat quiet all through this controversy. now he forgot the judge's admonition as to his place in the case. he got up, stating to the judge: "your honor, mr. thomas will have that opportunity at two o'clock this afternoon, when the pacific railroad's action against me comes before the court. at that time i will submit documentary proof that these men control the golden gate land company and have been buying up all the land wanted by the pacific railroad. i will submit to the court twenty cases where the golden gate land company has swindled innocent farmers out of their property and paid them with worthless stock. i will prove to the court--" "just a moment, mr. marvin," townsend stopped him. "it will be most interesting for you to prove your statements at two o'clock; but in the mean time i must warn you again that you are not a party to this divorce action and have no standing as an attorney in this court." marvin bowed to the ruling and retired quietly to his seat. he stared calmly at thomas, seeming to have no fear that he had prematurely revealed his own case and that his opponents might have an opportunity to take advantage of his statements. "if the defense wishes you for a witness, mr. marvin," said townsend, "you may be sworn." bill was on his feet again and, turning to the judge, said: "i don't need no witness! i didn't know nothing about it at all until i got here, but i've been thinking it over ever since and i have made up my mind that mother's right. if mother can prove them things they read," and he nodded toward the clerk, "she could get a divorce, couldn't she?" townsend replied in the affirmative. bill smiled sadly and, glancing at mrs. jones, who was crying as if her heart would break, he went on, "well, i can prove them for her." "you can prove them?" townsend asked, in surprise. "oh yes," said bill, with a flash of humor. "i used to be a judge." he stood still in the middle of the floor and looked into space for a moment. he was a dejected figure as the humor that was his habit left him and he stood there deserted by all but marvin. but it was not his way to remain an object of pity, either to himself or to anybody else, and with a slight shrug he straightened and looked the judge in the eye. placing his hand in front of him, he tolled off the first count on the thumb of his right hand. "now, first it said," he began didactically, "that i got drunk," and he paused and thought about it, adding, with a nod, "well, i can prove that! and then it said i was cruel to mother." he took a step forward and bent his shoulders a bit, as if he would look under the brim of his wife's hat and search her soul for the answer to his plea. "well, i can--no, i can't prove that, 'cause it ain't true, judge, an' i don't believe mother ever said it." a dramatic hush fell in the court-room. it was suddenly, pathetically clear to marvin and to many others that, despite his unexpected knowledge on other counts, bill did not fathom the real reason behind his wife's action for divorce. plainly he thought she really wanted a divorce, and, in lightnin's sensitive code, if mother wanted it she should have it. "an' then it said that i failed to provide," he went on, while the court-room breathed softly, feeling the tug at the old man's heartstrings. "well, that what's on my mind, judge. i have failed. i never thought anything about it before, and i don't see any chance of providing, now that i do think about it. mother an' millie could get along better without me. so you see, mother should get a divorce, judge--" and here bill for the first time in his life broke down. tears came into his eyes and he swallowed to keep them back. he hesitated and, with a last brave effort, he dashed in to complete his testimony against himself. "i'm all right, judge. i can go back to the home and stay there until"--he hesitated--"until--" and turning quickly away, "that's all, judge." before he could get to his seat mrs. jones had jumped up from hers and was standing before the judge's desk, wiping the tears from her eyes and sobbing loudly. "no, please, judge, don't give me a divorce! i don't want one, judge! i can take care of bill in our old age. they were just telling me lies, judge, and i was a fool not to have seen through it!" tears were in townsend's eyes; also, margaret davis was sniffing audibly, and the spectators in the court-room were deeply touched. thomas and hammond gave one glance at each other and groaned, while mrs. jones rushed to bill and held one of his hands in both of hers, pleading: "bill, i have done you a wrong--a great wrong, and i cannot blame you if you never look at me again, but i didn't mean to, bill, i didn't mean to! and if you will forgive me and take me back i will try all my life to make up for it! will you?" bill took her hands in his and patted them. his eyes were moist, and they blinked for a moment; then a slow, happy grin spread over his stubbled face. "that's all right, mother," he said, easily. "say, did you ever get the six dollars i sent you?" chapter xix late that afternoon john marvin and bill jones came out of the reno court-house together and sauntered down the street. there was a gleam of triumph in marvin's eyes and a deep satisfaction in his manner. lightnin's grin was equally expressive. "you better come right back to calivada with me, john!" he urged. the triumph left marvin's eyes and was replaced by a troubled expression. "no, bill," he said, quietly, "i don't think it is time for me to go there yet. mother and millie may still feel that my part in the whole scheme was not as kindly as it might have been, so i'll just drive over to my cabin and maybe later, perhaps to-morrow morning, come over and join you for a visit of an hour or two. it's a long time, old chap," he said, as he patted bill on the shoulder, "since you have been home, and i think it is about time you were running along." bill knew what was deterring him. tactfully he said nothing, but smiled. they walked along in silence for a block or two, until in a jeweler's window bill saw something that appealed to his imagination. he put his hand in his pocket and withdrew it before it touched bottom, realizing that his last dime had gone for a cup of coffee for himself and zeb at a lunch-counter early that morning. zeb was waiting for him at the g. a. r. hall up the street a ways, but he had a duty to perform and it seemed to him that that duty could best be done by the help of the object in the jeweler's window. "john, will you lend me two dollars?" he asked. "at your old tricks, lightnin'? you bet i can lend you two dollars! you sure that's all you want?" marvin laughed, taking the money from his pocket. "plenty," was bill's brief reply, pocketing the two dollars. they walked to the corner of the street, where they said good-by to each other. when bill was satisfied that marvin's back was well turned he sauntered into the jewelry-shop and up to the counter, where he purchased a sterling-silver ring, washed in gold, with a bright, shining piece of glass set in it. the clerk in the store smiled at the old man as he pocketed the monstrosity and went happily out of the store. how to get to calivada from reno had not entered his mind. it was a good seventy-five miles, but he knew that some way or other he would get home that night. with his mind made up to that issue, he wandered up the street and joined zeb, who had been waiting for him all afternoon. the two old men, arm in arm, stood on the street corner and looked about. and just then rodney harper and his wife, who were interested spectators in the court-room during the afternoon trial, turned the corner in their machine and stopped to say a good word to bill. "what you going to do, lightnin'?" asked harper, while his wife beamed at the two odd old souls. "what _you_ going to do?" was bill's evasive answer. "why, we are motoring back to calivada, where we have a room at the hotel," said mrs. harper. "well, then, i guess," said bill, putting his foot on the step of the automobile, "that's just what me and zeb is goin' to do." the harpers laughed and looked at each other. they were both agreed. bill and zeb climbed in and made a strange couple on the back seat of the car as it whirled through the streets of reno and on up into the hills. in the mean time the hotel at calivada, true to its nature, was the scene of a new sensation. after court that afternoon margaret davis and judge townsend, leaving mrs. jones and millie to take the train home, went their own way. about eight o'clock that evening they arrived at the hotel, going to the desk where the sleek and dapper new clerk awaited them and came forward to welcome them. "hello, mrs. davis!" he said, extending his hand. "good evening," margaret replied, giggling and looking coyly back at the judge. "will you give me my key, mr. peters?" she asked. "sure," he said, taking the key from the rack and handing it to her with a smirk. "i didn't expect you back to-night." he smiled. "well, i wasn't expecting it myself." the annoyance evidenced by the frown on lemuel townsend's face immediately changed her tone. with a "thank you" she turned to go, but the clerk had other plans. "this has been a wonderful day, mrs. davis," he said, as he cast languishing glances at her. townsend was not at all pleased with the attention peters was showing her and he turned, asking, unctuously, "see here, have you got a suite?" peters stepped back and looked in surprise from one to the other. "got what?" "got a--?" repeated townsend, but his question was broken into by margaret, who exclaimed: "oh, mr. peters, we would like to see miss buckley and mrs. jones." "all right," he said; "i will go up and tell them you are here," and he disappeared up the nevada stairs. "but, young man," townsend was insisting as he put his foot on the first stair, "i want to get a--" he reiterated, but margaret again placed a restraining hand on his arm. "wait until he comes down," she simpered. as the clerk disappeared behind the portiã¨res at the top of the stairs, townsend turned to margaret, putting his arm about her waist. "what's the matter, dear? don't you want the clerk to know we are married?" he asked, in injured tones. "i didn't want you to tell him right before me." he looked into her eyes. "you are not ashamed of it, are you?" "no," she drawled, in her usual giggle, "but it is embarrassing to leave here this morning to get rid of number one and come back this evening with number two." townsend started, removing his arm from her waist. putting it back, she pouted, "you are not angry, are you, dear?" indulgently, but not enthusiastically, he answered, "it is a little jarring to be referred to as number two." "oh, i didn't mean that!" she exclaimed, leaning coquettishly on his shoulder. "but i can't bear to have every one staring at us." "but this isn't a secret marriage, maggie," said the judge. at this margaret drew herself away from him, horror in her opened mouth and widening eyes. "oh, don't say that!" she protested. "my name is margaret," adding, sweetly, "i don't mind if they find out about it after we are gone, dear, but let's try to keep them from finding it out to-night." "all right, my darling, just as you say," and he drew her to him again. peters reappeared at the stairs. "mrs. jones will be down in a minute," he announced, and was going to say more, but the sight of margaret locked close in lemuel townsend's dignified arms permitted him no further expression than a prolonged and astonished "oh!" which wrought a quick parting of the loving couple, while margaret, blushing furiously, hastened to explain: "judge townsend is my husband, mr. peters. we were married this afternoon." peters had been having much of his own way since mrs. jones and millie had retired from the actual management of the hotel, and his authority ran away with him at times, thrusting him into situations in which his assumption brought him quick rebuke. this was one of them. obsequiously and with an easy laugh he extended a congratulatory hand to townsend, while he remarked, "quick work, eh, judge?" townsend stood back and withered peters with a glance that did its full duty from head to foot. margaret, kind-hearted, and seeing peters's embarrassment, hastened to be friendly. "we don't want you to say a word about it to anybody!" "oh, i can keep a secret. my congratulations. i hope this one turns out better than the other one did," peters effused. margaret sighed. the judge shuddered. it was the fourth time since they were married that he had been reminded that he was number two. "if you don't mind," he ordered, severely, "we won't discuss that question." margaret, anxious to prevent further repartee on the subject, went up-stairs, calling back, "when mrs. jones comes down, will you tell her i will be back in five minutes?" when she had disappeared townsend ordered peters to get up a special supper for four, suggesting that the champagne he had brought with him, and which was in the basket on the floor, be put on ice. peters disappeared to do his duty, but townsend followed close behind him, desirous of directing the spreading of a good wedding supper for mrs. townsend, mrs. jones, and millie. he had been gone but a few minutes when mrs. jones came down the stairs. she looked around, expecting to find margaret davis awaiting her. not seeing her, she returned to the floor above, when mr. and mrs. harper came bursting in. "how do you do? don't you remember us?" harper called out, as he held forth a welcoming hand. "surely!" cried mrs. jones. she came quickly down the stairs and shook hands with harper, kissing his pretty wife. "we just brought your husband and a friend of his over from reno," said harper. "oh, where are they?" mrs. jones asked, excitedly. she had been waiting all afternoon for bill and was beginning to fear lest he had decided not to return home. "oh, bill's out there telling his experiences as a lawyer," harper laughed, and mrs. jones joined him, happy to know that bill was back, the same lovable old boaster as before. margaret townsend, hearing the voices, hurried to join the group, throwing her arms wildly around mrs. jones's neck and giggling like a school-girl. "who do you think drove me over?" she asked mrs. jones, answering herself. "judge townsend." "my, but that was romantic!" exclaimed mrs. jones. "why, what do you know about it?" margaret simpered, putting mrs. jones from her and looking into her eyes. the dining-room door opened and townsend burst in, going to his wife and exercising his new proprietorship by putting his arm about her. she drew away, blushing, and hastened to introduce the harpers. townsend acknowledged the introduction; then he turned to mrs. jones. "i'm very glad to see you under more pleasant circumstances, mother," he said. "thank you, lem!" she answered, tears gathering in her eyes. "oh, what a mean fool i was! but, lem, i 'ain't heard a word yet about how that fine young man made out--i'm just dyin' to know if john marvin won his case!" "oh, you really haven't heard?" exclaimed margaret. "i should say he certainly did win his case, my dear!" "thomas and hammond were lucky to keep out of jail," said townsend. "they gave up this place without a murmur." "what?" mrs. jones gasped. "surely you know that the place is yours again?" harper asked, while they all nodded eager confirmation. "ours again?" mrs. jones repeated, excitedly. "absolutely, my dear!" margaret hastened to explain. "and the judge and i were married this afternoon!" irrespective of mrs. jones's bewildered gasp, margaret rushed on: "and, mother, you are to get all the money the railroad pays for the waterfall, and it's an awful lot! the golden gate land company is a fake concern! to keep out of jail, where they belong, those two sharpers are making restitution at once to mr. marvin and to everybody else they can! and now you're going to have supper with us, mother! mr. and mrs. harper are going to join us--and you, too, millie dear," she added, turning to the girl, who had joined the group and stood there listening, her cheeks flushed with a conflict of emotions. "oh!" millie gasped. "oh--then what--" what millie was going to say was lost in a general chorus of delighted exclamations. "oh, lem," cried mrs. jones, "won't you let me do the cooking? i'm just dyin' to get back into that kitchen again!" "well, i know what your cooking is like, mother," replied townsend, smiling; "and if you really want to go out there and cook that supper, i say it would be a crime to stop you!" "let's all help!" exclaimed little mrs. harper, who looked as if she would not have the faintest idea what to do in a kitchen. "fine!" echoed her amused husband. "come on, folks!" mrs. jones led the way, and they all went out through the dining-room and into the kitchen, bent on making a home of the place for the first time since the new regime went into effect. chapter xx the dapper peters was left alone at his desk, but not for long. in a few minutes the street door opened and bill jones, with a certain air about him--one might even say with a certain flourish in his manner--sauntered in. he ambled up to the desk. "who might you be?" he asked, casually, his half-shut eyes making an inventory of peters. "i'm the manager!" peters snapped. "no, you ain't," said bill, grinning. "what's the reason i ain't?" inquired peters. "because you're fired," said bill, calmly, turning his back and putting his hands in his pockets. he gazed slowly around from floor to ceiling, and then at the walls. peters came from behind the desk and stood close to him. "say, mrs. jones pulled something like that on me," he said, "but i ain't taking no orders from you people! i take my orders from mr. hammond!" "is that so?" asked bill, nonchalantly. drawing a letter from his pocket, he handed it to the clerk. "well, here they are!" he said. peters opened the letter and read it. "well, if i'm fired," he sighed, "i suppose i can go back to my old job." a stealthy foot on the floor made bill turn around to greet zeb, who had put his head in the door. "got a segar for me, bill?" zeb whispered. bill went over to the drawer in the california desk, where he knew there was a box of cigars. he took one, extending it to zeb. but the latter, looking toward the dining-room, saw millie coming, and in spite of the fact that he wanted that cigar as desperately as he had ever wanted anything, force of habit sent him scuttling out of the room as he warned bill, hoarsely, "look out!" bill called him back. "what you 'fraid of? it's only millie." "well," said zeb, intrepid enough to grab the cigar, but not brave enough to stay, "i'll see you to-morrow, when the women-folks is working. it's safer then." millie rushed over and took bill in her arms, kissing him again and again, while bill, unused to such demonstration, tried to disengage himself. "did you just get here, daddy?" she asked, gazing fondly at him. "yes," was his reply, as he sat down in the chair in front of the table. "have you seen mother?" she asked, standing very close to him. bill, remembering the old days when his return home meant a searching examination as to soberness, grinned, and then he breathed deeply toward her. "i 'ain't had a drink in a month," he informed her. she laughed and was silent for a moment. looking down at the floor, she asked, "did you come alone, daddy?" "yes," he answered, slowly scrutinizing her. "why didn't you speak to john before you left the court to-day?" he asked, after a moment in which he gazed at her intently. tears came into her eyes and she leaned her head on his shoulder. "i just couldn't, daddy, that was all." bill placed a reassuring hand on her hair. "well, it's all right. i fixed it for you," he said, slowly. millie stepped back aghast, blushing violently. "you did _what_?" but bill was unabashed. "i got him to promise he would come over here and see you." bill had done no such thing, but the one flaw to a perfect happiness for him was the thought that john marvin and millie might not make up. "you asked him to come over and see me?" millie asked, in dismay. "no," said bill, with a quiet grin; "i just told him you were crazy to see him. you would have lost him if it hadn't been for me. every girl in reno is crazy about john, but i got him so he's willing to marry you." "oh, daddy, i don't know what i am going to do with you!" millie was almost in tears and leaned dejectedly on a shoulder indifferent through habit and not will. "you don't mean to say you asked john marvin to marry me?" she pouted. "sure i did," said bill, untouched by any thought of having done what was not right. "it was a tough job after the way you treated him," he admonished, dropping into the chair and tipping it back while he clasped his hands behind his head and whistled. "i told him," he went on, "that you had made a fool of yourself, but that most women did that now and then, and not to mind it. after he's been married awhile he'll get used to it. i asked him, if you would own up that you were wrong like mother did, would he give you another chance?" bill looked up at her, adding, complacently, "'ain't i done a good piece of business?" millie gave one shriek and ran up the stairs. bill, unmoved by any sense of his own iniquity, followed her to the foot of the staircase, calling after her, "now, if you beg his pardon when he comes--" she stopped at the top step and looked back. "beg his pardon!" she exclaimed, defiantly. "i don't even intend to _see_ him when he comes!" bill held out one hand toward her in a deprecating gesture. "oh, come along down-stairs again." taking a little square box from his pocket, he opened it and held it up to view, saying, "if you don't see him, what is he going to do with this?" "what is it?" she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her anger as she came slowly back down the stairs. bill showed her his prize in its nest of bright purple velvet. "he got it for you. he sent me out to buy it while he was in court!" mildred looked at the thing, and with one long "oh!" of disgust she turned and went through the door into the dining-room. alone once more, bill walked slowly, going to the desk and looking at the register. then he went back of the desk, examining familiar objects. suddenly his eyes rested on the electric-light switchboard. he played with the lights for several seconds, turning them out finally. with a start he grunted, "now i broke 'em." pushing the button again, the lights came on, revealing mrs. jones, who had tiptoed in from the dining-room when millie told her bill was there. when he saw her he came out from behind the desk and she hurried toward him with outstretched arms. "are you all right, bill?" she asked, tenderly. and bill, smiling, leaned over her and breathed so that she could see that he was all right. but she had been through so much lately and where bill was concerned there was more tenderness than humor in her attitude. "aren't you all tired out, dear?" she asked. bill grinned sheepishly. it was a long time since his wife had shown such affection for him. "no," was his quick reply. but her conscience bade her make sure that he was comfortable. she drew a big arm-chair from the corner and placed it in the center of the room, taking a pillow from the sofa and putting it on the back of the chair. gently she sat bill down in it. he didn't know what to make of it all and he looked up at her, asking, with a chuckle: "what's the matter, mother, you sick?" she laughed. "no, bill, i ain't sick. i'm just thinkin'." bill looked straight ahead of him. she took her rocking-chair and placed it next to him. clasping one of his hands, she leaned forward. "you've forgiven me, 'ain't you, bill?" "yep," chirped bill, without so much as a glance. her attempt to make love to bill was not meeting with the success she had hoped, but she was bound to make up to him for all the sorrow of the last few months, and so she did not notice his apparent indifference. "just think," she exclaimed, enthusiastically, "the place is ours again!" "you mean it's yours again," said bill, slowly. "no," she shook her head emphatically. "_ours_, after this, bill." "all right," bill replied, again not moving. mrs. jones, seeing that her attempts to be affectionate were falling upon unfertile ground, dropped his hand. "how did mr. marvin manage to get it away from them?" she asked. for the first time bill took interest. "i fixed it," he said, sitting up straight in his chair. "do you want me to tell you how much money you get out of the waterfall?" "yes, bill. but please say _we_ get it." "you mean i get half of it?" mrs. jones nodded. "and you're going to keep it for me?" he went on. she smiled at him and nodded again. "how did you know about my getting the place back?" he asked. "lem townsend told me," she informed him. "did you know that he and mrs. davis were married to-day?" bill didn't know it, but he didn't intend that his wife should know this. playing up to form, he smiled indulgently upon her as he stated, glibly, "yes, i fixed it!" they smiled wisely upon each other and mrs. jones once again took her husband's hand. "we won't have any more divorce people here, will we, bill?" "then you will have to close up," was his answer. "i want to close up, bill." her voice was full of deep tenderness. "i want to have a home again." "all right," bill said, getting up from the chair. display of affection always embarrassed him. his attitude amused and at the same time hurt mrs. jones, so she changed her subject to one that she felt might interest him. "we are all going to have some supper soon, bill. i have been cooking it," she said. bill patted her tenderly on the hand. "mother, i found out one thing when i was at the home. i found that you were a good cook." she smiled happily, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him. bill looked at her a moment in surprise; then he laughed. a shadow crossed her face and she gazed into his eyes. "you don't mind my doing that, do you, bill?" she asked. there was a pause for a moment. bill shifted awkwardly from side to side as he stood up. "no, i guess i don't," he said. mrs. jones walked toward the dining-room, pausing half-way across the room. "bill," she said, glancing down at the floor, "would you kiss me?" bill gaped at her in surprise. "yes," he said, slowly walking to her. mrs. jones saw his hesitation, and, realizing the humor of the situation, laughed heartily. "oh, never mind, bill! you can kiss me later." "now, mother, i was going to." he grinned and followed her to the door, but she was through it before he could reach her. he stood still and was about to reopen the door when marvin burst in, out of breath, but a new radiance in his eyes. "why, john," bill remarked, "i thought you were going over to the cabin!" "well, i was," said marvin. "but i heard about lem and mrs. davis being married, and i knew that everybody would be over there having a good time. i didn't mean to be out of it. where's your wife?" "oh, she's all right. she's cooking supper," bill replied. marvin hesitated a moment. he went to a window and looked out; then he came back, putting his arm through bill's. "is millie--?" he could get no farther, for bill interrupted him. "oh yes, she's waiting for you. she's afraid you're not going to forgive her." "well, i think i can convince her of my forgiveness," said marvin. delving into his pocket bill brought forth the ring. "when you see her just give her this," he said. marvin smiled. "now i know why you borrowed that two dollars this afternoon!" "sure! you can find her. she's around some place. after you give it to her come in to the party." "what party?" bill nodded toward the dining-room door. "lem and his wife are giving a party and we want you to come. but you can't come until you get millie," said bill. marvin turned and walked toward the stairs, wondering where millie was. his thought brought his wish, for she parted the curtains and came slowly down. she stopped when she saw him, but there was a look in his eyes that she could not mistake and her heart was beating as it had not done for many months, ever since she and marvin had walked on the shores of lake tahoe many months ago. "daddy has told you what i should say to you, hasn't he?" she asked, coming slowly down the stairs. marvin went half-way up. "what is it?" he asked. "well, i have made a fool of myself and i am ashamed of myself and i beg you to forgive me!" pausing on the stairs, she lowered her eyes, coloring deeply. marvin could not help laughing, and there was a dimple of amusement in millie's cheek. he put an arm around her and led her down into the lobby. "i could tell you something better than that to say," he stated, seeing that her eyes were at last answering his, "you might say, for example, 'john, dearest, i know that you love me always,' because that is something a woman must know!" they both laughed delightedly at this repetition of the words he had used in the court-room. "and i suppose i should say"--but here millie turned her head away--"please marry me!" "exactly!" marvin cried. "and my answer is, yes, millie--if you will have me!" suddenly he remembered the horrible ring bill had bought. he took it from his pocket, saying, with mock tenderness, "millie, i want to show you something, and--" [illustration: ... he took it from his pocket, saying, "millie, i want to show you something"] "i have seen it!" she interrupted, laughing softly, glancing down at the object in its gaudy setting. "well, we mustn't disappoint lightnin'," said marvin. "put it on your finger, dear, for the old fellow's sake and let him see it. it will show him that his efforts were not in vain--no ring could be more beautiful in thought than this one!" "you're right, john!" she said, with shining eyes, as she slipped the thing on her finger and raised her face for a kiss. at that psychological moment bill stuck his head in the door. he withdrew, of course, but only to return in an instant with the whole party at his heels. bill was leading his wife by the hand. gesturing toward marvin and millie, his shrewd old eyes fairly snapping with whimsical happiness, lightnin' exclaimed: "mother--look! i fixed that!" the end booth tarkington's novels _seventeen._ illustrated by arthur william brown. no one but the creator of penrod could have portrayed the immortal young people of this story. its humor is irresistible and reminiscent of the time when the reader was seventeen. _penrod._ illustrated by gordon grant. this is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, humorous, tragic things which are locked secrets to most older folks. it is a finished, exquisite work. _penrod and sam._ illustrated by worth brehm. like "penrod" and "seventeen," this book contains some remarkable phases of real boyhood and some of the best stories of juvenile prankishness that have ever been written. _the turmoil._ illustrated by c. e. chambers. bibbs sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who revolts against his father's plans for him to be a servitor of big business. the love of a fine girl turns bibbs' life from failure to success. _the gentleman from indiana._ frontispiece. a story of love and politics,--more especially a picture of a country editor's life in indiana, but the charm of the book lies in the love interest. _the flirt._ illustrated by clarence f. underwood. the "flirt," the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl's engagement, drives one man to suicide, causes the murder of another, leads another to lose his fortune, and in the end marries a stupid and unpromising suitor, leaving the really worthy one to marry her sister. the novels of mary roberts rinehart _dangerous days._ a brilliant story of married life. a romance of fine purpose and stirring appeal. _the amazing interlude._ illustrations by the kinneys. the story of a great love which cannot be pictured--an interlude--amazing, romantic. _love stories._ this book is exactly what its title indicates, a collection of love affairs--sparkling with humor, tenderness and sweetness. _"k."_ illustrated. k. lemoyne, famous surgeon, goes to live in a little town where beautiful sidney page lives. she is in training to become a nurse. the joys and troubles of their young love are told with keen and sympathetic appreciation. _the man in lower ten._ illustrated by howard chandler christy. an absorbing detective story woven around the mysterious death of the "man in lower ten." _when a man marries._ illustrated by harrison fisher and mayo bunker. a young artist, whose wife had recently divorced him, finds that his aunt is soon to visit him. the aunt, who contributes to the family income, knows nothing of the domestic upheaval. how the young man met the situation is entertainingly told. _the circular staircase._ illustrated by lester ralph. the occupants of "sunnyside" find the dead body of arnold armstrong on the circular staircase. following the murder a bank failure is announced. around these two events is woven a plot of absorbing interest. _the street of seven stars._ (photoplay edition.) harmony wells, studying in vienna to be a great violinist, suddenly realizes that her money is almost gone. she meets a young ambitious doctor who offers her chivalry and sympathy, and together with world-worn dr. anna and jimmie, the waif, they share their love and slender means. stories of rare charm by gene stratton-porter _michael o'halloran._ illustrated by frances rogers. michael is a quick-witted little irish newsboy, living in northern indiana. he adopts a deserted little girl, a cripple. he also assumes the responsibility of leading the entire rural community upward and onward. _laddie._ illustrated by herman pfeifer. this is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in indiana. the story is told by little sister, the youngest member of a large family, but it is concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love affairs of older members of the family. chief among them is that of laddie and the princess, an english girl who has come to live in the neighborhood and about whose family there hangs a mystery. _the harvester._ illustrated by w. l. jacobs. "the harvester," is a man of the woods and fields, and if the book had nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would be notable. but when the girl comes to his "medicine woods," there begins a romance of the rarest idyllic quality. _freckles._ illustrated. freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which he takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the great limberlost swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs to the charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "the angel" are full of real sentiment. _a girl of the limberlost._ illustrated. the story of a girl of the michigan woods; a buoyant, loveable type of the self-reliant american. her philosophy is one of love and kindness towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. and by the sheer beauty of her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren and unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage. _at the foot of the rainbow._ illustrations in colors. the scene of this charming love story is laid in central indiana. the story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love. the novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all. _the song of the cardinal._ profusely illustrated. a love ideal of the cardinal bird and his mate, told with delicacy and humor. zane grey's novels _the light of western stars_ a new york society girl buys a ranch which becomes the center of frontier warfare. her loyal superintendent rescues her when she is captured by bandits. a surprising climax brings the story to a delightful close. _the rainbow trail_ the story of a young clergyman who becomes a wanderer in the great western uplands--until at last love and faith awake. _desert gold_ the story describes the recent uprising along the border, and ends with the finding of the gold which two prospectors had willed to the girl who is the story's heroine. _riders of the purple sage_ a picturesque romance of utah of some forty years ago when mormon authority ruled. the prosecution of jane withersteen is the theme of the story. _the last of the plainsmen_ this is the record of a trip which the author took with buffalo jones, known as the preserver of the american bison, across the arizona desert and of a hunt in "that wonderful country of deep canons and giant pines." _the heritage of the desert_ a lovely girl, who has been reared among mormons, learns to love a young new englander. the mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall become the second wife of one of the mormons--well, that's the problem of this great story. _the short stop_ the young hero, tiring of his factory grind, starts out to win fame and fortune as a professional ball player. his hard knocks at the start are followed by such success as clean sportsmanship, courage and honesty ought to win. _betty zane_ this story tells of the bravery and heroism of betty, the beautiful young sister of old colonel zane, one of the bravest pioneers. _the lone star ranger_ after killing a man in self defense, buck duane becomes an outlaw along the texas border. in a camp on the mexican side of the river, he finds a young girl held prisoner, and in attempting to rescue her, brings down upon himself the wrath of her captors and henceforth is hunted on one side by honest men, on the other by outlaws. _the border legion_ joan randle, in a spirit of anger, sent jim cleve out to a lawless western mining camp, to prove his mettle. then realizing that she loved him--she followed him out. on her way, she is captured by a bandit band, and trouble begins when she shoots kells, the leader--and nurses him to health again. here enters another romance--when joan, disguised as an outlaw, observes jim, in the throes of dissipation. a gold strike, a thrilling robbery--gambling and gun play carry you along breathlessly. _the last of the great scouts_ by helen cody wetmore and zane grey the life story of colonel william f. cody, "buffalo bill," as told by his sister and zane grey. it begins with his boyhood in iowa and his first encounter with an indian. we see "bill" as a pony express rider, then near fort sumter as chief of the scouts, and later engaged in the most dangerous indian campaigns. there is also a very interesting account of the travels of "the wild west" show. no character in public life makes a stronger appeal to the imagination of america than "buffalo bill," whose daring and bravery made him famous. scanned images of public domain material from the google print archive. the seven darlings [illustration: she stood stock-still, in plain view if they had looked her way] the seven darlings * * * * * by gouverneur morris * * * * * [illustration] with frontispiece by howard chandler christy * * * * * a. l. burt company publishers new york published by arrangements with charles scribner's sons copyright, 1915, by charles scribner's sons to hope davis the seven darlings i six of the darlings were girls. the seventh was a young man who looked like galahad and took exquisite photographs. their father had died within the month, and mr. gilpin, the lawyer, had just faced them, in family assembled, with the lamentable fact that they, who had been so very, very rich, were now astonishingly poor. "my dears," he said, "your poor father made a dreadful botch of his affairs. i cannot understand how some men----" "please!" said mary, who was the oldest. "it can't be any satisfaction to know why we are poor. tell us just how poor we are, and we'll make the best of it. i understand that the camp isn't involved in the general wreck." "it isn't," said mr. gilpin, "but you will have to sell it, or at least, rent it. outside the camp, when all the estate debts are paid, there will be thirty or forty thousand dollars to be divided among you." "in other words--_nothing_," said mary; "i have known my father to spend more in a month." "income--" began mr. gilpin. "_dear_ mr. gilpin," said gay, who was the youngest by twenty minutes; "don't." "forty thousand dollars," said mary, "at four per cent is sixteen hundred. sixteen hundred divided by seven is how much?" "nothing," said gay promptly. and all the family laughed, except arthur, who was trying to balance a quill pen on his thumb. "i might," said mr. gilpin helplessly, "be able to get you five per cent or even five and a half." "you forget," said maud, the second in age, and by some thought the first in beauty, "that we are father's children. do you think _he_ ever troubled his head about five and a half per cent, or even," she finished mischievously, "six?" arthur, having succeeded in balancing the quill for a few moments, laid it down and entered the discussion. "what has been decided?" he asked. his voice was very gentle and uninterested. "it's an awful pity mamma isn't in a position to help us," said eve. eve was the third. after her, arthur had been born; and then, all on a bright summer's morning, the triplets, lee, phyllis, and gay. "that old scalawag mamma married," said lee, "spends all her money on his old hunting trips." "where is the princess at the moment?" asked mr. gilpin. "they're in somaliland," said lee. "they almost took me. if they had, i shouldn't have called oducalchi an old scalawag. you know the most dismal thing, when mamma and papa separated and _she_ married _him_, was his turning out to be a regular old-fashioned brick. he can throw a fly yards further and lighter than any man _i_ ever saw." "and if you are bored," said phyllis, "you say to him, 'say something funny, prince,' and he always can, instantly, without hesitation." "all things considered," said gay, "mamma's been a very lucky girl." "still," said mary, "the fact remains that she's in no position to support us in the lap of luxury." "our kid brother," said gay, "the future prince oducalchi, will need all she's got. when you realize that that child will have something like fifty acres of slate roofs to keep in order, it sets you thinking." "one thing i insist on," said maud, "mamma shan't be bothered by a lot of hard-luck stories----" "did it ever occur to you, mr. gilpin," said arthur, in his gentle voice, "that my sisters are the six sandiest and most beautiful girls in the world? i've been watching them out of the corner of my eye, and wishing to heaven that i were romney or gainsborough. i'd give a million dollars, if i had them, for their six profiles, immortally painted in a row. but nowadays if a boy has the impulse to be a painter, he is given a camera; or if he wishes to be a musician, he is presented with a pianola. luxury is the executioner of art. personally i am so glad that i am going to be poor that i don't know what to do." "aren't you sorry for us, artie?" asked gay. "very," said he; "and i don't like to be called artie." * * * * * immediately after their father's funeral the darlings had hurried off to their camp on new moon lake. an adirondack "camp" has much in common with a newport "cottage." the darlings' was no exception. there was nothing camp-like about it except its situation and the rough bark slats with which the sides of its buildings were covered. there were very many buildings. there was darling house, in which the family had their sleeping-rooms and bathrooms and dressing-rooms. there was guide's house, where the guides, engineers, and handy men slept and cooked, and loafed in rainy weather. a passageway, roofed but open at the sides, led from darling house to dining house--one vast room, in the midst of which an oval table which could be extended to seat twenty was almost lost. heads of moose, caribou, and elk (not "caught" in the adirondacks) looked down from the walls. another room equally large adjoined this. it contained tables covered with periodicals; two grand pianos (so that mary and arthur could play duets without "bumping"); many deep and easy chairs, and a fireplace so large that when it was half filled with roaring logs it looked like the gates of hell, and was so called. pantry house and bar house led from dining house to smoke house, where an olive-faced chef, all in white, was surrounded by burnished copper and a wonderful collection of blue and white. there was work house with its bench, forge, and lathe for working wood and iron; power house adjoining; and on the slopes of the mountain back of the camp, spring house, from which water, ice-cold, at high pressure descended to circulate in the elaborate plumbing of the camp. for guests, there were little houses apart--rest house, two sleeping-rooms, a bath and a sitting-room; lone house, in which one person could sleep, keep clean, write letters, or bask on a tiny balcony thrust out between the stems of two pine-trees and overhanging deep water; bachelor house, to accommodate six of that questionable species. and placed here and there among pines that had escaped the attacks of nature and the greed of man were half a dozen other diminutive houses, accommodating from two to four persons. the camp was laid out like a little village. it had its streets, paved with pine-needles, its street lamps. it had grown from simple beginnings with the darling fortune; with the passing of this, it remained, in all its vast and intricate elaboration, like a white elephant upon the family's hands. from time to time they had tried the effect of giving the place a name, but had always come back to "the camp." as such it was known the length and breadth of the north woods. it was _the_ camp, par excellence, in a region devoted to camps and camping. "other people," the late mr. darling once remarked, "have more land, but nobody else has quite as much camp." the property itself consisted of a long, narrow peninsula thrust far out into new moon lake, with half a mountain rising from its base. with the exception of a small village at the outlet of the lake, all the remaining lands belonged to the state, and since the state had no immediate use for them and since the average two weeks' campers could not get at them without much portage and expense, they were regarded by the darlings as their own private preserves. "the camp," said mr. gilpin, "is, of course, a big asset. it is unique, and it is celebrated, at least among the people who might have the means to purchase it and open it. you could ask, and in time, i think, get a very large price." they were gathered in the playroom. mary, very tall and beautiful, was standing with her back to the fireplace. "mr. gilpin," she said, "i have been coming to the camp off and on for twenty-eight years. i will never consent to its being sold." "nor i," said maud. "though i've only been coming for twenty-six." "in twenty-four years," said eve, "i have formed an attachment to the place which nothing can break." "arthur," appealed mr. gilpin, "perhaps you have some sense." "i?" said arthur. "why? twenty-two years ago i was born here." "good old arthur!" exclaimed the triplets. "we were born here, too--just nineteen years ago." "but," objected mr. gilpin, "you can't run the place--you can't live here. confound it, you young geese, you can't even pay the taxes." lee whispered to gay. "look at mary!" "why?" "she's got a look of father in her eyes--father going down to wall street to raise cain." mary spoke very slowly. "mr. gilpin," she said, "you are an excellent estate lawyer, and i am very fond of you. but you know nothing about finance. we are going to live here whenever we please. we are going to run it wide open, as father did. we are even going to pay the taxes." mr. gilpin was exasperated. "then you'll have to take boarders," he flung at her. "exactly," said mary. there was a short silence. "how do you know," said gay, "that they won't pick their teeth in public? i couldn't stand that." "they won't be that kind," said mary grimly. "and they will be so busy paying their bills that they won't have time." "seriously," said arthur, "are you going to turn the camp into an inn?" "no," said mary, "not into an inn. it has always been _the_ camp. we shall turn it into _the_ inn." ii mr. gilpin had departed in what had perhaps been the late mr. darling's last extravagant purchase, a motor-boat which at rest was a streak of polished mahogany, and at full speed, a streak of foam. the reluctant lawyer carried with him instructions to collect as much cash as possible and place it to the credit of the equally reluctant arthur darling. "arthur," mary had agreed, "is perhaps the only one of us who could be made to understand that a bank account in his name is not necessarily at his own personal disposal. arthur is altruistically and don quixotically honest." it was necessary to warm the playroom with a tremendous fire, as october had changed suddenly from autumn to winter. there was a gusty grayness in the heavens that promised flurries of snow. since mary's proposal of the day before to turn the expensive camp into a profitable inn, the family had talked of little else, and a number of ways and means had already been chosen from the innumerable ones proposed. in almost every instance arthur had found himself an amused minority. his platform had been: "make them comfortable at a fair price." but mary, who knew the world, had retorted: "we are not appealing to people who consider what they pay but to people who only consider what they get. make them luxurious; and they will pay anything we choose to ask." after mr. gilpin's chillsome departure in the _streak_, the family resumed the discussion in front of the great fire in the playroom. wow, the dog, who had been running a deer for twenty-four hours in defiance of all game-laws, was present in the flesh, but his weary spirit was in the land of dreams, as an occasional barking and bristling of his mane testified. uncas, the chipmunk, had also demanded and received admittance to the council. for a time he had sat on arthur's shoulder, puffing his cheeks with inconceivable rapidity, then, soporifically inclined by the warmth of the fire and the constant strain incident to his attempts to understand the ins and outs of the english language when rapidly and even slangily spoken, he dropped into arthur's breast-pocket and went to sleep. arthur sighed. he was feeling immensely fidgety; but he knew that any sudden, irritable shifting of position would disturb the slumbers of uncas, and so for nearly an hour he held himself heroically, almost uncannily, still. two years ago, dating from his graduation, arthur had had a change of heart. he had been so dissipated as to give his family cause for the utmost anxiety. he had squandered money with both hands. he had had a regular time for lighting a cigarette, namely, when the one which he had been smoking was ready to be thrown away. he had been a keen hunter and fisherman. his chief use for domestic animals was to tease them and play tricks upon them. then suddenly, out of this murky sky, had shone the clear light of all his subsequent behavior. he neither drank nor smoked; he neither slaughtered deer nor caught fish. he was never quarrelsome. he went much into the woods to photograph and observe. he became almost too quiet and self-effacing for a young man. he asked nothing of the world--not even to be let alone. he was patient under the fiendish ministrations of bores. he tamed birds and animals, spoiling them, as grandparents spoil grandchildren, until they gave him no peace, and were always running to him at inconvenient times because they were hungry, because they were sleepy, because they thought somebody had been abusing them, or because they wished to be tickled and amused. "he's like a peaceful lake," maud had once said, "deep in the woods, where the wind never blows," and eve had nodded and said: "true. and there's a woman at the bottom of it." the sisters all believed that arthur's change of heart could be traced to a woman. they differed only as to the kind. "one of our kind," mary thought, "who wouldn't have him." "one of our kind," thought maud, "who couldn't have him." and the triplets thought differently every day. all except gay, who happened to know. "but," said maud, "if we are to appeal to people of our own class, all mamma's and papa's old friends and our own will come to us, and that will be much, too much, like charity." "right," said mary. "don't tell _me_ i haven't thought of that. i have. applications from old friends will be politely refused." "we can say," said eve, "that we are very sorry, but every room is taken." "but suppose they aren't?" objected arthur. eve retorted sharply. "what is that to do with it? we are running a business, not a bible class." but phyllis was pulling a long face. "aren't we ever to see any of our old friends any more?" lee and gay nudged each other and began to tease her. "dearest pill," they said, "all will yet be well. there is more than one geoffrey plantagenet in the world. you shall have the pick of all the handsome strangers." "oh, come, now!" said arthur, "phyllis is right. now and then we must have guests--who don't pay." "not until we can afford them," said mary. "has anybody seen the sketch-map that papa made of the buildings?" "i know where it is," said arthur, "but i can't get it now; because wow needs my feet for a pillow and at the moment uncas is very sound asleep." "can't you _tell_ us where it is?" "certainly," he said; "it's in the safe. the safe is locked." "and where is the key?" "just under uncas." "very well, then," said mary, "important business must wait until stripes wakes up. meanwhile, i think we ought to make up our minds how and how much to advertise." "there are papers," said eve, "that all wealthy americans always see, and then there's that english paper with all the wonderful advertisements of country places for sale or to let. i vote for a full-page ad in that. people will say, 'jove, this must be a wonderful proposition if it pays 'em to advertise it in an english paper.'" everybody agreed with eve except arthur. he merely smiled with and at her. "we can say," said eve, "shooting and fishing over a hundred thousand acres. does the state own as much as that, arthur?" he nodded, knowing the futility of arguing with the feminine conscience. "two hundred thousand?" he nodded again. "then," said eve, "make a note of this, somebody." maud went to the writing-table. "shooting and fishing over hundreds of thousands of acres." "there must be pictures," said maud, "in the text of the ad--the place is full of them; and if they won't do, arthur can take others--when wow and uncas wake up." "there must be that picture after the opening of the season," said mary, "the year the party got nine bucks--somebody make a point of finding that picture." "there are some good strings of trout and bass photographically preserved," said gay. "a picture of chef in his kitchen will appeal," said lee. "so will interiors," said maud. "bedrooms with vistas of plumbing. let's be honestly grateful to papa for all the money he spent on porcelain and silver plate." "oh, come," said mary, "we must advertise in the american papers, too. i think we should spend a good many thousand dollars. and of course we must do away with the big table in the dining-house and substitute little tables. i propose that we ransack the place for photographs, and that maud try her hand at composing full-page ads. and, arthur, please don't forget the sketch plan of the buildings--we'll have to make quite a lot of alterations." "i've thought of something," said maud. "just a line. part of the ad, of course, mentions prices. now i think if we say prices from so and so up--it looks cheap and commonplace. at the bottom of the ad, then, after we've described all the domestic comforts of the camp and its sporting opportunities, let's see if we can't catch the _clientã¨le_ we are after with this: "'prices rather high.'" "maud," said mary, after swift thought, "your mind is as clear as a gem. just think how that line would have appealed to papa if he'd been looking into summer or winter resorts. make a note of it-what are you two whispering about?" lee and gay looked up guiltily. they had not only been whispering but giggling. they said: "nothing. absolutely nothing." but presently they put on sweaters and rowed off in a guide boat, so that they might converse without fear of being observed. "sure you've got it?" asked lee. "umm," said gay, "sure." they giggled. "and you think we're not just plain conceited?" "my dear lee," said gay, "mary, maud, and eve are famous for their faces and their figgers--have been for years, poor old things. well, in my candid opinion, you and phyllis are better-looking in every way. i look at you two from the cool standpoint of a stranger, and i tell you that you are incomparably good-looking." lee laughed with mischievous delight. "and you look so exactly like us," she said, "that strangers can't tell us apart." "for myself," said gay demurely, "i claim nothing. absolutely nothing. but you and pill are certainly as beautiful as you are young." "for the sake of argument, then," said lee, "let's admit that we six sisters considered as a collection are somewhat alluring to the eye. well--when the mail goes with the ads maud is making up, we'll go with it, and make such changes in the choice of photographs as we see fit." "that won't do," said gay. "there will be proofs to correct." "then we'll wait till the proofs are corrected and sent off." "yes. that will be the way. it would be a pity for the whole scheme to fall through for lack of brains. i suppose the others would never agree?" "the girls _might_," said lee, "but arthur never. he would rise up like a lion. you know, deep down in his heart he's a frightful stickler for the proprieties." "we shall get ourselves into trouble." "it will not be the first or the last time. and besides, we can escape to the woods if necessary, like bessie belle and mary grey." "who were they?" "'they were two bonnie lassies. they built a house on yon burn brae and thecht it o'er wi' rashes.'" iii if we except arthur, whose knowledge of the adirondack woods and waters was that of a naturalist, lee and gay were the sportsmen of the family. they had begun to learn the arts of fishing and hunting from excellent masters at the tender age of five. they knew the deeps and shallows of every lake and brook within many miles as intimately as a good housewife knows the shelves in her linen closet. they talked in terms of blazes, snags, spring holes, and runways. each owned a guide boat, incomparably light, which she could swing to her shoulders and carry for a quarter of a mile without blowing. if lee was the better shot, gay could throw the more seductive fly. there had been a guide in the girls' extreme youth, a frenchman, pierre amadis de troissac, who had perhaps begun life as a gentleman. whatever his history, he had taught the precious pair the rudiments of french and the higher mysteries of fishing. he had made a special study of spring holes, an essential in adirondack trout-fishing, and whenever the darlings wanted trout, it had only been necessary to tell de troissac how many they wanted and to wait a few hours. on those occasions when he went fishing for the larder, lee and gay, two little roly-polies with round, innocent eyes, often accompanied him. it never occurred to de troissac that the children could mark down the exact places from which he took fish, and, one by one and quite unintentionally, he revealed to them the hard-won secrets of his spring holes. the knowledge, however, went no further. they would have told phyllis, of course, if she had been a sport. but she wasn't. she resembled lee and gay almost exactly in all other ways; but the spirit of pursuit and capture was left out of her. twice she had upset a boat because a newly landed bass had suddenly begun to flop in the bottom of it, and once, coming accidentally upon a guide in the act of disembowelling a deer, she had gone into hysterics. she could row, carry a boat, swim, and find the more travelled trails; but, as lee and gay said: "pill would starve in the woods directly the season was over." she couldn't discharge even a twenty-two calibre rifle without shutting her eyes; she couldn't throw a fly twenty feet without snarling her leader. the more peaceful arts of out-of-doors had excited her imagination and latent skill. in the heart of the woods, back of the camp, not to be seen or even suspected until you came suddenly upon it, she had an acre of gardens under exquisite cultivation, and not a little glass. she specialized in nectarines, white muscats of alexandria, new peas, and heaven-blue larkspur. but, for the sake of others, she grew to perfection beets, sweet corn, the lilies in variety, and immense japanese iris. as the camp was to be turned into an inn which should serve its guests with delicious food, phyllis and her garden became of immense importance and she began to sit much apart, marking seed catalogues with one end of a pencil and drumming on her beautiful teeth with the other. negotiations had been undertaken with a number of periodicals devoted to outdoor life, and a hundred schemes for advertising had been boiled down to one, which even arthur was willing to let stand. to embody mary's ideas of a profitable proposition into a page of advertising without being too absurd or too "cheap," had proved extremely difficult. "we will run the inn," she said, "so that rich people will live very much as they would if they were doing the running. one big price must cover all the luxuries of home. we must eliminate all extras--everything which is a nuisance or a trouble. except for the trifling fact that we receive pay for it, we must treat them exactly as papa used to treat his guests. he gave his guests splendid food of his own ordering. when they wanted cigars or cigarettes, they helped themselves. there was always champagne for dinner, but if men preferred whiskey and soda, they told the butler, and he saw that they got it. what i'm driving at is this: there must be no difference in price for a guest who drinks champagne and one who doesn't drink anything. and more important still, we must do all the laundering without extra charge; guides, guide boats, guns, and fishing-tackle must be on tap--just as papa had everything for his guests. the one big price must include absolutely everything." added to this general idea, it was further conveyed in the final advertisement that the shooting was over hundreds of thousands of acres and the fishing in countless lakes and streams. and the last line of the ad, as had been previously agreed, was this: "prices rather high." and, as gay said to lee: "if that doesn't fetch 'em--you and i know something that maybe will." the full-page ad began and ended with a portrait of uncas, the chipmunk, front view, sitting up, his cheeks puffed to the bursting point. the centre of the page was occupied by a rather large view of the camp and many of the charming little buildings which composed it, taken from the lake. throughout the text were scattered reproductions--strings of trout, a black bear, nine deer hanging in a row, and other seductions to an out-of-door life. for lovers of good food there was a tiny portrait of the chef and adjoining it a photograph of the largest bunch of white muscats that had ever matured in phyllis's vinery. a few days before the final proofs began to come in from the advertising managers, there arrived, addressed to gay, a package from a firm in new york which makes a specialty of developing and printing photographs for amateurs. gay concealed the package, but lee had noted its existence, and sighed with relief. a little later she found occasion to take gay aside. "was the old film all right? did they print well?" gay nodded. "it always was a wonderful picture," she said. "us for the tall timber," she said--"when they come out." the final proofs being corrected and enveloped, gay and lee, innocent and bored of face, announced that, as there was nothing to do, they thought they would row the mail down to the village. it was a seven-mile row, but that was nothing out of the ordinary for them and it was arranged that the _streak_ should be sent after them in case they showed signs of being late for lunch. gay rowed with leisurely strokes, while lee, seated in the stern, busied herself with a pair of scissors and a pot of paste. she was giving the finally corrected proofs that still more final correcting which she and gay had agreed to be necessary. they had decided that the centrepiece of the advertisement--a mere general view of the camp--though very charming in its way, "meant nothing," and they had made up their unhallowed minds to substitute in its place one of those "fortunate snap-shots," the film of which gay had--happened to preserve. in this photograph the six darling sisters were seated in a row, on the edge of the camp float. their feet and ankles were immersed. they wore black bathing-dresses, exactly alike, and the bathing-dresses were of rather thin material--and very, very wet. the six exquisite heads perched on the six exquisite figures proved a picture which, as lee and gay admitted, might cause even a worthy young man to leave home and mother. it was not until they were half-way home that lee suddenly cried aloud and hid her face in her hands. "for heaven's sake," exclaimed gay, "trim boat, and what's the matter anyway?" "matter?" exclaimed lee; "that picture of us sits right on top of the line _prices rather high_. and it's too late to do anything about it!" gay turned white and then red, and then she burst out laughing. "'tis awful," she said, "but it will certainly fetch 'em." iv the camp itself underwent numerous changes during the winter; and even the strong-hearted mary was appalled by the amount of money which it had been found necessary to expend. the playroom would, of course, be reserved for the use of guests, and a similar though smaller and inferior room had been thrust out from the west face of darling house for the use of the family. then maud, who had volunteered to take charge of all correspondence and accounts, had insisted that an office be built for her near the dock. this was mostly shelves, a big fireplace, and a table. here guests would register upon arrival; here the incoming mail would be sorted and the outgoing weighed and stamped. it had also been found necessary, in view of the very large prospective wash, to enlarge and renovate laundry house and provide sleeping quarters for a couple of extra laundresses. those who are familiar with the scarcity and reluctance of labor in the adirondacks will best understand how these trifling matters bit into the darling capital. sometimes mary, who held herself responsible for the possible failure of the projected inn, could not sleep at night. suppose that the advertising, which would cost thousands of dollars, should fall flat? suppose that not a single solitary person should even nibble at the high prices? the darlings might even find themselves dreadfully in debt. the camp would have to go. she suffered from nightmares, which are bad, and from daymares, which are worse. then one day, brought across the ice from the village of carrytown at the lower end of the lake, she received the following letter: miss darling, the camp, new moon lake in the adirondacks, new york. dear madam:--yesterday morning, quite by accident, i saw the prospectus of your inn on the desk of mr. burns, the advertising manager of _the four seasons_. i note with regret that you are not opening until the first of july. would it not be possible for you to receive myself and a party of guests very much earlier, say just when the ice has gone out of the lake and the trout are in the warm shallows along the shores? personally, it is my plan to stay on with you for the balance of the season, provided, of course, that all your accommodations have not been previously taken. with regard to prices, i note only that they are "rather high." i would suggest that, as it would probably inconvenience you to receive guests prior to the date set for the formal opening of your camp, you name a rate for three early weeks which would be profitable to you. there will be six men in my party, including myself. very truly yours, samuel langham. mary, her face flushed with the bright colors of triumph, read this letter aloud to the assembled family. "does anybody," she asked, "know anything about samuel langham? is he a suitable person?" "i know of him," said arthur, smiling at some recollection or other. "he is what the newspapers call a 'well-known clubman.' he is rich, fat, good-natured, and not old. it is that part of your prospectus which touches upon the _cuisine_ that has probably affected him. his father was a large holder of standard oil securities." "as for me," said gay, "i've seen him. do you remember, phyllis, being asked to a most 'normous dinner dance at the redburns' the year we came out? at the last minute you caught cold and wanted to back out, but mary said _that_ wasn't done, and so i went in your place, and, as usual, nobody knew the difference. well, mr. langham was there. i didn't meet him, but i remember i watched him eat. he is very smug-looking. he didn't like the champagne. i remember that. he lifted his glass hopefully, took one swallow, put his glass down, and never touched it again. his face for the rest of dinner had the expression of one who has been deeply wronged. i thought of louis xvi mounting the scaffold." "i do wish," said mary, "that we knew what kind of wine the creature likes." "father left a splendid collection," said arthur. "take mr. langham into the cellar. he'll enjoy that. let him pick his own bottle." in the event, maud sat down in her new office and wrote mr. langham that he and his five guests could be received earlier in the season. and then, with fear and trembling, she named a price _per diem_ that amounted to highway robbery. mr. langham's answer was prompt and cheerful. he asked merely to be notified when the ice had gone out of the lake. "well," said mary, with a long-drawn sigh of relief, "the prices don't seem to have frightened him nearly as much as they frightened us. but, after all, the prospectus was alluring--though we say it that shouldn't." lee and gay were troubled by qualms of conscience. the advertisements of the camp were to appear in the february number of some of the more important periodicals, and the two scapegraces were beginning to be horribly alarmed. magazines have a way of being received last by those most interested in seeing them. and before even a copy of _the four seasons_ reached the darlings, there came a number of letters from people who had already seen the advertisement in it. one letter was from a very old friend of the family, and ran as follows: my dear mary: how could you! i have seen your advertisement of the camp in _the four seasons_. it is earning much talk and criticism. i don't know what you could have been thinking of. i have always regarded you as one of the sanest and best-bred women i know. but it seems that you are not above sacrificing your own dignity to financial gain---"well, in the name of all that's ridiculous," exclaimed mary; "of all that's impertinent!--will somebody kindly tell me what my personality has to do with our prospectus of the camp?" those who could have told her held their tongues and quaked inwardly. the others joined in mary's surprise and indignation. even arthur, who hated the whole innkeeping scheme, was roused out of his ordinary placidity. "i shall write to the horrid old woman," said mary, "and tell her to mind her own business. i shall also tell her that we are receiving so many applications for accommodations that we don't know how to choose. that isn't quite true, of course; but we have received some. since i am not above sacrificing my dignity"--she went on angrily--"to financial gain, i may as well throw a few lies into the bargain." the next day, addressed to "the camp," came the long-expected number of _the four seasons_. arthur opened it and began to turn the leaves. presently, from the centre of a page, he saw his six beautiful sisters looking him in the face. "mary!" he called, in such a voice that she came running. she looked and turned white. eve came, and maud and phyllis. "who is responsible for this--" cried arthur, "for this sickening--this degraded piece of mischief?" "you corrected the final proofs yourself," said maud. "and sealed them up. if i find that some mischief-maker in the office of _the four seasons_ has been playing tricks----" "the mischief-makers are to be found nearer home," said mary. "don't you remember that lee and gay took the proofs to the post-office. they said they were bored and could think of nothing to do. _this_ is what they were thinking of doing!" "where are they?" he said in a grim voice. "now, arthur," said maud, "think before you say anything to them that you may regret. as for the picture of us in our bathing-suits--well, i, for one, don't see anything dreadful about it. in fact, i think we look rather lovely." arthur groaned. "i want to talk to lee and gay," he said. "my sisters--an advertisement in a magazine--for drummers and newsboys to make jokes about----" he grew white and whiter, until his innocent sisters were thoroughly frightened. then he started out of the playroom in search of lee and gay. in or about the camp they were not to be found. nobody had seen them since breakfast. with this information, he returned to the playroom. "they've run away," he said, "and i'm going after them." "i wouldn't," said mary. "the harm's been done. you can't very well spank them. i wish you could. you can only scold--and what earthly good will that do them, or you?" "i don't know that anything i may say," said arthur, "_will_ do them any good. i live in hopes." "have you any idea where they've gone?" "i'll cast about in a big circle and find their tracks." when arthur, mittened and snow-shoed, had departed in search of lee and gay, the remaining sisters gathered about the full-page advertisement in _the four seasons_, and passed rapidly from anger to mild hysterics. mary was the last to laugh. and she said: "girls, i will tell you an awful secret. i never would have consented to this, but as long as lee and gay have gone and done it, i'm--_glad_." "the only thing _i_ mind," said eve, "is arthur. he'll take it hard." "we can't help that," said maud. "business is business. and this wretched, shocking piece of mischief spells success. i feel it in my bones. there's no use being silly about ourselves. we've got our way to make in the world--and, as a sextet----" she lingered over the picture. "as a sextet, there's no use denying that we are rather lovely to look at." phyllis put in a word blindly. "maud," she said, "among the applications you have received, how many are from women?" maud laughed aloud. "none," she said. "there wouldn't be," said eve. "well," said mary, "compared to the rest of you, i'm quite an old woman, and i say--so much the better." v even on going into the open air from a warmed room, it would not have struck you as a cold day. but thermometers marked a number of degrees worse than zero. the sky was bright and blue. not a breath of wind stirred. in the woods the underbrush was hidden by the smooth accumulations of snow, so that the going was open. the adirondack winter climate is such that a man runs less risk of getting too cold than of getting too warm. arthur, moving swiftly in a great circle so that at some point he should come upon the tracks of his culprit sisters, shed first his mittens and then his coat. the former he thrust into his trousers pocket, and he hung the latter to a broken limb where he could easily find it on his return. "there would be some sense in running away in summer," he thought. "it would take an indian or a dog to track them then, but in winter--i gave them credit for more sense." he came upon the outgoing marks of their snow-shoes presently, just beyond phyllis's garden, to the north of the camp. in imagination he saw the two lithe young beauties striding sturdily and tirelessly over the snow, and then and there the extreme pinnacles of his anger toppled and fell. there is no occupation to which a maiden may lend herself so virginal as woodmanship. and he fell to thinking less of his young sisters' indiscretion than of the extreme and unsophisticated innocence which had led them into it. what could girls know of men, anyway? what did his sisters know of him? that he had been extravagant and rather fast. had they an inkling of what being rather fast meant? his smooth forehead contracted with painful thoughts. even mary's indignation upon the discovery of the photograph in _the four seasons_ had not matched his own. she had been angry because she was a gentlewoman, and gentlewomen shun publicity. she had not even guessed at the degradation to which broadcast pictures of beautiful women are subjected. his anger turned from his sisters presently and glowered upon the whole world of men; his hands closed to strike, and opened to clutch and choke. that lee and gay had done such a thing was earnest only of innocence coupled with mischief. they must know that what they had done was wrong, since they had fled from any immediate consequences, but how wrong it was they could never dream, even in nightmares. nor was it possible for him to explain. how, then, could any anger which he might visit upon them benefit? and who was he, when it came to that, to assume the unassailable morality of a parent? it came to this: that arthur followed the marks of lee's and gay's snow-shoes mechanically, and raged, not against them, not against the world of men, but against himself. he had said once in jest that many an artistic impulse had been crushed by the camera and the pianola. but how pitifully true this had been in his own case! if he had been born into less indulgence, he might have painted, he might have played. the only son in a large family of daughters, his father and mother had worshipped the ground upon which his infant feet had trod. he had never known what it was to want anything. he had never been allowed to turn a hand to his own honest advantage. he was the kind of boy who, under less golden circumstances, would have saved his pocket-money and built with his own hands a boat or whatever he needed. there is a song: "i want what i want when i want it." arthur might have sung: "i get what i'm going to want and then i don't want it." his contemporaries had greatly envied him, when, as a mere matter of justice, they should have pitied him. all his better impulses had been gnarled by indulgence. he had done things that showed natural ability; but of what use was that? he was too old now to learn to draw. he played rather delightfully upon the piano, or any other instrument, for that matter. to what end? he could not read a note. there was nothing that arthur could not have done, if he had been let alone. there were many things that he would have done. at college he had seen in one smouldering flash of intuition how badly he had started in the race of life. when others were admiring his many brilliancies, he was mourning for the lost years when, under almost any guidance save that of his beloved father, he might have laid such sturdy foundations to future achievements--pedestals on which to erect statues. self-knowledge had made him hard for a season and cynical. as a tired sea-gull miscalculates distance and dips his wings into the sea, so arthur, when he thought that he was merely flying low the better to see and to observe, had alighted without much struggling in a pool of dissipation and vice. the memory was more of a weariness to him than a sharp regret. of what use is remorse--after the fact? let it come before and all will be well. at last, more by accident than design, he drew out of the muddy ways into which he had fallen and limped off--not so much toward better things as away from worse. then it was that romance had come for him, and carried him on strong wings upward toward the empyrean. even now, she was only twenty. she had married a man more than twice her age. he had been her guardian, and she had felt that it was her duty. her marriage proved desperately unhappy. she and arthur met, and, as upon a signal, loved. for a few weeks of one golden summer, they had known the ethereal bliss of seeing each other every day. they met as little children, and so parted. they accepted the law and convention which stood between them, not as a barrier to be crossed or circumvented but with childlike faith as a something absolutely impassable--like the space which separates the earth and the moon. they remained utterly innocent in thought and deed, merely loved and longed and renounced so very hard that their poor young hearts almost broke. not so the "old man." it happened, in the autumn of that year, that he brought his wife to new york, in whose wall street he had intricate interests. he learned that she was by way of seeing more of arthur than a girl of eighteen married to a man of nearly fifty ought to see. he did not at once burst into coarse abuse of her, but, worldly-wise, set detectives to watch her. he had, you may say, set his heart upon her guilt. to learn that she was utterly innocent enraged him. one day he had the following conversation with a mr. may, of a private detective bureau: "you followed them?" "to the park." "well?" "they bought a bag of peanuts and fed the squirrels." "go on." "then they rode in a swan-boat. then they walked up to the reservoir and around it. then they came back to the hotel." "did they separate in the office?" "on the sidewalk." "but last night? she said she was dining with her sister and going to the play. what did she do last night?" "she did what she said. believe me, sir--if i know anything of men and women, you're paying me to run fool's errands for you. _they_ don't need any watching." "you have seen them--kiss?" "never." "hold hands?" "i haven't seen any physical demonstration. i guess they like each other a lot. and that's all there is to it." but the "old man" made a scene with her, just such a scene as he would have made if the detective's report had been, in effect, the opposite of what it was. he assumed that she was guilty; but, for dread of scandal, he would not seek a divorce. he exacted a promise that she would not see arthur, or write to him, or receive letters from him. then, having agreed with certain magnates to go out to china upon the question of a great railroad and a great loan, he carried her off with him, then and there. so that when arthur called at the hotel, he was told that they had gone but that there was a note for him. if it was from the wife, the husband had dictated it: don't try to see me ever any more. if you do, it will only make my life a hell on earth. that had been the tangible end of arthur's romance. but the intangible ends were infinite and not yet. his whole nature had changed. he had suffered and could no longer bear to inflict pain. he lifted his head and looked up a little slope of snow. near the top, wonderfully rosy and smiling, sat his culprit sisters. he had forgotten why he had come. he smiled in his sudden embarrassment. "don't shoot, colonel," called gay, "and we'll come down." "promise, then," he said, "that you'll never be naughty again." "we promise," they said. and they trudged back to camp, with jokes and laughter and three very sharp appetites. vi beyond seeing to it that the alluring picture of his sisters should not appear in any future issues of the magazines, arthur did not refer to the matter again. the girls, more particularly lee and gay, always attributed the instant success of the camp to the picture; but it is sanely possible that an inn run upon such very extravagant principles was bound to be a success anyway. america is full of people who will pay anything for the comforts of home with the cares and exasperations left out. a majority of the early applications received at the camp office, and politely rejected by maud, were from old friends of the family, who were eagerly willing to give its fallen finances a boost. but the girls were determined that their scheme should stand upon its own meritorious feet or not at all. * * * * * when samuel langham learned that the ice was going out of new moon lake, he wrote that he would arrive at carrytown at such and such an hour, and begged that a boat of some sort might be there to meet him. his guests, he explained, would follow in a few days. "dear me," said maud, "it will be very trying to have him alone--just like a real guest. if he'd only bring his friends with him, why, they could entertain him. as it is, we'll have to. because, even if we are innkeepers now, we belong to the same station in life that he does, and he knows it and we know it. i don't see how we can ever have the face to send in a bill afterward." "i don't either," said mary, "but we must." "i've never pictured him," said arthur, "as a man who would brave early spring in the adirondacks for the sake of a few trout." "i bet you my first dividend," said lee, "that his coat is lined with sable." it was. as the _streak_, which had gone to carrytown to meet him, slid for the dock (his luggage was to follow in the _tortoise_, a fatter, slower power-boat), there might have been seen standing amidships a tall, stout gentleman of about thirty-six or more, enveloped in a handsome overcoat lined with sable. he wore thick eye-glasses which the swiftness of the _streak_'s going had opaqued with icy mist, so that for the moment mr. samuel langham was blind as a mole. nevertheless, determined to enjoy whatever the experience had in store for him, he beamed from right to left, as if a pair of keen eyes were revealing to him unexpected beauties and delights. arthur, loathing the rã´le, was on the float to meet him. on hearing himself addressed by name, mr. samuel langham removed one of his fur-lined gloves and thrust forward a plump, well-groomed hand. "i believe that i am shaking hands with mr. darling," he said in a slow, cultivated voice; "but my glasses are blurred and i cannot see anything. is my foot going for the float--or the water?" "step boldly," said arthur; and, in a hurried aside, as he perceived the corner of a neatly folded greenback protruding between two of mr. langham's still-gloved fingers: "you are not to be subjected to the annoyance of the tipping system. we pay our servants extra to make the loss up to them." mr. langham's mouth, which was rather like a cupid's bow, tightened. and he handed the greenback to the engineer of the _streak_, just as if arthur's remonstrance had not been spoken. on the way to the office he explained. "whenever i go anywhere," he said, "i find persons in humble situations who smile at me and wish me well. i smile back and wish them well. it is because, at some time or other, i have tipped them. to me the system has never been an annoyance but a delightful opportunity for the exercise of tact and judgment." he came to a dead halt, planting his feet firmly. "i shall be allowed to tip whomsoever i like," he said flatly, "or i shan't stay." "our ambition," said arthur stiffly, "is to make our guests comfortable. our rule against tipping is therefore abolished." they entered the office. mr. langham could now see, having wiped the fog from his glasses. he saw a lovely girl in black, seated at a table facing him. beyond her was a roaring fire of backlogs. arthur presented mr. langham. "are you frozen?" asked maud. "too cold to write your name in our brand-new register?" he took the pen which she offered him and wrote his name in a large, clear hand, worthy of john hancock. "it's the first name in the book," he said. "it's always been a very lucky name for me. i hope it will be for you." arthur had escaped. "there is one more formality," said maud: "breakfast." "i had a little something in my car," said mr. langham; "but if it wouldn't be too much trouble--er--just a few little eggs and things." "how would it be," said maud, "if i took you straight to the kitchen? my sister mary presides there, and you shall tell her exactly what you want, and she will see that you get it." a rosy blush mounted mr. langham's good-natured face. "oh," he said, with the deepest sincerity, "if i am to have the _entrã©e_ to the kitchen, i shall be happy. i will tell you a secret. at my club i always breakfast in the kitchen. it's against the rules, but i do it. a friendly chef--beds of glowing charcoal--burnished copper--piping-hot tidbits." it was up-hill to smoke house, and mr. langham, in his burdensome overcoat, grew warm on the way, and was puffing slightly when he got there. "mary," maud called--"mr. langham!" "the kitchen is the foundation of all domestic happiness," said he. "i have come to yours as fast as i could. i think--i _know_, that i never saw a brighter, happier-looking kitchen." he knew also that he had never seen so beautiful a presiding deity. "your sister," he said, "told me that i could have a little breakfast right here." and he repeated the statement concerning his club kitchen. "of course, you can!" said mary. "just a few eggs," he said, "and if there's anything green----" they called the chef. he was very happy because the season had begun. he assigned mr. langham a seat from which to see and at which to be served, then with the wrist-and-finger elegance of a prestidigitator, he began to prepare a few eggs and something green. "the trout--" mary began dutifully, as it was for the sake of these that mr. langham had ostensibly come so early in the season. "trout?" he said. "the fishing--" she made a new beginning. "the fishing, miss darling," he said, "will be of interest to my friends. for my part, i don't fish. i have, in common with the kind of boat from which fishing is done, nothing but the fact that we are both ticklish. i saw your prospectus. i said: 'i shall be happy there, and well taken care of.' something told me that i should be allowed to breakfast in the kitchen. the more i thought about it the less i felt that i could wait for the somewhat late opening of your season, so i pretended to be a fisher of trout. and here i am. but, mark you," he added, "a few trout on the table now and then--i like that!" "you shall have them," said mary, "and you shall breakfast in the kitchen. i do--always." "do you?" he exclaimed. "why not together, then?" his eyes shone with pleasure. "i should be too early for you," she said. "you don't know me. is it ever too early to eat? because i am stout, people think i have all the moribund qualities that go with it. as a matter of fact, i rise whenever, in my judgment, the cook is dressed and down. is it gross to be fond of food? so many people think so. i differ with them. not to care what you eat is gross--in my way of thinking. is there anything, for instance, more fresh in coloring, more adequate in line, than a delicately poached egg on a blue-and-white plate? you call this building smoke house? i shall always be looking in. do you mind?" "indeed we don't," said mary. "do we, chef?" chef laid a finger to his lips. it was no time for talk. "never disturb a sleeping child or a cooking egg," was one of his maxims. "i knew that i should be happy here," said mr. langham. "i am." whenever he had a chance he gazed at mary. it was her face in the row of six that had lured him out of all his habits and made him feel that the camp offered him a genuine chance for happiness. to find that she presided over the kitchen had filled his cup to the brim. but when he remembered that he was fat and fond of good things to eat and drink, his heart sank. he determined that he would eat but three eggs. they were, however, prepared in a way that was quite new to him, and in the determined effort to discern the ingredients and the method he ate five. "there is something very keen about your adirondack air," he explained guiltily. but mary had warmed to him. her heart and her reputation were involved in the _cuisine_. she knew that the better you feed people the more they love you. she was not revolted by mr. langham's appetite. she felt that even a canary of a man must have fallen before the temptation of those eggs. they were her own invention. and chef had executed them to the very turn of perfection. almost from the moment of his arrival, then, mr. samuel langham began to eat his way into the heart of the eldest miss darling. in culinary matters a genuine intimacy sprang up between them. they exchanged ideas. they consulted. they compared menus. they mastered the contents of the late mr. darling's cellars. mr. langham chose lone house for his habitation. he liked the little balcony that thrust out over the lake between the two pine-trees. and by the time that his guests were due to arrive, he had established himself, almost, in the affections of the entire family. "he may be greedy," said arthur, "but he's the most courteous man that ever 'sat at meat among ladies'!" "he's got the kindest heart," said mary, "that ever beat." vii mr. langham's five guests arrived somewhat noisily, smoking five long cigars. lee and gay, watching the float from a point of vantage, where they themselves were free from observation, observed that three of the trout fishermen were far older than they had led themselves to expect. "that leaves only one for us," said gay. "why?" "can't you see from here that the fifth is an englishman?" "yes," said lee. "his clothes don't fit, and yet he feels perfectly comfortable in them." "it isn't so much the clothes," said gay, "as the face. the other faces are excited because they have ridden fast in a fast boat, though they've probably often done it before. now he's probably never been in a fast boat in his life till to-day, and yet he looks thoroughly bored." the englishman without changing his expression made some remark to the other five. they roared. the englishman blushed, and looked vaguely toward a dark-blue mountain that rose with some grandeur beyond the farther shore of the lake. "do you suppose," said lee, "that what he said was funny or just dumb?" "i think it was funny," said gay, "but purely accidental." "i think i know the other youth," said lee; "i think i have danced with him. didn't mr. langham say there was a renier among his guests?" "h. l.," gay assented. "that's the one," lee remembered. "harry larkins renier. we have danced. if he doesn't remember, he shall be snubbed. i like the old guy with the mark twain hair." "don't you know _him_? i do. i have seen his picture often. he's the editor of the _evening star_. won't arthur be glad!" "what's his name?" "walter leyden o'malley. he's the literary descendant of the great dana. don't talk to me, child; i know a great deal." gay endeavored to assume the look of an encyclopã¦dia and failed. "mr. langham," said lee, "mentioned three other names, alston, pritchard, and cox. which do you suppose is which?" "i think that pritchard is the very tall one who looks like a kentucky colonel; cox is the one with the very large face; of course, the englishman is alston." "i don't." "we can find out from maud." when the new arrivals, escorted by arthur and mr. langham, had left the office, lee and gay hurried in to look at their signatures and to consult maud as to identities. the kentucky-colonel-looking man proved to be alston. cox had the large face, and the englishman--john arthur merrivale pritchard, as was to be expected--wrote the best hand. mr. o'malley, the famous editor, wrote the worst. his signature looked as if it had been traced by an inky worm writhing in agony. "tell us at once," gay demanded, "what they are like." maud regarded her frolicsome sisters with inscrutable eyes, and said: "at first, you think that mr. cox is a heartless old cynic, but when you get to know him really well--i remember an instance that occurred in the early sixties----" "oh, dry up!" said lee. "are they nice and presentable, like fat old sam langham?" "the three old ones," said maud, "made me think of three very young boys just loose from school. messrs. renier and pritchard, however, seem more used to holidays. there is, however, a complication. all five wish to go fishing as soon as they can change into fishing clothes, and there aren't enough guides to go around." "what's the trouble?" asked gay eagerly. "bullard," maud explained, "has sent word that his wife is having a baby, and benton has gone up to crotched lake west to see if the ice is out of it. that leaves only three guides to go around. benton oughtn't to have gone. nobody told him to. but he once read the declaration of independence, and every now and then the feeling comes over him that he must act accordingly." "but," exclaimed lee, "what's the matter with gay and me?" "nothing, i hope," said maud; "you look well. i trust you feel well." "we want to be guides," said gay; "we want to be useful. hitherto we've done nothing to help. mary works like a slave in the kitchen; you here. eve will never leave the laundry once the wash gets big. phyllis has her garden, in which things will begin to grow by and by, but we--we have no excuse for existence--none whatever. now, i could show mr. renier where the chances of taking fish are the best." "no," said lee firmly; "i ought to guide him. it's only fair. he once guided me--i've always remembered--bang into a couple who outweighed us two to one, and down we went." "mary will hardly approve of you youngsters going on long expeditions with strange young men," maud was quite sure; "and, of course, arthur won't." lee and gay began to sulk. at that moment arthur came into the office. "halloo, you two!" he said. "been looking for you, and even shouting. the fact is, we're short of guides, and mary and i think----" lee and gay burst into smiles. "what did we tell you, maud? of course, we will. there are no wiser guides in this part of the woods." "that," said arthur, "is a fact. the older men looked alarmed when i suggested that two of my sisters--you see, they've always had native-born woodsmen and even indians----" "then," said lee, "we are to have the guileless youths. i speak for renier." "meanie," said gay. "lee ought to have first choice," said arthur. "it's always been supposed that lee is your senior by a matter of twenty minutes." "true or not," said gay, "she looks it. then i'm to guide the englishman." "if you don't mind." arthur regarded her, smiling. he couldn't help it. she was _so_ pretty. "and i'd advise you not to be too eager to show off. mr. pritchard has hunted and fished more than all of us put together." "that little pink-faced snip!" exclaimed gay. "i'll sure see how much he knows." half an hour later she was rowing him leisurely in the direction of placid brook, and examining his somewhat remarkable outfit with wondering eyes. this was not difficult, since his own eyes, which were clear brown, and very shy, were very much occupied in looking over the contents of the large-tackle box. "if you care to rig your rod," said gay presently, "and cast about as we go, you might take something between here and the brook." "do you mean," he said, "that you merely throw about you at random, and that it is possible to take fish?" "of course," said she--"when they are rising." "but then the best one could hope for," he drawled, "would be indiscriminate fish." "just what do you mean by that?" "why!"--and this time he looked up and smiled very shyly--"if you were after elephant and came across a herd, would you pick out a bull with a fine pair of tusks, or would you fire indiscriminately into the thick of them, and perhaps bring down the merest baby?" "i never heard of picking your fish," said gay. "dear me," he commented, "then you have nearly a whole lifetime of delightful study before you!" he unslung a pair of field-glasses, focussed them, and began to study the surface of the placid lake, not the far-off surface but the surface within twenty or thirty feet. then he remarked: "your flies aren't greatly different from ours. i think we shall find something nearly right. one can never tell. the proclivities of trout and char differ somewhat. i have never taken char." "you don't think you are after char now, do you?" exclaimed gay. "because, if so--this lake contains bass, trout, lake-trout, sunfish, shiners, and bullheads, but no char." pritchard smiled a little sadly and blushed. he hated to put people right. "your brook-trout," he said, "your _salmo fontinalis_, isn't a trout at all. he's a char." gay put her back into the rowing with some temper. she felt that the englishman had insulted the greatest of all american institutions. the repartee which sprang to her lips was somewhat feeble. "if a trout is a char," she said angrily, "then an onion is a fruit." to her astonishment, mr. pritchard began to laugh. he dropped everything and gave his whole attention to it. he laughed till the tears came and the delicate guide boat shook from stem to stern. presently the germ of his laughing spread, and gay came down with a sharp attack of it herself. she stopped rowing. two miles off, a loon, that most exclusive laugher of the north woods, took fright, dove, and remained under for ten minutes. the young people in the guide boat looked at each other through smarting tears. "i am learning fast," said gay, "that you count your fish before you catch them, that trout are char, and that englishmen laugh at other people's jokes." she rowed on. "don't forget to tell me when you've chosen your fish," she remarked. "you shall help me choose," he said; "i insist. i speak for a three-pounder." "the event of a lifetime!" "why, miss gay," he said, "it's all the event of a lifetime. the camp, the ride in the motor-boat, the wonderful, wonderful breakfast, water teeming with fish, the woods, and the mountains--millions of years ago it was decreed that you and i should rock a boat with laughter in the midst of new moon lake. and yet you speak of a three-pounder as the event of a lifetime! my answer is a defiance. we shall take one _salmo fontinalis_--one wily char. he shall not weigh three pounds; he shall weigh a trifle more. then we shall put up our tackle and go home to a merry dinner." "mr. pritchard," said gay, "i'll bet you anything you like that you don't take a trout--or a char, if you like--that will weigh three pounds or over. i'll bet you ten to one." "don't do that," he said; "it's an even shot. what will you bet?" "i'll bet you my prospective dividends for the year," she said, "against----" "my prospective title?" he looked rather solemn, but laughter bubbled from gay. "it's a good sporting proposition," said pritchard. "it's a very sound title--old, resonant--and unless you upset us and we drown, tolerably certain to be mine to pay--in case i lose." "i don't bet blindly," said gay. "what is the title?" "i shall be the earl of merrivale," said he; "and if i fail this day to take a char weighing three pounds or over, you will be the countess of merrivale." "dear me!" said gay, "who ever heard of so much depending on a mere fish? but i don't like my side of the bet. it's all so sudden. i don't know you well enough, and you're sure to lose." "i'll take either end of the bet you don't like," said mr. pritchard gravely. "if i land the three-pounder, you become the countess; if i don't, i pay you the amount of your dividends for the year. is that better?" "much," smiled gay; "because, with the bet in this form, there is practically no danger that either of us will lose anything. my dividends probably won't amount to a row of pins, and you most certainly will not land so big a fish." meanwhile they had entered the mouth of placid brook. the surface was dimpling--rings became, spread, merged in one another, and were not. the fish were feeding. "let us land in the meadow," said mr. pritchard, his brown eyes clear and sparkling, "and spy upon the enemy." "are you going to leave your rod and things in the boat?" "for the present--until we have located our fish." they landed, and he advanced upon the brook by a detour, stealthily, crouching, his field-glasses at attention. once he turned and spoke to gay in an authoritative whisper: "try not to show above the bushes." viii the sun was warm on the meadow, and although the bushes along its margin were leafless, the meadow itself had a greenish look, and the feel of the air was such that gay, upon whom silence and invisibility had been enjoined, longed to dance in full sight of the trout and to sing at the top of her voice: "oh, that we two were maying!" instead, she crouched humbly and in silence at pritchard's side, while he studied the dimpling brook through his powerful field-glasses. gay had never seen red indians except in buffalo bill's show, where it is made worth their while to be very noisy. but she had read her cooper and her ballantyne, "ballantyne, the brave, and cooper of the wood and wave," and she knew of the early christian patience with which they are supposed to go about the business of hunting and fishing. pritchard, she observed, had a weather-red face and high cheek-bones. he was smooth-shaved. he wore no hat. but for his miraculously short-cut hair, his field-glasses, his suit of coarse scotch wool, whose colors blended so well with the meadow upon which he crouched, he might have been an indian. his head, the field-glasses, the hands which clasped them, moved--nothing else. "is it a bluff?" thought gay. "is he just posing, or is there something in it?" half an hour passed--three quarters. gay was pale and grimly smiling. her legs had gone to sleep. but she would not give in. if an englishman could fish so patiently, why, so could she. she was fighting her own private battle of bunker hill--of new orleans. pritchard lowered his glasses, handed them to gay, and pointed up the brook and across, to where a triangular point of granite peered a few inches above the surface. gay looked through the glasses, and pritchard began to whisper in her ear: "northwest of that point of rock, about two feet--keep looking just there, and i'll try to tell you what to see." "there's a fish feeding," she answered; "but he must be a baby, he just makes a bubble on the surface." "there are three types of insect floating over him," said pritchard; "i don't know your american beasts by name, but there is a black, a brown, and a grayish spiderlike thing. he's taking the last. if you see one of the gray ones floating where he made his last bubble, watch it." gay presently discerned such an insect so floating, and watched it. it passed within a few inches of where the feeding trout had last risen and disappeared, and a tiny ring gently marked the spot where it had been sucked under. gay saw a black insect pass over the fatal spot unscathed, then browns; and then, once more, a gray, very tiny in the body but with longish legs, approached and was engulfed. "now for the tackle box," pritchard whispered. they withdrew from the margin of the brook, gay in that curious ecstasy, half joy, half sorrow, induced by sleepy legs. she lurched and almost fell. pritchard caught her. "was the vigil too long?" he asked. "i liked it," she said. "but my legs went to sleep and are just waking up. tell me things. there were fish rising bold--jumping clean out--making the water boil. but you weren't interested in them." "it was noticeable," said pritchard, "and perhaps you noticed that one fish was feeding alone. he blew his little rings--without fear or hurry--none of the other fishes dared come anywhere near him. he lives in the vicinity of that pointed rock. the water there is probably deep and, in the depths, very cold. who knows but a spring bubbles into a brook at the base of that rock? the fish lives there and rules the water around him for five or six yards. he is selfish, fat, and old. he feeds quietly because nobody dares dispute his food with him. he is the biggest fish in this reach of the brook. at least, he is the biggest that is feeding this morning. now we know what kind of a fly he is taking. probably i have a close imitation of it in my fly box. if not, we shall have to make one. then we must try to throw it just above him--very lightly--float it into his range of vision, and when he sucks it into his mouth, strike--and if we are lucky we shall then proceed to take him." gay, passionately fond of woodcraft, listened with a kind of awe. "but," she said, seeing an objection, "how do you know he weighs three pounds and over?" "frankly," said pritchard, "i don't. i am gambling on _that_." he shot her a shy look. "just hoping. i know that he is big. i believe we shall land him. i hope and pray that he weighs over three pounds." gay blushed and said nothing. she was beginning to think that pritchard might land a three-pounder as well as not--and she had light-heartedly agreed, in that event, to become the countess of merrivale. of course, the bet was mere nonsense. but suppose, by any fleeting chance, that pritchard should not so regard it? what _should_ she do? suppose that pritchard had fallen victim to a case of love at first sight? it would not, she was forced to admit (somewhat demurely), be the first instance in her own actual experience. there was a young man who had so fallen in love with her, and who, a week later, not knowing the difference--so exactly the triplets resembled each other--had proposed to phyllis. they drew the guide boat up onto the meadows and pritchard, armed with a scoop-net of mesh as fine as mosquito-netting, leaned over the brook and caught one of the grayish flies that were tickling the appetite of the big trout. this fly had a body no bigger than a gnat's. pritchard handed gay a box of japanned tin. it was divided into compartments, and each compartment was half full of infinitesimal trout flies. they were so small that you had to use a pair of tweezers in handling them. pritchard spread his handkerchief on the grass, and gay dumped the flies out on it and spread them for examination. and then, their heads very close together, they began to hunt for one which would match the live one that pritchard had caught. "but they're too small," gay objected. "the hooks would pull right through a trout's lip." "not always," said pritchard. "how about this one?" "too dark," said gay. "here we are then--a match or not?" the natural fly and the artificial placed side by side were wonderfully alike. "they're as like as lee and me," said gay. "lee?" "three of us are triplets," she explained. "we look exactly alike--and we never forgive people who get us mixed up." pritchard abandoned all present thoughts of trout-fishing by scientific methods. he looked into her face with wonder. "do you mean to tell me," said he, "that there are two other d-d-darlings exactly like you?" "exactly--a nose for a nose; an eye for an eye." "it isn't true," he proclaimed. "there is nobody in the whole world in the least like you." "some time," said gay, "you will see the three of us in a row. we shall look inscrutable and say nothing. you will not be able to tell which of us went fishing with you and which stayed at home----" "'this little pig went to market,'" he began, and abruptly became serious. "is that a challenge?" "yes," said gay. "i fling down my gauntlet." "and i," said pritchard, "step forward and, in the face of all the world, lift it from the ground--and proclaim for all the world to hear that there is nobody like my lady--and that i am so prepared to prove at any place or time--come weal, come woe. let the heavens fall!" "if you know me from the others," gay's eyes gleamed, "you will be the first strange young man that ever did, and i shall assign and appoint in the inmost shrines of memory a most special niche for you." pritchard bowed very humbly. "that will not be necessary," he said. "if i land the three-pounder. in that case, i should be always with you." "i wish," said gay, "that you wouldn't refer so earnestly to a piece of nonsense. upon repetition, a joke ceases to be a joke." pritchard looked troubled. "i'm sorry," he said simply. "if it is the custom of the country to bet and then crawl, so be it. in rome, i hasten to do as the romans do. but i thought our bet was honorable and above-board. it seems it was just an--an indian bet." gay flushed angrily. "you shall not belittle anything american," she said. "it was a bet. i meant it. i stand by it. if you catch your big fish i marry you. and if i have to marry you, i will lead you such a dance----" "you wouldn't have to," pritchard put in gently, "you wouldn't have to lead me, i mean. if you and i were married, i'd just naturally dance--wouldn't i? when a man sorrows he weeps; when he rejoices he dances. it's all very simple and natural----" he turned his face to the serene heavens, and, very gravely: "ah, lord!" he said. "vouchsafe to me, undeserving but hopeful, this day, a char--_salmo fontinalis_--to weigh a trifle over three pounds, for the sake of all that is best and sweetest in this best of all possible worlds." if his face or voice had had a suspicion of irreverence, gay would have laughed. instead, she found that she wanted to cry and that her heart was beating unquietly. mr. pritchard dismissed sentiment from his mind, and with loving hands began to take a powerful split-bamboo rod from its case. ix gay's notion of scientific fishing might have been thus summed: know just where to fish and use the lightest rod made. her own trout-rod weighed two and a half ounces without the reel. compared to it, pritchard's was a coarse and heavy instrument. his weighed six ounces. "you could land a salmon with that," said gay scornfully. "i have," said pritchard. "it's a splendid rod. i doubt if you could break it." "doesn't give the fish much of a run for his money." "but how about this, miss gay?" he showed her a leader of finest water-blue catgut. it was nine feet long and tapered from the thickness of a human hair to that of a thread of spider-spinning. gay's waning admiration glowed once more. "that wouldn't hold a minnow," she said. "we must see about that," he answered; "we must hope that it will hold a very large char." he reeled off eighty or ninety feet of line, and began to grease it with a white tallow. "what's that stuff?" gay asked. "red-deer fat." "what for?" "to make the line float. we're fishing with a dry-fly, you know." gay noticed that the line was tapered from very heavy to very fine. "why is that?" she asked. "it throws better--especially in a wind. the heavy part will carry a fly out into half a gale." he reeled in the line and made his leader fast to it with a swift, running hitch, and to the line end of the leader he attached the fly which they had chosen. upon this tiny and exquisite arrangement of fairy hook, gray silk, and feathers, he blew paraffin from a pocket atomizer that it might float and not become water-logged. "do we fish from the shore or the boat?" gay asked. "from this shore." "you'll never reach there from this shore." "then i've misjudged the distance. are you going to use the landing-net for me, in case it's necessary?" gay caught up the net and once more followed his stealthy advance upon the brook. pritchard had one preliminary look through the field-glasses, straightened his bent back, turned to her with a sorrowing face, and spoke aloud. "he's had enough," he said. "he's stopped feeding." gay burst out laughing. "and our fishing is over for the day? this shall be said of you, mr. pritchard, that you are a merciful man. you are not what is called in this country a 'game hog.'" "thank you," he said gravely. "but if you think the fishing is over for the day, you don't know a dry-fly fisherman when you see one. we made rather a late start. see, most of the fish have stopped feeding. they won't begin again much before three. the big fellow will be a little later. he has had more than the others; he is older; his digestion is no longer like chain lightning; he will sleep sounder, and dream of the golden days of his youth when a char was a trout." "_that_," said gay, "is distinctly unkind. i have been snubbed enough for one day. are we to stand here, then, till three or four o'clock, till his royal highness wakes up and calls for breakfast?" "no," said pritchard; "though i would do so gladly, if it were necessary, in order to take this particular fish----" "you might kneel before your rod," said gay, "like a knight watching his arms." "to rise in the morning and do battle for his lady--i repeat i should do so gladly if it would help my chances in the slightest. but it wouldn't." he rested his rod very carefully across two bushes. "the thing for us to do," he went on, "is to have lunch. i've often heard of how comfortable you american guides can make the weary, wayworn wanderer at the very shortest notice." "is that a challenge?" "it is an expression of faith." their eyes met, and even lingered. "in that case," said gay, "i shall do what i may. there is cold lunch in the boat, but the wayworn one shall bask in front of a fire and look upon his food when it is piping hot. come!" gay rowed him out of the brook and along the shore of the lake for a couple of miles. she was on her mettle. she wished him to know that she was no lounger in woodcraft. she put her strong young back into the work of rowing, and the fragile guide boat flew. her cheeks glowed, and her lips were parted in a smile, but secretly she was filled with dread. she knew that she had brought food, raw and cooked; she could see the head of her axe gleaming under the middle seat; she would trust mary for having seen to it that there was pepper and salt; but whether in the pocket of the norfolk jacket there were matches, she could not be sure. if she stopped rowing to look, the englishman would think that she had stopped because she was tired. and if, later, it was found that she had come away without matches, he would laugh at her and her pretenses to being a "perfectly good guide." she beached the boat upon the sand in a wooded cove, and before pritchard could move had drawn it high and dry out of the water. then she laughed aloud, and would not tell him why. she had discovered in the right-hand pocket of her coat two boxes of safety-matches, and in the left pocket three. "don't," said gay, "this is my job." she lifted the boat easily and carried it into the woods. pritchard had wished to help. she laid the boat upon soft moss at the side of a narrow, mounting trail, slung the package of lunch upon her shoulders, and caught up her axe. "don't i help at all?" asked pritchard. "you are weary and wayworn," said gay, "and i suppose i ought to carry you, too. but i can't. can you follow? it's not far." a quarter of a mile up the hillside, between virgin pines which made one think bitterly of what the whole mountains might be if the science of forestry had been imported a little earlier in the century, the steep and stony trail ended in an open space, gravelly and abounding in huge bowlders, upon which the sun shone warm and bright. in the midst of the place was a spring, black and slowly bubbling. at the base of one great rock, a deep rift in whose face made a natural chimney, were traces of former fires. "wait here," commanded gay. her axe sounded in a thicket, and she emerged presently staggering under a load of balsam. she spread it in two great, fragrant mats. then once more she went forth with her axe and returned with fire-wood. pritchard, a wistful expression in his eyes, studied her goings and her comings, and listened as to music, to the sharp, true ringing of her axe. "by jove," said he to himself, "that isn't perspiration on her forehead--it's honest sweat!" in spite of the bright sunshine, the heat of the fire was wonderfully welcome, and began to bring out the strong, delicious aroma of the balsam. gay sat upon her heels before the fire and cooked. there was a sound of boiling and bubbling. the fragrance of coffee mingled with the balsam and floated heavenward. during the swift preparation of lunch they hardly spoke. twice pritchard begged to help and was twice refused. she spread a cloth between the mats of balsam upon one of which pritchard reclined, and she laid out hot plates and bright silver with demure precision. "miss gay," he said very earnestly, "i came to chuckle; i thought that at least you would burn the chicken and get smoke in your eyes, but i remain to worship the deity of woodcraft. an indian could not do more swiftly or so well." gay swelled a little. she had worked very hard; nothing had gone wrong, so far. she was not in the least ashamed of herself. but her greatest triumph was to come. uncas, the chipmunk, had that morning gone for a stroll in the forest. he had the spring fever. he had crossed placid brook, by a fallen log; he had climbed trees, hunted for last year's nuts, and fought battles of repartee with other chipmunks. about lunch time, thinking to return to arthur and recount the tale of his wanderings, he smelled a smell of cooking and heard a sound of voices, one of which was familiar to him. he climbed a bowlder overlooking the clearing, and began to scold. gay and pritchard looked up. "my word!" said pritchard, "what a bold little beggar." now, to gay, the figure of uncas, well larded with regular meals, was not to be confounded with the slim little stripes of the spring woods. she knew him at once, and she spoke nonchalantly to pritchard. "if you're a great deal in the woods," she said, "you scrape acquaintance with many of the inhabitants. that little pig and i are old friends. you embarrass him a little. he doesn't know you. if you weren't here, he'd come right into my lap and beg." pritchard looked at her gravely. "truly?" he said. "i think he will anyway," said gay, and she made sounds to uncas which reassured him and brought him presently on a tearing run for her lap. here, when he had been fed, he yawned, stretched himself, and fell asleep. "mowgli's sister!" said pritchard reverently. "child, are there the scars of wolves' teeth on your wrists and ankles?" "no, octogenarian," said gay; "there aren't any marks of any kind. what time is it?" "it is half-past two." "then you shall smoke a cigarette, while i wash dishes." she slid the complaining uncas from her lap to the ground. "unfortunately," said pritchard, "i didn't bring a cigarette." "and you've been dying for a smoke all this time? why don't you ask the guide for what you want?" "have you such a thing?" "i have." "but you--you yourself don't--do you?" he looked troubled. "no," said gay. "but my father was always forgetting his, and it made him so miserable i got into the habit of carrying a full case years ago whenever we went on expeditions. he used to be so surprised and delighted. sometimes i think he used to forget his on purpose, so that i could have the triumph of producing mine." pritchard smoked at ease. gay "washed up." uncas, roused once more from slumber by the call of one of his kind, shook himself and trotted off into the forest. gay, scouring a pan, was beginning to feel that she had known pritchard a long time. she had made him comfortable, cared for him in the wild woods, and the knowledge warmed her heart. pritchard was saying to himself: "we like the same sort of things--why not each other?" "miss gay," he said aloud. "what?" "in case i land the three-pounder and over, i think i ought to tell you that i'm not very rich, and i know you aren't. would that matter to you? i've just about enough," he went on tantalizingly, "to take a girl on ripping good trips into central africa or australia, but i can't keep any great state in england--merrivale isn't a show place, you know--just a few grouse and pheasants and things, and pretty good fishin'." "however much," said gay, "i may regret my _bet_, there was nothing indian about it. i'm sure that you are a clean, upright young man. i'm a decent sort of girl, though i say it that shouldn't. we might do worse. i've heard that love-matches aren't always what they are cracked up to be. and i'm quite sure that i want to go to africa and hunt big game." "thank you," said pritchard humbly. "and at least there would be love on one side." "nonsense," said gay briskly. "i'm ready, if you are." pritchard jumped to his feet and threw away his cigarette. "now," he said, "that you've proved everything, _won't_ you let me help?" gay refused him doubtfully, and then with a burst of generosity: "why, yes," she said, "and, by the way, mr. pritchard, there was no magic about the chipmunk. he's one my brother trained. he lives at the camp, and he was just out for a stroll and happened in on us. i don't want you to find out that i'm a fraud from any one--but me." x the big trout was once more feeding. and pritchard began to cast his diminutive fly up-stream and across. but he cast and got out line by a system that was new to gay. he did not "whip" the brook; he whipped the air above it. he never allowed his fly to touch the water but drew it back sharply, and, at the same time, reeled out more line with his left hand, when it had fallen to within an inch or two of the surface. his casts, straight as a rifle-shot, lengthened, and reached out toward the bowlder point near which the big trout was feeding, until he was throwing, and with consummate ease, a line longer than gay had ever seen thrown. "it's beautiful," she whispered. "will you teach me?" "of course," he answered. his fly hovered just above the ring which the trout had just made. pritchard lengthened his line a foot, and cast again and again, with no further change but of an inch or two in direction. "there's a little current," he explained. "if we dropped the fly into the middle of the ring, it would float just over his tail and he wouldn't see it. he's looking up-stream, whence his blessings flow. the fly must float straight down at him, dragging its leader, and not dragged by it." all the while he talked, he continued casting with compact, forceful strokes of his right wrist and forearm. at last, his judgment being satisfied by the hovering position attained by fly and leader, he relaxed his grip of the rod; the fly fell upon the water like thistle-down, floated five or six inches, and was sucked under by the big trout. pritchard struck hard. there was a second's pause, while the big trout, pained and surprised, tried to gather his scattered wits. three quarters of pritchard's line floated loosely across the brook, but the leader and the fly remained under, and pritchard knew that he had hooked his fish. then, and it was sudden--like an explosion--the whole length of floating line disappeared, and the tip of pritchard's powerful rod was dragged under after it. the reel screamed. "it's a whale!" shouted gay, forgetting how much depended upon the size of the fish, "a whale!" the time for stealthy movements and talk in whispers was over. gay laughed, shouted, exhorted, while pritchard, his lips parted, his cheeks flushed, gayly fought the great fish. "go easy; go easy!" cried gay. "that hook will never hold him." but pritchard knew his implements, and fished with a kind of joyous, strong fury. "when you hang 'em," he exulted, "land em." the trout was a great noble potentate of those waters. years ago he had abandoned the stealthy ways of lesser fish. he came into the middle of the brook where the water is deep and there is freedom from weeds and sunken timber, and then up and down and across and across, with blind, furious rushes he fought his fight. it was the strong man without science against the strong man who knows how to box. the steady, furious rushes, snubbed and controlled, became jerky and spasmodic; in a roar and swirl of water the king trout showed his gleaming and enormous back; a second later the sunset colors of his side and the white of his belly. inch by inch, swollen by impotent fury, galvanically struggling and rushing, he followed the drag of the leader toward the beach, where, ankle-deep in the water, gay crouched with the landing-net. she trembled from head to foot as a well-bred pointer trembles when he has found a covey of quail and holds them in control, waiting for his master to walk in upon them. the big trout, still fighting, turning, and raging, came toward the mouth of the half-submerged net. "how big is he, miss gay?" the voice was cool and steady. "he's five pounds if he's an ounce," her voice trembled. "he's the biggest trout that ever swam. "he _isn't_ a trout," said pritchard; "he's a char." if gay could have seen pritchard's face, she would have been struck for the first time by a sort of serene beauty that pervaded some of its expressions. the smile which he turned upon her crouching figure had in it a something almost angelic. "bring him a little nearer," she cried, "just a little." "you're sure he weighs more than three pounds?" "sure--sure--don't talk, land him, land him----" for answer pritchard heaved strongly upward upon his rod and lifted the mighty fish clear of the water. one titanic convulsion of tortured muscles, and what was to be expected happened. the leader broke a few inches from the trout's lip, and he returned splashing to his native element, swam off slowly, just under the surface, then dove deep, and was seen no more. "oh!" cried gay. "why _did_ you? why _did_ you?" she had forgotten everything but the fact that the most splendid of all trout had been lost. "why did you?" she cried again. "because," he said serenely and gently, smiling into her grieved and flushed face, "i wouldn't have you as the payment of a bet. i will have you as a gift or not at all." they returned to the camp, pritchard rowing. "i owe you your prospective dividends for the year," he said. "if they are large, i shall have to give you my note and pay as i can." she did not answer. "i think you are angry with me," he said. "i'd give more than a penny for your thoughts." "i was thinking," said she, "that you are very good at fishing, but that the art of rowing an adirondack guide boat has been left out of you." "truly," he said, "was that what you were thinking?" "no," she said; "i was thinking other things. i was thinking that i ought to go down on my knees and thank you for breaking the leader. you see, i'd made up my mind to keep my word. and, well, of course, it's a great escape for me. "why? was the prospect of marrying me so awful?" "the prospect of marrying a man who would rather lose a five-pound fish than marry me--was awful." pritchard stopped rowing, and his laughter went abroad over the quiet lake until presently gay's forehead smoothed and, after a prelude of dimples, she joined gayly in. when pritchard could speak, he said: "you don't really think that, do you?" "i don't know what i think," said gay. "i'm just horrid and cross and spoiled. don't let's talk about it any more." "but i said," said he, "i said 'as a bet, no; but as a gift'--oh, with what rapture and delight!" "do you mean that?" she looked him in the face with level eyes. once more he stopped rowing. "i love you," he said, "with my whole heart and soul." "don't," said gay, "don't spoil a day that, for all its ups and downs, has been a good day, a day that, on the whole, i've loved--and let's hurry, please, because i stood in the water and it was icy." after that pritchard rowed with heroic force and determination; he lacked, however, the knack which overlapping oar handles demand, and at every fifteenth or sixteenth stroke knocked a piece of "bark" from his knuckles. smarting with pain, he smiled gently at her from time to time. "will you guide me to-morrow?" "to-morrow," she said, "there will be enough real guides to go around." "you really are, aren't you?" he said. "what?" "angry with me." "oh, no--i think--that what you said--what you said--was a foolish thing to say. if i came to you with my sisters lee and phyllis, you wouldn't know which of the three i was, and yet--you said--you said----" "it isn't a question of words--it's a question of feeling. do you really think i shouldn't know you from your sisters?" "i am sure of it," said gay. "but if you weren't?" "then i should still think that you had tried to be foolish but i shouldn't be angry." "how," said pritchard, his eyes twinkling, "shall i convince the girl i love--that i know her by sight?" gay laughed. the idea seemed rather comical to her. "to-night," she said, "when you have dined, walk down to the dock alone. one of us three will come to you and say: 'too bad we didn't have better luck.' and you won't know if she's lee or phyllis or me." * * * * * pritchard smoked upon the dock in the light of an arc-lamp. a vision, smiling and rosy, swept out of the darkness, and said: "too bad we didn't have better luck!" "i beg your pardon," said pritchard, "you're not miss gay, but i haven't had the pleasure of being presented to miss lee or miss phyllis." the vision chuckled and beat a swift, giggling retreat to a dark spot among the pines, where other giggles awaited her. a second vision came. "too bad we didn't have better luck!" pritchard smiled gravely into the vision's eyes, and said in so low a voice that only she could hear: "bad luck? i have learned to love you with all my heart and soul." silence. an answering whisper. "how did you know me?" "how? because my heart says here is the only girl in all the world--see how different, how more beautiful and gentle she is than all other girls." "but i'm not gay--i'm phyllis." "if you are phyllis," he whispered, "then you never were gay." she laughed softly. "i _am_ gay." "why tell me? i know. am i forgiven?" "there is nothing," she said swiftly, "to forgive," and she fled swiftly. to her sisters waiting among the pines she gave explanation. "of course, he knew me." "how?" "why, he said there couldn't be any doubt; he said i was so very much better-looking than any sister of mine could possibly be." forthwith lee pinioned gay's arms and phyllis pulled her ears for her. mr. pritchard paced the dock, offering rings of cuban incense to the stars. * * * * * from play house came the sounds which men make when they play cards and do not care whether they win or lose. maud was in her office, adding a column of figures which the grocer had sent in. the triplets, linked arm in arm, joined her. arthur came, and eve and mary. they agreed that they were very tired and ready for bed. "it's going to be a success, anyway," said mary. "that seems certain." "we must have the plumber up," said eve; "the laundry boiler has sprung a leak. who's that in your pocket, arthur?" "uncas. he came in exhausted after a long day in the woods. something unusual happened to him. i know, because he tried so very hard to tell me all about it just before he went to sleep, and of course he couldn't quite make me understand. i think he was trying to warn me of something--trying to tell me to keep my eyes peeled." the family laughed. arthur was always so absurd about his pets. all laughed except gay. she, in a dark corner, like the rose in the poem, blushed unseen. xi when their week was up, mr. langham's guests, messrs. o'malley, alston, and cox, felt obliged to go where income called them. renier, however, who had only been at work a year, decided that he did not like his job, and would try for another in the fall. lee delivered herself of the stern opinion that a rolling stone gathers no moss, and renier answered that his late uncle had been a fair-to-middling moss gatherer, and that to have more than one such in a given family was a sign of low tastes. "i have a little money of my own," he said darkly, "and, what's more, i have a little hunch." to his face lee upbraided him for his lack of ambition and his lack of elegance, but behind his back she smiled secretly. she was well pleased with herself. it had only taken him three days to get so that he knew her when he saw her, and for a young man of average intellect and eyesight that was almost a record. the triplets were not only as like as three lovely vases cast in the same mould but it amused them to dress alike, without so much as the differentiation of a ribbon, and to imitate each other's little tricks of speech and gesture. it was even possible for them to fool their own brother at times when he happened to be a little absent-minded. every day renier fished for many hours, and always the guide who handled his boat and showed him where to throw his flies was lee. "they're only children," said mary, "and i think they're getting altogether too chummy." arthur did not answer, and for the very good reason that mary's words were not addressed to him, nor were they addressed to maud or eve. indeed, at the moment, these three were sound asleep in their beds. it was to that plumper and earlier bird, mr. samuel langham, that mary had spoken. the end of a kitchen table, set with blue-and-white dishes and cups that steamed, fragrantly separated them. they had formed a habit of breakfasting together in the kitchen, and it had not taken mary long to discover that sam langham's good judgment was not confined to eatables and drinkables. she consulted him about all sorts of things. she felt as if she had known him (and trusted him) all her life. "renier," he said, "is one of the few really eligible young men i know. that is why i asked him up here. i don't mean that my intention was match-making, but when i saw your picture in the advertisement, i said to myself: 'the inn is no place for attractive scalawags. any man that goes there on my invitation must be sound, morally and financially.' young renier is as innocent of anything evil as miss lee herself. if they take a fancy to each other--of course it's none of my business, but, my dear miss darling--why not?" "coffee?" "thanks." "an egg?" "please." mary was very tactful. she never said: "_some more_ coffee?" she never said: "_another_ egg?" "some people," said mr. langham, smiling happily, "might say that _we_ were getting too chummy." "suppose," said mary, "that somebody did say just that?" "i should reply," said mr. langham thoughtfully, "that of the few really eligible men that i know, i myself am, on the whole, the most eligible." mary laughed. "construe," she said. "in the first place," he continued, "and naming my qualifications in the order of their importance, i don't ever remember to have spoken a cross word to anybody; secondly, unless i have paved a primrose path to ultimate indigestion and gout, there is nothing in my past life to warrant mention. to be more explicit, i am not in a position to be troubled by--er--'old agitations of myrtle and roses'; third, something tells me that in a time of supreme need it would be possible for me to go to work; and, fourth, i have plenty of money--really plenty of money." mary smiled almost tenderly. "i can't help feeling," she said, "that i, too, am a safe proposition. i am twenty-nine. my wild oats have never sprouted. i think we may conclude that they were never sown. the inn was my idea--mostly, though i say it that shouldn't. and the inn is going to be a success. we could fill every room we've got five times--at our own prices." "i pronounce your bill of health sound," said mr. langham. "let us continue to be chummy." "coffee?" "thanks." whatever chance there may have been for gay and pritchard to get "too chummy"--and no one will deny that they had made an excellent start--was promptly knocked in the head by arthur. it so happened that, in a desperately unguarded moment, when arthur happened to be present, pritchard mentioned that he had spent a whole winter in the city of peking. the name startled arthur as might the apparition of a ghost. "which winter?" he asked. "i mean, what year?" pritchard said what year, and added, "why do you ask?" arthur had not meant to ask. he began a long blush, seeing which gay turned swift heels and escaped upon a suddenly ejaculated pretext. "why," said arthur lamely, "i knew some people who were in peking that winter--that's all." "then," said pritchard, "we have mutual friends. i knew every foreigner in peking. there weren't many." although arthur had gotten the better of his blush, he felt that pritchard was eying him rather narrowly. "they," said arthur, "were a mr. and mrs. waring." "i hope," said pritchard, "that _he_ wasn't a friend of yours." "he was not," said arthur, "but she was. i was very fond of her." "nobody," said pritchard, "could help being fond of her. but waring was an old brute. one hated him. he wouldn't let her call her soul her own. he was always snubbing her. we used to call her the 'girl with the dry eyes.'" "why?" asked arthur. "it's a chinese idea," said pritchard. "every woman is supposed to have just so many tears to shed. when these are all gone, why, then, no matter what sorrows come to her, she has no way of relieving them." arthur could not conceal his agitation. and pritchard looked away. he wished to escape. he thought that he could be happier with gay than with her brother. but arthur, agitation or no agitation, was determined to find out all that the young englishman could tell him about the warings. he began to ask innumerable questions: "what sort of a house did they live in?" "how do christians amuse themselves in the chinese capital?" "did mrs. waring ride?" "what were some of her friends like?" etc., etc. there was no escaping him. he fastened himself to pritchard as a drowning man to a straw. and his appetite for peking news became insatiable. pritchard surrendered gracefully. he went with arthur on canoe trips and mountain climbs; at night he smoked with him in the open camp. and, in the end, arthur gave him his whole confidence; so that, much as pritchard wished to climb mountains and go on canoe trips with gay, he was touched, interested, and gratified, and then all at once he found himself liking arthur as much as any man he had ever known. "there is something wonderfully fine about your brother," he said to gay. "at first i thought he was a queer stick, with his pets and his secret haunts in the woods, and his unutterable contempt for anything mean or worldly. we ought to dress him up in proof armor and send him forth upon the quest of some grail or other." "grails," said gay, "and auks are extinct." "grails extinct!" exclaimed pritchard. he was horrified. "why, my dear miss gay, if ever the world offered opportunities to belted knights without fear and without reproach, it's now." "i suppose," said she, "that arthur has told you all about his--his mix-up." pritchard nodded gravely. "is that the quest he ought to ride on?" "no--it won't do for arthur. he might be accused of self-interest. that should be a matter to be redressed by a brother knight." "or a divorce court." "miss gay!" "i don't think it's nice for one's brother to be in love with a married woman." "it isn't," said pritchard gravely, "for him. it's hell." "_we_," said gay, "never knew her." "she's not much older than you," said pritchard. "if i'd never seen you, i'd say that she was the prettiest girl i'd ever seen. but she's gentler and meeker than even you'd be in her boots. she isn't self-reliant and able." "you talk as if you'd been in love with her yourself." "i? i thought i was talking as if i was in love with you." "looks like it, don't it?" said she. "spending all your time with a girl's brother." "not doing what you most want to do," said pritchard, "is sometimes thought knightly." "do you know," she said critically, "sometimes i think you really like me a lot. and sometimes i think that i really like you. the funny thing is that it never seems to happen to both of us at the same time. there's arthur looking for you. do me a favor--shake him and come for a tramp with me." "i can't," said pritchard simply. "i've promised. but to-morrow----" "_certainly not_," said she. xii warm weather and the real opening of the season arrived at the same time. the camp hummed with the activities and the voices of people. and it became possible for the darlings to withdraw a little into their shells and lead more of a family life. as maud said: "when there were more proprietors than guests, we simply had to sail in and give the guests a good time. but now that the business is in full blast, we mustn't be amateurs any more." langham, renier, and the future earl of merrivale remained, of course, upon their well-established footing of companionship, but the darlings began to play their parts of innkeepers with the utmost seriousness and to fight shy of any social advances from the ranks of their guests. indeed, for the real heads of the family, mary, maud, and eve, there was serious work to be done. for, to keep thirty or forty exigent and extravagant people well fed, well laundered, well served, and well amused is no frisky skirmish but a morning-to-night battle, a constant looking ahead, a steady drain upon the patience and invention. in sam langham mary found an invaluable ally. he knew how to live, and could guess to a nicety the "inner man" of another. nor did he stop at advice. being a celebrated _bon viveur_ he went subtly among the guests and praised the machinery of whose completed product they were the consumers and the beneficiaries. he knew of no place, he confided, up and down the whole world, where, for a sum of money, you got exactly what you wanted without asking for it. "take me for an example," he would say. "i have never before been able to get along without my valet. here he would be a superfluity. i am 'done,' you may say, better than i have ever been able to do myself. and i know what i'm talking about. what! you think the prices are really rather high. think what you are getting, man--think!" among the new guests was a young man from boston by the name of herring. he had written that he was convalescing from typhoid fever and that his doctor had prescribed adirondack air. renier knew herring slightly and vouched for him. "they're good people," he said, "his branch of the herring family--the 'red herrings' they are called locally--if we may speak of boston as a 'locality'--he's the reddest of them and the most showy. if there's anything he hasn't tried, he has to try it. he isn't good at things. but he does them. he's the fellow that went to the barren lands with a niblick. what, you never heard of that stunt? he was playing in foursome at myopia. he got bunkered. he hit the sand a prodigious blow and the ball never moved. his partner said: 'never mind, syd, you hit hard enough to kill a musk-ox.' "'did i?' said herring, much interested, 'but i never heard of killing a musk-ox with a niblick. has it ever been done? are there any authorities one might consult?' "his partner assured him that 'it' had never been done. herring said that was enough for him. the charm of herring is that he never smiles; he's deadly serious--or pretends to be. when they had holed out at the eighteenth, herring took his niblick and said: 'well, so long. i'm off to the barren lands.' "they bet him there and then that he would neither go to the barren lands nor kill a musk-ox when he got there. he took their bets, which were large. and he went to the barren lands, armed only with his niblick and a camera. but he didn't kill a musk-ox. he said they came right up to be photographed, and he hadn't the heart to strike. he brought back plenty enough pictures to prove where he'd been, but no musk-ox. he aimed at one tentatively but at the last moment held his hand. 'he remembered suddenly,' he said, 'that he had never killed anything, and didn't propose to begin.' so he came home and paid one bet and pocketed the other. he can't shoot; he can't fish; he can't row. he's a perfect dub, but he's got the soul of a columbus." "something tells me," said pritchard, "that i shall like him." herring, having arrived and registered and been shown his rooms, was not thereafter seen to speak to anybody for two whole days. as a matter of fact, though, he held some conversation with renier, whom he had met before. "it's just boston," renier explained. "they're the best people in the world--when--well, not when you get to know them but when they get to know you. give him time and he will blossom." "he looks like a blossom already," said lee. "he looks at a little distance like a gigantic plant of scarlet salvia, or a small maple-tree in october." upon the third day mr. herring came out of his shell, as had been prophesied. he went about asking guests and guides, with almost plaintive seriousness, questions which they were unable to answer. he began to make friends with pritchard and langham. he solemnly presented arthur with a baseball that had figured in a yale-harvard game. then he got himself introduced to lee. "you guide, don't you?" he said. "i have guided," she said, "but i don't. it was only in the beginning of things when there weren't enough real guides to go around. but, surely you don't need a guide. you've been to the barren lands and all sorts of wild places. you ought to be a first-class woodsman." "i thought i'd like to go fishing to-morrow," he said. "it's very disappointing. i've looked forward all my life to being guided by a young girl, and when i saw you, i said, if this isn't she, this is her living image." "you shall have bullard," said lee. "he knows all the best places." herring complained to arthur. "your sisters," he said, "are said to be the best guides in the adirondacks, but they won't take me out. how is a fellow to convalesce from typhoid if people aren't unfailingly kind to him?" arthur laughed, and said that he didn't know. "let me guide you," he offered. "no," said herring, "it isn't that i want to be guided. it's that i want the experience of being guided by a girl. i want to lean back and be rowed." herring walked in the woods and came upon phyllis's garden, with phyllis in the midst of it. "halloo again!" he said. now it so happened that he had never seen phyllis before. she straightened from a frame of baby lettuce and smiled. she loved bright colors, and his flaming hair was becoming to her garden. "halloo again!" she said. "have you changed your mind?" he asked. she sparred for time and enlightenment and said: "it's against all the rules." "we could," said he, "start so early that nobody would know. i have often gotten up at five." "so have i," said phyllis wistfully. "we could be back before breakfast." phyllis appeared to think the matter over. "of course," he said, "you said you wouldn't. but if girls didn't change their minds, they wouldn't be girls." "that," said phyllis, "is perfectly true." to herself she said: "he's asked lee or gay to guide him, and thinks he's asked me." now, phyllis was not good with oars or fishing-tackle, but she liked herring's hair and the fact that he never smiled. furthermore, she believed that, if the worst came to the worst, she could find some of the places where people sometimes took trout. "i have never," said herring, "been guided by a young girl." "what, never!" exclaimed phyllis. "never," he said. "and i am sure that it would work wonders for me." "such as?" "it might lead me to take an interest in gardening. i have always hoped that i should some day." "people," thought phyllis, "interested in gardening are rare--especially beautiful young gentlemen with flaming hair. here is my chance to slaughter two birds with one stone." "you'll swear not to tell?" she exhorted. "yes," he said, "but not here. soon. when i am alone." he did not smile. "then," she said, "be at the float at five-thirty sharp." that night she sought out lee and gay. "such a joke," she said. "i've promised to guide mr. herring--to-morrow at five-thirty, but he thinks that it's one of you two who has promised. now, as i don't row or fish, one of you will have to take my place for the credit of the family." but her sisters were laughing in their sleeves. "my dear girl," said gay, "why the dickens didn't you tell us sooner? we also have made positive engagements at five-thirty to-morrow morning." "what engagements?" exclaimed phyllis. gay leaned close and whispered confidentially. "we've made positive engagements," she said, "to sleep till breakfast time." xiii in an athletic generation phyllis was an anachronism. she was the sort of girl one's great-grandmother was, only better-looking--one's great-grandmother, if there is any truth in oil and canvas, having been neatly and roundly turned out of a peg of wood. phyllis played no game well, unless gardening is a game. she liked to embroider and to write long letters in a wonderfully neat hand. she disliked intensely the roaring of firearms and the diabolic flopping of fresh-caught fish. she was one of those people who never look at a sunset or a moonrise or a flower without actually seeing them, and yet, withal, her sisters lee and gay looked upon her with a certain awe and respect. she was so strong in the wrists and fingers that she could hold them when they were rambunctious. and she was only afraid of things that aren't in the least dangerous. "no," they said, "she can't fish and shoot and row and play tennis and dive and swim under water, but she's the best dancer in the family--probably in the world--and the best sport." phyllis was, in truth, a good sport, or else she was more attracted by mr. herring's _salvia-splendens_ hair than she would have cared to admit. whatever the cause, she met him at the float the next morning at five-thirty, prepared to guide him or perish in the attempt. she wore a short blue skirt and a long white sweater of shetland wool. it weighed about an ounce. she wore white tennis shoes and an immense pair of well-oiled gardening gloves. at least she would put off blistering her hands as long as possible. phyllis, to be exact, was five minutes early for her appointment. this gave her time to get a boat into the water without displaying awkwardness to any one but herself--also, to slip the oars over the thole-pins and to accustom herself to the idea of handling them. she had taken coaching the night before from lee and gay, sitting on a bearskin rug in front of the fire, and swaying rhythmically forward and back. as herring was no fisherman, her sisters advised her to row very slowly. "tell him," they said, "that a boat rushing through water alarms fish more than anything in the world." she told him when he was seated in the stern of the boat facing her. "you mustn't mind going very slow," she said. "the fish in this part of the adirondacks are noted for their sensitiveness in general and their acute sense of hearing in particular. why, if i were to row as fast as i can"--there must have been a twinkle in her eyes--"trout miles away would be frightened out of their skins," and she added mentally, "and i should upset this horribly wabbly boat into the bargain." they proceeded at a snail's pace, phyllis dabbing the water gingerly with her oars, with something of that caution and repulsion with which one turns over a dead snake with a stick--to see if it is dead. the grips of guide-boat oars overlap. and your hands follow rather than accompany each other from catch to finish, and from finish to catch. if you are careless, or not to the stroke born or trained, you occasionally knock little chunks of skin and flesh from your knuckles. herring watched phyllis's gentle and restrained efforts with inscrutable eyes. "i never could understand," he said, "how you fellows manage to row at all with that sort of an outfit. at harvard they only give you one oar and let you take both hands to it, and then you can't row. at least, i couldn't. they put me right out of the boat. they said i caught crabs. as a matter of fact, i didn't. all i did was to sit there, and every now and then the handle of my oar banged me across the solar plexus." "we're not going far, you know," said phyllis (and she mastered the desire to laugh). "hadn't you--ah--um--better put your rod together?" "oh, i can do that!" said herring. "you begin with the big piece and you stick the next-sized piece into that, and so on. and i know how to put the reel on, because the man in the store showed me, and i know how to run the line through the rings." "well," said phyllis, "that's more than half the battle." "and," herring continued, "he showed me how to tie on the what-you-may-call-it and the flies." "good!" said phyllis. "and, of course," he concluded, "i've forgotten." now, phyllis had been shown how to tie flies to a leader only the night before, and she, also, had forgotten. "there are," she said, "a great many fetiches among anglers. among them are knots. now, in my experience, almost any knot that will stand will do. the important thing is to choose the right flies." as to this, she had also received instruction, but with better results, since it was an entirely feminine affair of colored silks and feathers. "i will tell you which flies to use," she said. "and," said he, "you will also have to show me how to cast." "what!" she exclaimed, and stopped rowing, "you don't know how to cast?" "no," he said, "i don't. i'm a dub. didn't you know that?" "but," she protested, "i can't teach you in a morning"--and she added mentally--"or in a whole lifetime, for that matter." it was not more than a mile across the mouth of a deep bay to the brook in which they had elected to fish. with no wind to object, the most dabbily propelled guide boat travels with considerable speed, and before herring had managed to tie the flies which phyllis had selected to his leader (with any kind of a knot) they were among the snaggy shallows of the brook's mouth. the brook was known locally as swamp brook, its shores for a mile or more being boggy and treacherous. fishermen who liked to land occasionally and cast from terra firma avoided it. phyllis had selected it solely because it was the nearest brook to the camp which contained trout. if she had remembered how full it was of snags, and how easily guide boats are turned turtle, she would have selected some other brook, even, if necessary, at the "back of beyond." it had been easy enough to propel the boat across the open waters of the lake, but to guide it clear of snags and around right-angle bends, especially when the genius of rowing demands that eyes look astern rather than ahead, was beyond her powers. the boat ran into snags, poked its nose into boggy banks, turned half over, righted, rushed on, and stopped again with rude bumps. herring, that fatalistic young bostonian, began to take an interest in his fate. his flies trailed in the water behind him. his eyes never left phyllis's face. his handsome mouth was as near to smiling as it ever got. "do you," he said presently, "swim as well as you row?" she stopped rowing; she laughed right out. "just about," she said. "good," he said seriously, "because i'm a dub at it, and in case of an upset, i look to you." "the truth," said phyllis, "is that there's no place to swim to. it's all swamp in here." "true," said herring; "we would have to cling to the boat and call upon heaven to aid us." one of herring's flies, trailing in the water, proved, at this moment, overwhelmingly attractive to a young and unsophisticated trout. herring shouted with the triumph of a schoolboy, "i've got one," and sprang to his feet. "please sit down!" said phyllis. "we almost went that time." "so we did," said herring. he sat down, and they almost "went" again. "now," said phyllis, "play him." "play him?" said herring. "watch me." and he began to pull strongly upon the fish. the fish was young and weak. herring's tackle was new and strong. the fish dangled in mid-air over the middle of the boat. "sorry," said herring, "i can't reach him. take him off, please." it has been said that phyllis was a good sport. if there was one thing she hated and feared more than another, it was a live fish. she reached forward; her gloved hand almost closed upon it; it gave a convulsive flop; phyllis squeaked like a mouse, threw her weight to one side, and the boat quietly upset. the sportsmen came to the surface streaming. "i can touch bottom," said herring politely; "can you?" "yes," she said, "but my feet are sinking into it--" she tore them loose and swam. herring did likewise. and they clung to the boat. "i hope you'll forgive me," said phyllis. "i never rowed a boat before and i never could stand live fish." "it was my fault," said herring. "something told me to lean the opposite from the way you leaned. but it told me too late. the truth is i don't know how to behave in a boat. well, you are still guide. it's up to you." "what is up to me?" "a plan of some sort," said he, "to get us out of this." "oh, no," she said, "it's up to you." "my plan," he said, "would be to get back into the boat and row home. it seems feasible, and even easy. but appearances are deceptive. i think i'd rather walk. what has happened here might happen out on the middle of the lake." "what you don't realize," said phyllis, "is that we're in the midst of an impassable swamp." "impassable?" "well, no one's ever crossed it except in winter." "what--no one!" he was immensely interested. "do you know," he went on confidentially, "the only things that i'm good at are things for which there are no precedents--things that nobody has ever done before. that's why i'm so fond of doing unusual things. now, you say that this swamp has never been crossed? enough said. you and i will cross it. we _will_ do it. are you game?" "it seems," said phyllis, "merely a question of when and where we drown. so i'm game. your teeth are chattering." "thank you," said herring. "but no harm will come to them. they are very strong." "i hope," said phyllis, "that when i come out of the water you won't look at me. i shall be a sight." "a comrade in trouble," said herring, "is never a sight." "i am so ashamed," said phyllis. "what of?" "of being such a fool." "you're a good sport," said herring. "that's what you are." by dint of violent kicking and paddling with their free hands they managed to propel the guide boat from the centre of the brook to a firm-looking clump of reeds and alder roots which formed a tiny peninsula from that shore which was toward the camp. covered with slime and mud they dragged themselves out of the water and stood balancing upon the alder roots to recover their breath. "we must each take an oar," said herring. "we can make little bridges with them. and we must keep working hard so as to get warm. we shall live to write a brochure about this: 'from clump to clump, or mudfoots in the adirondacks.'" between that clump on which they had found a footing and the next was ten feet of water. herring crossed seven feet of it with one heavy jump, fell on his face, caught two handfuls of viburnum stems, and once more dragged himself out of water. "now then," he called, "float the oars over to me." and when phyllis had done this: "now you come. the main thing in crossing swamps is to keep flat instead of up and down. jump for it--fall forward--and i'll get your hands!" once more they stood side by side precariously balancing. "the moment," said herring, "that you begin to feel bored, tell me." "why?" "so that i can encourage you. i will tell you that you are doing something that has never been done before. and that will make you feel fine and dandy. what we are doing is just as hard as finding the north pole, only there isn't going to be so much of it. now then, in negotiating this next sheet of water----" and so they proceeded until the sun was high in the heavens and until it was low. xiv to attempt the dangerous passage of a swamp when they might have returned to camp in the guide boat was undoubtedly a most imbecile decision. and if phyllis had not been thoroughly flustered by the upset, which was all her fault, she never would have consented to it. as for herring's voice in the matter, it was that which the young man always gave when there was a question of adventure. he didn't get around mountains by the valley road. he climbed over them. he had not in his whole being a suspicion of what is dangerous. he had never been afraid of anything. he probably never would be. he would have enjoyed leading half a dozen forlorn hopes every morning before breakfast. "we were idiots," said phyllis, "to leave the boat." "we can't go back to it now," said herring. "we don't know the way." "your voice sounds as if you were glad of it." "i am. i was dreadfully afraid you'd decide against crossing this swamp. i'd set my heart on it." "it isn't i," said phyllis, "that's against our crossing this swamp. it's the swamp." "the main thing," said herring, with satisfaction (physically he was almost exhausted), "is that here we are safe and sound. we don't know where 'here' is, but it's with us, it won't run away. when we've rested we shall go on, taking 'here' with us. wherever we go is 'here.' think of that!" "i wish i could think of something else," said phyllis, "but i can't. i'm almost dead." "you are doing something that no girl has ever done before, not even your sisters, those princesses of fortune. years from now, when you begin, 'once when i happened to be crossing the swamp with a young fellow named herring--' they will have to sit silent and listen." "if you weren't so cheerful," said phyllis, "i should have begun to cry an hour ago. do you really think this is fun?" "do i think it's fun? to be in a scrape--not to know when or how we are going to get out of it? you bet i think it's fun." "people have died," said phyllis, "having just this sort of fun. suppose we can't get out?" "you mean to-day? perhaps we can't. perhaps not to-morrow. perhaps we shall have to learn how to live in a swamp. a month of the life we've led for the last few hours might turn us into amphibians. that would be intensely novel and interesting. but, of course, when winter comes and the place freezes over we can march right out and take up our orthodox lives where we left off. listen!" "what?" "i think i hear webs growing between my fingers and toes." phyllis laughed so that the partially dried mud on her face cracked. "what," she said, "are we going to eat this side of winter? what are we going to eat now?" his face expressed immense concern. "what? you are hungry? allow me!" he produced from his inside pocket a very large cake of sweet chocolate, wrapped in several thicknesses of oiled silk. "my one contribution," he said, "to the science of woodcraft." phyllis ate and was refreshed. afterward she washed all the mud from her face. herring watched the progress of the ablution with much interest. "wonderful!" he said presently. "what is wonderful?" she asked, not without anticipation of a compliment. "wonderful to find that something which is generally accepted as true--is true. to see it proved before your eyes." "what do you mean?" "i mean," he said, "that i never before actually saw a girl wash her face. i've seen 'em when they said they were going to. i've seen 'em when they said they just had. but now i know." "if you weren't quite mad," said phyllis, "you'd be very exasperating. here am i, frightened half to death, cold and miserable, and dreadfully worried to think how worried my family must be, and there are you, almost too tired to stand, actually delighted with yourself, because you're in trouble and because for the first time in your life you've seen a girl wash her face. can't you be serious about anything?" "not about a half-drowned girl taking the trouble to wash her face," he said. "you," said she, "would look much better if you washed yours." "but," he said, "we'll be covered with mud again before we've gone fifty yards." "because you are going into a coal mine to-morrow," said phyllis, "is no reason why you shouldn't be clean to-day." "true," said herring, and he washed his face. * * * * * at breakfast that morning pritchard received the following cablegram: come home and shake hands. i'm off. m. greatly moved, he carried it to gay, and without comment put it in her hand. "who is m?" she asked. "my uncle, the earl of merrivale." "what does _i'm off_ mean?" "it means," said pritchard, "that they've given him up, and he wants to make friends. he never liked my father or me." "it means," said gay generously, "that you are going away?" "yes," he said, "at once. but it means more. it means that i've got to find out if i'm--to come back some time?" "of course, you are to come back," she said. words rose swiftly to pritchard's lips and came no further. indeed, he appeared to swallow them. "and i'm glad you are going to make friends with your uncle," said gay. "there'll be such lots of young men here when the season opens," said pritchard. "judging by applications," said gay, "we shall be swamped with gentlemen of all ages." pritchard's melancholy only deepened. "will you come as far as carrytown in the _streak_?" he asked. she nodded, and said she would because she had some shopping to do. during that short, exhilarating rush across the lake, and afterward walking up and down on the board platform by the side of the waiting train, he tried his best to ring a little sentiment out of her, but failed utterly. the locomotive whistled, and the conductor came out of the village drug-store, staggering slightly. "i've left all my dry-fly tackle," said pritchard. "will _you_ take care of it for me?" "with pleasure," said gay. "i'd like you to use it. it's a lovely rod to throw line." "all aboard!" "i'd like to bring you out some rods and things. may i?" "you bet you may!" exclaimed gay. pritchard sighed. the train creaked, jolted, moved forward, stopped, jerked, and moved forward again. pritchard waited until the rear steps of the rear car were about to pass. "good-by, miss gay!" they shook hands firmly, and pritchard swung himself onto the moving train. gay, walking rapidly and presently breaking into a trot, accompanied him as far as the end of the platform. she wanted to say something that would please him very much without encouraging him too much. "looks as if i was after you!" she said. pritchard's whole soul was in his eyes. and there was a large lump in his throat. suddenly gay reached the end of the long platform and stopped running. the train was now going quite fast for an adirondack train. the distance between them widened rapidly. "wish you weren't going," called gay. and she saw pritchard reach suddenly upward and pull the rope by which trains are stopped in emergencies. while the train was stopping and the train hands were trying to find out who had stopped it and why, pritchard calmly alighted, and returned to where gay was standing. "i just had to look at you once more--close," he said; "you never can tell what will happen in this world. i may never see you again, and the thought is killing me. think of that once in a while, please." he bent swiftly, caught her hand in his, kissed it, and was gone. or, if not exactly gone, she saw him no more, because of suddenly blinding tears. when she reached the camp, arthur was at the float to meet her. "phyllis and herring haven't come back," he said. "lee says they went fishing. do you know where they went?" "i don't. and they ought to have been back hours ago." "yes," said arthur, "and we're all starting out to look for them. care to come with me?" "yes," she said; "i've got to do _something_." something in her voice took his mind from the more imminent matter. "what's wrong, gay?" she shook her head. "nothing. let's start. if phyl rowed, they must have gone to the nearest possible fishing grounds." at this moment sam langham came puffing down from cook house. he was dressed in white flannels and carried a revolver. "it's to signal with," he explained. "i'm going to try loon brook, because it's the only brook i know when i see it." "bullard's gone to loon brook." "pshaw--can't i ever be of any use!" "good lord," said gay, "look!" there came around the nearest bend a man rowing one guide boat and towing another, which was empty. arthur called to him in a loud, hoarse voice: "where'd you find that boat?" "up swamp brook," came the answer. arthur and gay went gray as ashes. "who's to tell mary?" said arthur presently. then sam langham spoke. "if you don't mind," he said, "i think i will." an hour later the entire male population of the camp was dragging swamp brook for what they so dreaded to find. xv it wasn't all discouragement. for now and then it seemed as if the swamp was going to have a shore of dry land. at such times herring would exclaim: "there you see! it had never been done before, and now it's been done, and we've done it." and then it would seem to phyllis as if a great weight of fear and anxiety had been lifted from her. but the shore of the swamp always turned out to be an illusion. once herring, firmly situated as he believed, went suddenly through a crust of sphagnum moss and was immersed to the arm-pits. for some moments he struggled grimly to extricate himself, and only sank the deeper. then he turned to phyllis a face whimsical in spite of its gravity and pallor, and said: "if you have never saved a man's life, now is your chance. i'm afraid i can't get out without help." it was then that her phenomenally strong little hands and wrists stood them both in good stead. the arches of her feet against a submerged root of white cedar, she so pulled and tugged, and exhorted herring to struggle free, that at last he came out of that pocket quagmire and lay exhausted in the ooze at her feet. he was incased from neck to foot in a smooth coating of brown slime. presently he rolled over on his back and looked up at her. "there you see!" he said. "you'd never saved a man's life before, and now you've done it. please accept my sincere expressions of envy and gratitude-why, you're crying!" she was not only crying, but she was showing symptoms of incipient hysteria. "an old-fashioned girl," thought herring, "like great-grandmother saltonstall." he raised himself to a sitting position just in time to slide an arm around her waist as, the hysteria now well under way, she sat down beside him and began to wave her hands up and down like a polite baby saying good-by to some one. "one new thing under the sun after another," thought herring. "never had arm round hysterical girl's waist before. got it there now. when you need _her_, she takes a good brace and pulls for all she's worth. when she needs _you_, she seats herself on six inches of water and yells. just like great-grandmother saltonstall." aloud he kept saying: "that's right! greatest relief in the world! go to it!" and his arm tightened about her with extraordinary tenderness. her hysterics ended as suddenly as they had begun. and then she wasted a valuable half-hour apologizing for having had them; herring protesting all the while that he had enjoyed them just as much as she had, and that they had done him a world of good. and then they had to stop talking because their teeth began to chatter so hard that they simply couldn't keep on. herring stuttered something about, "exercise is what a body needs," and they rose to their feet and fought their way through a dense grove of arbor-vitã¦. "the stealthy indian goes through such places without making a sound," said herring. "or getting his moccasins wet," said phyllis. "oh!" and she sank to the waist. "never mind," said herring, "it will be dark before long. and when we have no choice of where to step, maybe we'll have better luck." "it will _have_ to be dark very soon," said phyllis, "if we have any more of our clothes taken away from us by the brambles." "that's a new idea!" exclaimed herring. "young couple starve to death in the woods because modesty forbids them to join their friends in the open. the head-line might be: 'stripped by brambles,' or 'the two bares.'" he was so pleased with his joke that he had to lean against a tree. the laughing set him to coughing, and phyllis beat him methodically between the shoulders. herring still refused to be serious. in helping phyllis over the bad places, he performed prodigies of misapplied strength and made prodigious puns. and he said that never in his life had he been in such a delightful scrape. once, while they were resting, phyllis said: "all you seem to think of is the fun you're having. most men would be thinking about the anxiety they were causing others and about the miseries of their companion." "but," he protested, "you are enjoying yourself too. you don't think you are, but you are. it's your philosophy that is wrong. you like to live too much in the present. i like to lay by stores of delightful memories against rainy days. the worse you feel now, the more you'll enjoy remembering how you felt--some evening, soon--your back against soft cushions and the soles of your feet toward the fire." "ugh!" shuddered phyllis. "don't talk about fires. oh, dear!" "what's wrong _now_!" "i'm so stiff i don't think i can take another step. we oughtn't to have rested so long." but she did take another step, and would have fallen heavily if herring had not caught her. a moment later she lost a shoe in the ooze, and wasted much precious daylight in vain efforts to locate and recover it. "sit down on that root," commanded herring. and she obeyed. he knelt before her, lifted her wet, muddy little stockinged foot and set it on his knee. "what size, please, miss?" he asked, giving an excellent imitation of a somewhat officious salesman. "i don't know; i have them made," said phyllis wearily, but trying her best to smile. "something in this style?" suggested herring. he had secretly removed one of his own shoes, and handling it with a kind of comic reverence, as if the soggy, muddy thing was a precious work of art, he presented it to her attention. and then phyllis smiled without even trying and then laughed. "i said a _shoe_," she said, "not a travelling bath-tub." but he slipped that great shoe over her little foot, and so bound it to her ankle with his handkerchief and necktie that it promised to stay on. "but you?" she said. "luck is with me to-day," said herring. "anybody can walk through an impassable swamp, but few are given the opportunity to hop. general sherman should have thought of that. it would have showed the confederates just what he thought of them if instead of marching through georgia he had hopped." and he pursued this new train of thought for some time. he improvised words to old tunes, and sang them at the top of his lungs: "as we were hopping through georgia." and last and worst he sang: "there'll be a hop time in the old town to-night." and when he had occasion to address phyllis directly, he no longer called her miss darling, but "goody two shoes." he said that his own name was not mr. herring but mr. hopper, and that he was a famous cotillon leader. but even he became a little quiet when the light began to fail, and a little serious. "whatever happens," he said, "it will be a great comfort to you to realize that it's entirely my fault. on the other hand, if we had gotten back into that boat, we might have been drowned long before this." a little later phyllis said: "i'm about all in. it's too dark to see. i----" "couldn't have chosen a better camping site myself," said herring humbly. "first thing to think of is the water-supply--and fuel. now, here the fuel grows right out of the water----" "we haven't any matches." "yes, we have; but they are wet and won't light." "we'll die of cold before morning," said phyllis; "there's no use pretending we won't." "on the contrary. now is the time to pretend all sorts of things. did you ever try to make a fire by rubbing two sticks together?" "never." "well, try it. it will make you warmer than the fire would. afterward we will play 'paddy cake, paddy cake,' and 'bean porridge hot.'" "do men in danger always carry on the way you do?" asked phyllis. "always," he answered. "i can understand trying to be funny during a cavalry charge, or while falling off a cliff," said phyllis, "but not while slowly and miserably congealing." "you are not a bostonian," said herring. "half the inhabitants of that municipality freeze to death and the others burn." "i've stayed in boston," said phyllis, "and the only difference that i could see between it and other places was that the people were more agreeable and things were done in better taste. and what gardens!" "ever seen the arboretum?" "have i?" "in lilac time?" "mm!" she was on her favorite topic. she forgot that she was cold, wet, miserable, and a frightful anxiety to her family. "but why be an innkeeper?" asked herring. "why not set up as a landscape-gardener?" "i don't know enough. but i've often thought----" "i've got five hundred acres outside of boston that i'd like to turn you loose on." "you speak as if i were a goat." "the first thing to do is to drain the swamps. now, i'll make you a proposition. i can't put it in writing, because it's too dark to see and i have no writing materials, but there is nothing fishy about us herrings. you to landscape my place for me, cause a suitable house to be built, and so forth; i to pay you a thousand dollars a month, and a five per cent commission on the total expenditure." "and what might _that_ amount to?" "what you please," said herring politely. "who says bostonians are cold?" exclaimed phyllis. and there began to float through her head lovely visions of landscapes of her own making. "you're still joking, aren't you?" she said after a while. "i don't know landscapes well enough to joke about them," he said. "but i can't design a house!" "oh, you will have architects to do that part. you just pick the general type." "what kind of a house do you want?" "it depends on what kind of a house _you_ want." "oh, dear," she exclaimed, "what fun it would be!" "will you do it?" she was tempted beyond her strength. "yes," she said, and began to talk with irresponsible delight and enthusiasm. "ah," thought herring to himself, "find out what really interests a girl and she'll forget all her troubles." it began suddenly to grow light. "good heavens!" exclaimed phyllis. "the woods must be on fire! oh, the poor trees!" "it isn't fire," said herring, "it's the moon--'queen and huntress, chaste and fair--goddess excellently bright'--was ever such luck! i hoped we were going to stand here cosily all night talking about marigolds and cowslips and wallpapers, and now it's our duty to move on. come, goody two shoes, policeman moon has told us to move on. i shall never forget this spot. and i shan't ever be able to find it again." they toiled forward a little way, and lo! upon a sudden, they came to firm and rocky land that sloped abruptly upward from the swamp. they climbed for several hundred feet and came out upon a bare hilltop, from which could be seen billows of forest and one great horn of half moon lake, silver in the moonlight. "why, it isn't a mile to camp," said phyllis. she swayed a little, tottered, rocked backward and then forward, and fell against herring's breast in a dead faint. in a few moments she came to and found that she was being carried in strong arms. it was a novel, delicious, and restful sensation--one which it seemed immensely sensible to prolong. she did not, then, immediately open her eyes. she heard a voice cheerful, but very much out of breath, murmuring over her: "new experience. never carried girl before. experience worth repeating. like 'em old-fashioned--like great-grandmother saltonstall. like 'em to faint." a few minutes later, "where am i?" said phyllis. "in my arms," said herring phlegmatically, as if that was one of her habitual residing places. "put me down, please." "i hear," said he, "and i obey with extreme reluctance. i made a bet with myself that i could carry you all the way. and now i shall never know. feel better?" "mm," she said, and "what a nuisance i've been all through! but it was pretty bad, some of it, wasn't it?" "already you are beginning to take pleasure in remembering. what did i tell you? don't be frightened. i am going to shout." he shouted in a voice of thunder, and before the echo came back to them another voice, loud and excited, rose in the forest. and they heard smashings and crashings, as a wild bull tearing through brittle bushes. and presently sam langham burst out of the thicket with a shower of twigs and pine-needles. his delight was not to be measured in words. he apostrophized himself. "good old sam!" he said. "he knew you weren't drowned in the brook. he knew it would be just like herring to want to cross that swamp. as soon as i heard somebody say that it was impassable, i said: 'where is the other side? that's the place to look for them.' but why didn't you make more noise?" "oh," said herring, "we were so busy talking and exploring and doing things that had never been done before that it never occurred to us to shout." "herring," said langham sternly, "you have the makings of a hero, but not, i am afraid, of a woodsman." "well, we're safe enough now," said herring. "excuse me a moment----" "excuse you! what?" "it's very silly--been sick you know--over-exertion--think better faint and get it over with." langham knelt and lifted herring's head. "you lift his feet," he said to phyllis, "send the blood to his heart; bring him to." herring began to come out of his faint. "this young man," said langham, "may be something of an ass, but he's got sand." "he carried me a long way," said phyllis, the tears racing down her cheeks; "and he's only just over typhoid, and he never stopped being cheerful and gallant, and he _isn't_ an ass!" herring came to, but was not able to stand. he had kept up as long as he had to, and now there was no more strength in him. phyllis accepted the loan of langham's coat. "i'll stay with him," she said, "while you go for help." the moment langham's back was turned she spread the coat over herring. "_please--don't!_" he said. "you be quiet," said she sharply. "how do you feel?" "pretty well used up, thank you. hope you'll 'scuse me for this collapse. shan't happen again. lucky thing you and i don't both collapse same moment." a faint moan was wrung from him. she touched his cheek with her hand. it was hot as fire. she was an old-fashioned girl, and the instinct of nursing was strong in her. she was an old-fashioned girl. there had almost always been a young man in her life about whom, for a while, she wove more or less intensely romantic fancies. they came; they went. but almost always there was one. she raised her lovely face and looked at the moon, and made an unspoken confession. there had always been one. well, now there was another! xvi when the real season opened, you might have thought that the whole venture was mr. sam langham's and that he had risked the whole of his money in it. without being officious, he had words of anxious advice for the darlings, severally and collectively. his early breakfasts in smoke house with mary, the chef beaming upon the efficient and friendly pair, lost something of their free and easy social quality, and became opportunities for the gravest discussions of ways and means. the opening day would see every spare room in the place occupied--by a man. to mary it seemed a little curious that so few women, so few families, and so many bachelors had applied for rooms. but to sam langham the reasons for this were clear and definite. "it was the picture in the first issues of your advertisement that did it. i only compliment and felicitate you when i say that every bachelor who saw that picture must have made up his mind to come here if he possibly could. and that every woman who saw it must have felt that she could spend a happier summer somewhere else. now, if you had circulated a picture of half a dozen men, each as good-looking as your brother arthur, the results would have been just the opposite." "women aren't such idiots about other women's looks as you think they are," said mary. "i didn't say they were idiots; i intimated that they were sensible. the prettiest woman at a summer resort always has a good time--not the best, necessarily, but very good. now, no woman could look at that picture of you and your sisters and expect to be considered the prettiest woman _here_. could she, chef?" chef laughed a loud, scornful, defiant, gesticulant, gallic laugh. his good-natured features focussed into a scathing parisian sneer; he turned a delicate omelette over in the air and said, "lala!" "there are," continued mr. langham, "only half a dozen women in the world who can compare in looks with you and your sisters. there's the princess oducalchi--your mother. there's the countess of kingston, mrs. waring, miss virginia clark--but these merely compare. they don't compete." mr. langham tried to look very sly and wicked, and he sang in a humming voice: "oh, to be a mussulman, now that spring is here." "coffee?" said mary. "please." "well," said she, as she poured, "the whys and wherefores don't matter. it's to be a bachelor resort--that seems definitely settled. but i think we had better send the triplets away. i don't want the pritchard and herring episodes repeated while my nerves are in this present state. and there's lee--if she isn't leading renier into one folly after another, i don't know what she is doing. they seem to think that keeping an inn is a mere excuse for flirtation." "don't send them away," said langham. "if you sent those three girls to a place where there weren't any men at all--they'd flirt with their shadows. better have 'em flirting where you can watch 'em than where you can't. and besides--are you quite sure that the pritchard and herring episodes were mere flirtations? day before yesterday i came upon miss gay by accident; she was practising casting." "that's how she spends half her time." "but she was practising with pritchard's rod! yesterday i came upon her in the same place----" "by accident?" smiled mary. "by design," he said honestly. "and this time she wasn't casting. she had the rod lying across her knees, and her eyes were turned dreamily toward the bluest and most distant mountain-top." "'why do you look at that mountain?' i said. "'because it's blue, too,' said she. "'and what makes you blue?' i asked. "'the same cause that makes the mountain blue,' said she. "'hum,' said i. 'then it must be distance.' "'something like that,' she said. 'i sometimes think i'm the most distant person in the world.' "'you're probably not the only person who thinks that!' said i. "and she said, 'no? really?' and that was all i could get out of her. except that, just as i was walking away, i heard a sharp whistling sound and my cap--my new plaid cap--was suddenly tweaked from the top of my head and hung in a tree. she must have practised a lot with that rod of pritchard's. it was a beautiful cast----" "she might have put your eye out!" exclaimed mary. "she hung the apple of my eye in a tree," said he dolefully. "you know that one with the green and brown? and last night it rained." "i hope she expressed sorrow," said mary. "she was going to, but i got laughing and then she did." "what a dear you are!" exclaimed mary. "and so you think she's making herself mournful over mr. pritchard? and what are the reasons for thinking that phyllis is serious about mr. herring?" "he's sent for blue-prints of his property outside boston, and they are busy with plans for landscaping it. narrow escape that! i didn't let on; but the second day i thought he was a goner. i did." mary sighed. "we might just as well have called it a matrimonial agency in the first place instead of an inn." mr. langham rose reluctantly. "i have an engagement with miss maud," he explained. the faintest ripple of disappointment flitted across mary's forehead. "i've promised to help her with her books," said he. "some of the journal entries puzzle her; and she has an idea that the inn ought to have more capital. and we are going into that, too." "i hope," said mary, "that you aren't going to lend us money without consulting me." chef was in a distant corner, quite out of ear-shot. and mr. langham, emboldened by one of the most delicious breakfasts he had ever eaten, shot an arch glance at miss darling. "i wouldn't consult you about lending money," he said; "i wouldn't consult you about giving money. but any time you'll let me consult you about _sharing_ money----" panic overtook him, and he turned and fled. but upon mary's brow was no longer any ripple of disappointment--only the unbroken alabaster of smooth serenity. she reached for the household keys and said to herself: "maud is a steady girl--even if the rest of us aren't." she caught a glimpse of herself in the bottom of a highly polished copper utensil and couldn't help being pleased with what she saw. on the way to the office mr. langham fell in with arthur. this one, uncas scolding and chatting upon his shoulder, was starting off for a day's botanizing--or dreaming maybe. "arthur--one moment, please," said langham. "as the head of the family i want to consult you about something." "yes?" said arthur sweetly. "of course, uncas, you are too noisy." and he put the offended little beast into his green collecting case. "i never would have come here," said mr. langham, "if it hadn't been for that advertisement." arthur frowned slightly. "you mean----" "yes. but i came," said mr. langham, "not as a pagan turk but as a christian gentleman. i was just about to take passage for liverpool when i saw your sister mary looking out at me from _the four seasons_. and so i wrote to ask if i could come here. i have lived well, but i am not disappointed. i am very rich----" "my dear sam," said arthur, "you are the best fellow in the world. what do you want of me?" "to know that you think i'd try my best to make a girl happy if she'd let me." "a girl?" smiled arthur. "_any_ girl?" "in all the world," said mr. langham, "there is only one girl." "if i were you," said arthur, "i'd ask her what _she_ thought about it." langham assumed a look of terrible gloom. "if she didn't think well of it i'd want to cut my throat. i'd rather keep on living in blissful uncertainty, but i wanted _you_ to know--_why_ i am here, and _why_ i want to stay on and on." "why, i'm very glad to know," said arthur, "but surely it's your own affair." mr. langham shook his head. "last night," said he, "i was dozing on my little piazza. who should row by at a distance but miss gay and miss lee. you know how sounds carry through an adirondack night? miss lee said to miss gay: 'i tell you he doesn't. not _really_. he's just a male flirt.' 'a butterfly,' said miss gay." "but how do you know they were referring to you?" "by the way the blessed young things laughed at the word '_butterfly_'. so i wanted you to know that my intentions are tragically serious, no matter what others may say. whatever i may be, and i have been insulted more than once about my figure and my habits, i am _not_ a flirt. i am just as romantic as if i was a living skeleton." here arthur's head went back, and he laughed till the tears came. and mr. langham couldn't help laughing, too. a few moments later he was going over the inn books with maud darling and displaying for her edification an astonishing knowledge of entries and a truly magical facility in figuring. suddenly, apropos of something not in the least germane, he said: "miss maud, when in your opinion is the most opportune time for a man to propose to a girl?" "when he's got her alone," said she promptly, "and has just been dazzling her with a display of his erudition and understanding." and she, whom mary had described as the one steady sister in the lot, flung him a melting and piercing glance. but mr. langham was not deceived. "i ask you an academic question," he said, "and you give me an absolutely cradle-snatching answer. i may _look_ easy, miss maud, but there are people who will protect me." "the best time to propose to a girl? you really want to know? i thought you were just starting one of your jokes." "if i am," said he, "the joke will be on me. but i _really_ want to know." "the best moment," said she, "is that moment in which she learns that one of her friends or one of her sisters younger than she is engaged to be married. when an unengaged girl hears of another girl's engagement she has a momentary panic, during which she is helpless and defenseless. that is my best judgment, mr. sam langham. and the older the girl the greater the panic. and now i've betrayed my sex. in fact, i have told you absolutely all that is definitely known about girls." just outside the office he met gay. "halloo!" she said. he only made signs at her and flapped his arms up and down. "_they_ can't talk," he said. "who can't talk?" he held her with a stern glance, and if the word had been hissable, would have hissed it. "butterflies," he said. then miss gay turned the color of a scarlet maple in the fall of the year. then she squealed and ran. xvii "are we all here?" asked mary. she had summoned her sisters and arthur to the office for a conference. "all except sam langham," said gay. "i didn't know that he was one of the family," said mary. "of course, you _know_," said gay; "you would. _i_ was just guessing." "well, he isn't," said mary, trying not to change color or to enjoy being teased about mr. langham. the triplets sat in a row upon a bench made of little birch logs with the bark on. it was not soft sitting, as lee whispered, but one had one's back to the light, and in case one had done something wrong without knowing it and was in for a scolding, that would prove an immense advantage. "what i wanted to say," said mary, "is just this----" she stood up and looked rather more at the triplets than any one else, so that lee exclaimed, "votes for women," and gay echoed her with, "yes, but none for poor little girls in their teens." "hitherto," continued the orator, "the inn has been only informally open. it's been more like having a few friends stopping with us. we had to see more or less of them. but after to-day there will be a crowd, and i think it would be more dignified and pleasanter for them if _some_ of us kept ourselves a little more to ourselves. what do _you_ think, arthur?" arthur looked up sweetly. it was evident that he had not been listening. "why, mary," he said, "i think it might be managed with infinite patience." the triplets giggled; maud and eve exchanged amused looks. "arthur," said mary, "you can make one contribution to this discussion if you want to. you can tell us what you are really thinking about, so that we needn't waste time trying to guess." "why," said he gently, "you know i have quite a knack with animals, taming them and training them, and i was wondering if it would be possible to train a snail. _that's_ what i was thinking about. i have a couple in my pocket at the moment, and----" "never mind _now_," said mary hurriedly, and she turned to the triplets. "what do _you_ think of what i said?" "i think it was tortuous and involved," said lee, "and that it would hardly bear repetition." "it smacked of paternalism," said gay. and even phyllis, her mind upon the convalescing herring, was moved to speak. "you said it would be more dignified for some of us to keep to ourselves. perhaps it would. you said it would be pleasanter for the people who are coming here to stay. i doubt it!" "bully for you, old girl," shouted lee and gay; "sick her!" mary moaned. she was proof against their hostilities, but the language in which they were couched pierced her to the marrow. "i am sure," she said, "that maud and eve will agree with me." "of course," said eve. "naturally," said maud. "there!" exclaimed mary, with evident triumph. "we agree," said eve, "that _some_ of us should keep ourselves more to ourselves." and she looked sternly at the triplets. but then she turned and looked sternly at mary and rose to her feet. "we think," she said with a _j'accuse_ intonation, "that those who haven't kept themselves to themselves should, and that those who have--shouldn't. maud and i, for instance, haven't the slightest objection to being fetched for and carried for by attractive young men. have we, maud? but hitherto, as must have been obvious to the veriest nincompoop, we have done our own fetching and carrying." there was a short silence. mary blushed. arthur fidgeted. he was wondering if snails preferred the human voice or whistling. "i'm quite sure," said maud, "that i haven't been wandering over the hills with future earls, or lost in swamps with interesting invalids, or basked morning after morning in the sunny smile of a gourmet----" mary paled under this attack. "mr. langham is altogether different," she said. "oh, quite!" cried lee. "utterly, absolutely different!" cried gay. "to begin with, he's richer; and to end with, he's fatter." "i shouldn't have said 'fat,'" said lee. "i should have said 'well-larded,' but then i am something of a stylist." "sam langham," said mary, "is everybody's friend. and he's an immense help in lots of ways; and then he has a certain definite interest in the inn. because, if we need it, he's going to lend us money to carry our accounts." gay whispered to lee behind her hand. lee giggled. "what was that?" asked mary sharply. "only a quotation." "what quotation?" "oh, gay just said something about 'bought and paid for.'" here arthur interrupted. "they're like snails," said he to mary. "you can only train 'em with infinite patience." phyllis rose suddenly and became the cynosure of all eyes except her own, whose particular cynosure at the moment was the floor. she moved toward the door. "where are you off to?" asked mary. "i'm just going to speak to chef." "what about?" "about some chicken broth." "for yourself?" the gentle phyllis was being goaded beyond endurance. at the door she turned and lifted her great eyes to mary's. "no," she said bitterly; "it's for arthur's snails." there was a silence. "if there's any voting," said phyllis, "i give my proxy to gay." and she vanished through the door. "i'm sure," said mary, "i don't know what the modern young girl is coming to!" "i know where _that_ one is going to," said gay; "spilling the chicken broth in her unseemly haste." then arthur spoke. "the modern young girl," he said, "is coming to just where her grandmother came, and by the same road. girls will be girls. so let's be thankful that the men who have come here so far have been--men. and hopeful that those who are to come will be also. i've lived too much with nature not to know what's natural--when i see it." "do you think," said gay sweetly, "that it's natural for a man to eat as much as sam langham does?" "as natural under the peculiar circumstances," said arthur, "as it is for you to tease." lee rose. "and you?" said mary, smiling at last. "oh," said lee witheringly, "i have an engagement to carve initials surrounded by a heart on a birch-tree." and when lee had gone gay spoke up. "i shouldn't wonder," said she, "if, by way of a blind, the baggage had told the truth." "we should never have called it the inn," said mary; "we should have called it the matrimonial agency." "every pretty girl," said arthur, "is a matrimonial agency." at this moment uncas, the chipmunk, rushed screaming into the room and flung himself into arthur's lap. arthur comforted the little beast, and noticed that his nose and face bore fresh evidences of a fight. uncas complained very bitterly; he was evidently trying to talk. "is stripes hurt?" asked mary. "it's his feelings," said arthur. "he's been made a victim of misplaced confidence. some young woman has been encouraging him." "poor little man!" said gay with sudden emotion. "did ums want some nice vasy on ums poor sick nose?" "he would only lick it off," regretted arthur. mr. langham's jolly face appeared in the open door. "i've seen two depart," he said, "and thought maybe the meeting was over." "it is," said mary, and, after a moment's hesitation, she boldly joined mr. langham and walked off by his side. even arthur chuckled. "and what was the meeting about?" asked mr. langham. "oh," said mary, "they won't be serious--not any of them--not even arthur. so we forgot what the meeting was for, and got into violent discussion about--about natural history." "and what side did you take?" "oh," said mary, "we were all on the same side--_really_, and that was what made the discussion so violent." "the day," said langham, "is young. i feel ripe for an adventure. and you?" "what sort of an adventure?" "i thought that if one--or rather if _two_ climbed to the top of a very little hill and sat down in the sunshine and admired the view----" * * * * * far out on the lake they could see lee, lolling in the stern of a guide boat. young renier was at the oars. but the boat was not being propelled. it was merely drifting. "i wonder," said langham, and he watched her face stealthily, "if by any chance those two are really engaged?" was there the least hardening of that lovely, gentle face, the least fleeting expression of that sort of panic which one experiences when arriving at the station in time to see the train pull out but not too late to get aboard by the exercise of swift and energetic manoeuvres? "don't say such things!" she said presently. "it's like jumping out from behind a tree and shouting, 'boo!'" mr. langham smiled complacently and changed the subject. but he said to himself: "that maud is a clever girl!" "i suppose," said mary after a while, "that this is the last really peaceful day we'll have for a long time. to-morrow the place will be full of strange, critical faces. and it will be one long wrestle to make everything go smoothly all the time." she sighed. "there are only two ways to success," said langham. "one is across the wrestling-mat, and one is through the pasture of old bull luck. but i'm convinced that the inn is going to pay very handsomely. there is a fortune in it." "there mightn't be," said mary, "if--" and she broke into a peal of embarrassed laughter. "if what?" "i was thinking of that _dreadful_ picture." "i often think of it," said mr. langham, "and of the first time i saw it." mary gave him a somewhat shy look. "of course it didn't influence you," she said. "but it did. and that day i forgot to eat any lunch. i am looking forward," he said, "to warm weather--i enjoy a swim as much as anybody." "why is it," said mary, "that a girl is ashamed when it is her money that attracts a man, and proud when it is her face? both are equally fortuitous; both are assets in a way--but of the two, it is the money alone which is really useful." "it sounds convincing to a girl," mused mr. langham, "when a man says to her: 'i love you because of your beautiful blue eyes!' but it wouldn't sound in the least convincing if he said: 'i love you because of your beautiful green money!' i don't attempt to explain this. i am merely stating what appears to me to be a fact. but, as you say, money is, or should be, an asset of attraction." "i suppose beauty is held in greater esteem," said mary, "because it is more democratically bestowed. money seems to beget hatred because it isn't." "the french people," said langham, "hated the nobility because of their wealth and luxury. to-day a common mechanic has more real luxuries at his disposal than poor louis xvi had, but he hates the rich people who have more than he has--and so it will go on to the end of time." "will there always be rich people and poor people?" "there will always be rich people, but some time they will learn to spend their money more beneficently, and then there won't be any really poor people. if the attic of your house were infected with dirt and vermin you couldn't sleep until it had been cleaned and disinfected. so, some day, rich men will feel about their neighbors; cities about their slums; and nations about other nations. i can imagine a future uncle sam saying to a future john bull"--and he sunk his voice to a comically confidential whisper: "'say, old man, i hear you're pressed for ready cash; now't just so happens i'm well fixed at the moment, and--oh, just among friends! bother the interest!' what a spectacle this world is--it's like the old english schools that dickens wrote out of existence--just bullying and hazing all around! why, if a country was run on the most elementary principles of honesty and efficiency, the citizens of that country would never have occasion to say: 'our taxes are almost unbearable.' they would be nudging each other in the streets and saying: 'my, that was a big dividend we got!'" mr. langham only stopped because he was out of breath. his face was red and shining. he mopped his brow with his handkerchief. mary was almost perfectly happy. she loved to hear langham run on and on. his voice was so pleasant, and his face beamed so with kindness. and from many things which he had from time to time let slip she was convinced that she needn't be an old maid unless she wanted to be. and so to climb a little hill with him, to sit in the sun, and to admire the view was really an exciting venture. for she never knew what he was going to let slip next. and equally exciting was the fact that if that slip should be in the nature of a leading question, she could only guess what her answer would be. when a man is offered something that he very much wants--a trifling loan, for instance--his first instinct is to deny the need. and a girl, when the man she wants offers himself, usually refuses at the first time of asking. and some, especially rich in girl nature, which is experience of human nature and somewhat short of divine, will persist in refusing even unto the twentieth and thirtieth time. mary darling was in a deep reverie. from this, his eyes twinkling behind their thick glasses, mr. langham roused her with the brisk utterance of one of his favorite quotations: "'general blank's compliments,'" said he, "'and he reports that the colored troops are turning black in the face.'" mary smiled her friendliest smile. "i was wondering," she said, "what had become of lee and renier." "i have noted," said mr. langham, "that she always calls him by his last name, sometimes with the prefix you--'you renier' put like that. and i was wondering if he ever turns the trick on her." "why should he?" asked mary innocently. "you have forgotten," said he, "that her last name is darling." his eyes twinkled with amazing and playful boldness. "you're _all_ darlings," he exclaimed, "and"--a note of self-pity in his voice--"i'm just a fat old stuff!" "that," said mary primly, "is perfectly correct, but for three trifling errors--you're not fat, you're not old, and you're not a stuff!" if she had told him that he was handsome as apollo he could not have been more pleased. and so their adventure progressed in the pleasant sunlight that warmed the top of the little hill. no very exciting adventure, you say? and of a shilly-shallying and even snail-like motion? oh, you can't be always riding to rescues, and falling over cliffs, and escaping from burning houses. at that moment, by the purest accident, the tip of mr. langham's right forefinger just brushed against mary's sleeve. and there went through him from head to foot a great thrill, as if trumpets had suddenly sounded. "i suppose," said mary, after a little while, "that we ought to be going." "but i'd rather sit here than eat," said mr. langham. "honestly? so would i." "then," said mr. langham, "without exposing ourselves to any other danger than that of starvation, i propose that we lose ourselves--as _other people do_--in short, that we remain here until one or other of us would rather--eat." "good gracious," said mary, "we might be here a week!" mr. langham rose slowly to his feet. far off he could see pale smoke flitting upward through the tree-tops. he turned and looked into miss darling's smiling, upturned face. "i'll just run down and tell arthur we're not _really_ lost," he said. "but i'll make him promise not to look for us. i'll be right back--almost before you can say 'jack robinson.'" she held out her hands. he took them and helped her to her feet. and then they both laughed aloud. "thank heaven," said mary, "that whatever else you and i may suffer from, it isn't from insanity--or slim appetites! as a matter of fact, i'm famished." "thank god!" said mr. langham; "so am i." and they began to descend the hill. for to keep men and women and adventurers going, the essential thing is food. and there's many a promising romance that has come to nothing for want of a loaf of bread and a jug of wine. xviii in a certain part of the land of cotton, where they grow nothing but rice, colonel melville meredith stood beside the charred foundations of a house and nursed his chin with his hand. with the exception of a sword which the king of greece had given him, all those possessions which he had considered of value had gone up in smoke with the house of his ancestors. the family portraits were gone, the silver lamarie, and lesage, and all the domingan satinwood. if colonel meredith had been an older man, he must almost have wept. but the grip upon his chin was not of one mourning. it was the grip of consideration. he was wondering what sort of a new house he should build upon the foundations of the old. he must, of course, build upon the old site. there were other good sites among his thousands of acres, but none which was so well planted. a good architect could copy the taj mahal for you. but the pemaque oak is one hundred and seven feet, or less, in circumference, and the avenue of oaks leading from the turnpike, two miles away, was planted in 1653. there were also divers jungles of rhododendrons, laurel, and azalea in the river garden that it had taken no less than a great-grandmother to plant. "it can't be the first conflagration in the family," he thought. "everybody's ancestors, at one time or another, must have lost by fire and built again. as for pemaque--it _was_ a lovely old house, but a new house could be just as lovely, and it could have bathrooms and be made rat-proof. and i wouldn't mind if people scratched the floors." i have said that colonel meredith had lost all the possessions which he valued. but of course the land remained, the trees, the duck ponds, the alligator sloughs, and so forth. there remained, also, a robust youth, crowded with experiences and memories of wars and statesmen and of delightful people who live for pleasure. there remained, also--least valuable of all to a man of action and sentiment--a perfectly safe income, derived from bonds, of nearly two hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year. colonel meredith was by all odds the richest man in that part of the land of cotton, where they grow nothing but rice. it was piping hot among the foundations of the old house; the sticky, ticky season had descended upon the carolina seacoast. the snakes and the lizards were saying among themselves, "now this is really something like," and were behaving accordingly. every few minutes a new and ambitious generation of mosquitoes was hatched. the magnolias were going to seed. colonel meredith's gordon setter, a determined expression upon his face, had been scratching himself with almost supercanine speed for the last twenty minutes. colonel meredith scorned ticks, trod with indifference upon snakes, and was not poisoned or even pained by mosquitoes, but he had travelled all over the world and was not averse to being cooler and more comfortable. "we've got the grandest climate in the world," he thought loyally, "for eight months in the year--but when it comes to summer give me vera cruz, singapore, or even hell. i'll build a home for autumn, winter, and spring, but when it gets to be summer, i'll go away and shoot polar bears." he whistled his dog and walked thoughtfully to where his automobile was waiting in the shade. his driver, an irish boy from new york, was in a state of wilt. "i have determined," said colonel meredith, "not to begin building until cool weather. we shall go north to-night. i hope the thought will refresh you. now we will go back to mr. jonstone's. do you feel able to drive, or shall i?" it was typical of the region that the mr. jonstone with whom meredith was stopping should own the best bed of mint south of washington, and could make the best mint-juleps. the mint-bed was about all he did own. everything else was heavily mortgaged. everything, that is, except the family silver and jewels. these jonstone's grandmother had buried when sherman came marching through, and had almost immediately forgotten where she had buried them. jonstone employed one trustworthy negro whose year-around business was to dig for the treasure. there existed a list of the objects buried, which was enough to make even a rich man's palm itch. "nothing to-day," said jonstone as his guest drove up. "and it's about time for a julep." "i'm going north to-night," said meredith, "and you're going with me." they were cousins, second or third, of about the same age. they even looked alike, but whereas meredith had travelled all over the world, jonstone had never been south of savannah or north of washington. he began with an ivory toddy-stick to convert sugar and bourbon into sirup. "how's that, mel?" he asked. "and why?" "between us two, bob," said meredith, "this is one hell of a climate in summer. the brighter we are the quicker we'll get out of it." "i'd like to go you on that, but aside from the family silver i haven't a penny in the world." "bob, i'm sick of offering to lend you money. i'm sick of offering to give you money. there's only one chance left." jonstone made a gentle clashing sound with fine ice. "as you know, my family silver has all gone up in smoke. now yours hasn't. suppose you sell me yours. what's it worth?" "with or without the diamonds?" "if i should ever marry, it would be advisable to have the diamonds." "well," said jonstone, beginning to turn over a bundle of straws, with the object of selecting four which should be flawless, "i don't want to stick you. we have a complete list of the pieces, with their weights and dates. some of the new york dealers could tell us what the collection would be worth in the open market. double that sum in the name of sentiment, and i'll go you." "i must have a free hand to hunt for the stuff in my own way-it's perfection--you never, never made a better one--now, how about the diamonds?" "i have the weights. and you know the jonstones were always particular about water." "that's why they are all dead but you. then you'll come?" bob jonstone nodded. "you'll have to lend me a suit of clothes--but, look here, mel: suppose the silver and stuff has been lifted--doesn't exist any more? wouldn't i, in selling it to you, be guilty of sharp practice?" "our great-great-grandfather, the signer, doesn't exist any more, bob. that silver is somewhere--in some form or other. i pay for it, and it's mine. does it matter if i never see it or handle it? i shall always be able to allude to it--isn't that enough? as for you, you'll be able to pay all your mortgages, to fix the front door so's it won't have to be kept shut with a keg of nails, and to spend what is necessary on your fields." "of course," said jonstone, who had finished his julep. "it afflicts me to part with what has been in the family so long." "but you ought to be afflicted." "why?" "didn't you vote for wilson?" jonstone nodded solemnly. "come, then," said meredith, as if he were pardoning an erring child; "there's just time for one julep and to pack up our things. you'll just love new york. and when we get there we'll make up our minds whether we'll go to newport or bar harbor. bob, did it ever occur to you that you and i ought to get married? that looks as if it was going to be better than the other, though darker-what's the use of having ancestors if you're not going to be one?" "show me a girl as handsome as sully's portrait of great-grandmother pringle, and i'll take notice." "why, every other girl in a broadway chorus has got the old lady skinned to death, bob!" "you may be worldly-wiser than me, mel, but you've lost your reverence. it's always been agreed in the family that great-grandmother pringle was the most beautiful woman in the south. and when a man says 'the south,' and refers at the same time to female charms, he has as good as said the whole world." "bob, among ourselves, do you really think jefferson davis was a greater man than abraham lincoln?" "ssssh!" said jonstone. "do you really think the southern armies wiped up the map with the northern armies every time they met? and do you really think that wooden-faced doll that sully painted has no equal for beauty north of the mason and dixon line? what you need is travel and experience." "what's the matter with _you_ getting married?--my god, don't spill that, mel!" "there's nothing the matter with it. and i'll tell you what i'll do: i will if you will." "they ought to be sisters, seeing as how you and i have always been like brothers and voted the democratic ticket and fought chickens." "and fed the same ticks and mosquitoes." "we'll have a double wedding. we'll each be the other's best man, and they'll each be the other's best girl." "no--no; they are each to be our best girls." "what i mean is----" "i know what you mean, but you've made this julep too strong." "that's _one_ thing they can't do in the north." "what's that?" "make a julep." meredith considered this at some length. "no, bob," he said at length, "they can't. but i once met a statesman from maine who made a thing that looked like a julep, tasted like a julep, and that--i'd say it if it was my dying statement--had the same effect." "she must be better-looking than great-grandmother pringle," said jonstone. "she must be able to make a julep, and she must have a sister just like her. can you lend me a suit of clothes till we get to new york?" "i can lend you anything from a yachting suit to a bulgarian uniform." "and you're sure i'm not imposing on you in the matter of the silver?" "sure. i just want to know it's mine." in the morning, soon after this precious pair had breakfasted, a boy went through the train with newspapers and magazines. he proclaimed in the sweetest virginian voice that his magazines were just out, but a copy of _the four seasons_ which colonel meredith bought proved not only to be of an ancient date but to have had coffee spilled upon it. at the moment when this discovery was made, the youthful paper-monger had just swung from the crawling train to the platform of a way station, so there was no redress. the cousins agreed, laughing, that if a yankee had played them such a trick they would have wished to cut his heart out, but that, turned upon them by a fellow countryman, it was merely a proof of smartness and push. "between you and me, bob," said colonel meredith, "an accurate count of our southern population would proclaim a villain or two here and there. i was brought up to believe that to be born in a certain region was all that was necessary. but that's not so. i tell you this because i am afraid that when you are meeting people in new york and having a good time you will be wanting to lay down the law, to wit, that one southerner can whip five yankees. don't do it. i will tell you a horrid truth. i was once whipped by a small-sized frenchman within an inch of my life. he had studied _le boxe_ under carpentier and i hadn't. did you ever study _le boxe_? no? an anglo-saxon imagines that he was born boxing. and it takes a licking by a man of latin blood to prove to him that he wasn't. just because people make funny noises and monkey cries when they fight doesn't prove that they are afraid. there is nothing so ridiculous as a baboon going into action and nothing more terrible when he gets there." "the more you travel, mel, the more you show a deplorable tendency to foul your own nest." "_i_ run down the south? i like that! but, my dear bob, there is only one chosen people. and it isn't us." here he made a significant gesture with his hands, turning the palms up, and they both laughed. "a jew," he went on, "is what he is because he is a jew. his good points and his bad are racial. but between two men of our race there is no material resemblance. one is mean, the other generous; one broad, one narrow; one brave, the other not. do you know why hornless cows give less milk than horned cows? because there are fewer of them. do you know why there are more honest men in the north, and pretty girls, than there are in the south? simply because there are more men and more girls. it also follows that there are more dishonest men and ugly girls; more of everything, in fact." he was slowly turning over the pages of _the four seasons_, looking always, with pemaque in mind, at pictures of country houses. suddenly he closed the magazine, looked pensively out of the window, and began to whistle with piercing sweetness. he once more opened the magazine, but this time with great caution as if he was half afraid that something disagreeable would jump out at him. nothing did, however. he folded the magazine back upon itself and held it close to his eyes, then far off, then at mid-distance. "what's the matter with you?" said bob jonstone. "nothing," said meredith, "only i'm thinking there ought to be six of us instead of only two. look at that page and tell me where we're going to spend the summer." jonstone took the magazine and saw the six darling sisters sitting on the float in their bathing-dresses. presently he smiled and said: "you've just won an argument, mel." "how's that?" "why, in the south there wouldn't be so many of them--but maybe they are not always there. maybe they were only there last summer." "well, we can find out where they've gone, can't we?" "it doesn't seem in strict good breeding to pursue ladies one doesn't know." "why, bless you, i chased all over europe after a face i saw in _the sketch_, only to find out that she was willing to marry anybody with money and had a voice like a guinea-hen. and after i'd found that out, she chased _me_ all over europe and as far east as cairo." "i've never been chased by a woman," said jonstone a little wistfully. "what happened in the end?" "i left cairo between two days, fled away into the desert with some people just stepped out of the bible, and never came back." "suppose she hadn't been willing to marry you and had had a voice like a dove?" "don't suppose. we are on a new quest." "what is the adirondacks?" "we wouldn't think much of it in the south. it's a place where you are always cool and clean and can drink the nearest water. the trout don't eat mud and haven't got long white whiskers, and the deer are bigger than dogs, and you don't go to sleep at night. the night just comes and puts you to sleep. it's just like bar harbor--only a little more so in some ways and a little less so in others." jonstone spread _the four seasons_ wide open upon his knees. "let's agree right now," he said, "which each of us thinks is the prettiest. it would be dreadful after travelling so far if we were both to pick on the same one." "we would have to fight a duel," said meredith, "with swords, and considering that you could never even sharpen a pencil without cutting yourself----" "a boy wouldn't come along," said jonstone, "and sell us a copy of a magazine months old if fate hadn't meant us to see this picture. i think i like the third one from the end." "i think i like the three that look just alike." "that is because you have travelled in turkey. you never seem to remember that you are a christian gentleman." xix when they found out how much the buried silver was worth--the inventory was very thorough in the matter of description, dates, and weights--mr. bob jonstone burst out laughing. but colonel meredith, although determined to stand by his bargain whatever the cash cost, looked like a man who has just missed the last train. "i haven't got that much money loose, bob," he said, "but i can raise it in a few days and then we'll execute a bill of sale. meanwhile, allow me to congratulate you on your accession to the aristocracy." "aristocracy? it's blood that counts--not money." "according to the old democracy, yes. according to the new, distinguished people pay an income tax and common people don't. and you, a moment ago, before the valuation was completed, were a very common fellow, indeed." "mel, i had no idea that old junk was worth so much." "you hadn't? well, it's worth more. i'm getting a bargain. thank the lord you're a gentleman, so there's no danger of your backing out." jonstone seized his cousin's hand and pressed it affectionately. "mel," he said, "can you afford to do this thing? god knows the money will make all the difference in the world to me! but in taking it i don't feel any too noble." "it was always ridiculous for me to be rich and for you to be poor. that's done with. i'm still rich, thank god!--and you're well-to-do. you can travel if you like, breed horses, install plumbing, burn coal, and marry." "if i was sure that the silver would ever be turned up, i wouldn't feel so sheepish." "as long as you don't look sheepish or act sheepish--suppose that now, after a slight fortification, we visit a tailor. it is necessary for you to dress according to your station in life." their first day in new york was immensely amusing to both of them. meredith was coming back to it after a long absence; jonstone was seeing it for the first time, and for the first time his pockets were full of money that he did not owe. now, new york is one of the finest summer resorts in the world. do not pity the poor business man who sends his family to the mountains for the hot weather, for while they are burned by the sun and fed an interminable succession of blueberry pies, he basks in the cool of electric fans and dines on the fat of the land. his business may worry him, but there is no earthly use in his attending to it. that is done for him. he can skip away when he pleases for an afternoon's golf or tennis. somebody's motor is always going somewhere where there is pleasure to be found and laughter. the lights of luna park are brighter than the bar harbor stars, and the ocean which pounds upon long beach is just as salt as that which thunders against great head--and about twice as warm. for pure torture give me a swim anywhere north of cape cod. merely to step into such water is like having one's foot bitten off by a shark. it did not take jonstone long to acknowledge that new york is even bigger than richmond, virginia, and even livelier. the discovery of a superannuated mosquito in his bathroom had made him feel at home, and the fact that the head bartender in the hotel, though a native of ireland, fashioned a delicious julep. but his equanimity came very near to being upset in the subway. he felt a hand slipping into his pocket and caught it by the wrist. he had a grip like looped wire twisted with pinchers. the would-be thief uttered a startled shriek and was presently turned over to a policeman. all the way to the station-house mr. jonstone talked excitedly and triumphantly to his cousin. "yes, sir," he said, "you had me groggy with your high buildings and your aladdin-cave stores and your taxicabs and park systems. but by the everlasting, sir, this would never have happened to me south of the mason and dixon line. no, sir; we may be short on show but we're long on honesty down there. i don't even have to lock my door at night." "that's because the lock's broken and you've always kept it shut with a keg of nails. there are more pickpockets in new york than in charleston, but only because there are more pockets to pick." "i don't get you," said jonstone stiffly. a little later he did. the culprit was asked his name by a formidable desk sergeant. "stephen breckenridge." bob jonstone gasped. "where do you come from?" "lexington, kentucky." colonel meredith let forth a howl of laughter. and after he had been frowned into decorum by the sergeant, he continued for a long time to look as if he was going to burst. for some hours mr. jonstone was moody and unamused. then suddenly he broke into a winning smile. "mel," he said, "i wouldn't have minded so much if he had been smart enough to get my money. it was bad finding out that he was a compatriot of ours, but much more to realize that he was a fool." xx mr. langham was consulted about everything. and it was to him that maud darling took meredith's letter asking for accommodations. "we've only two rooms left," she said, "and such nice people have come, or are coming, that it would be an awful pity if we had the bad luck to fill up with two men that weren't nice. did you ever hear of a colonel meredith?" "is that his letter? may i look?" mr. langham read the letter through very carefully. then he said, looking at her over the tops of his thick glasses: "i don't know if you know it, but i have made quite a study of handwritings. the writer of this letter is a gentleman--a southern gentleman, if i am not mistaken. accepting this premise, we may assume that his friend mr. robert middleton jonstone is also a southern gentleman. middleton, in fact, is pure south carolinian." "but if they are from south carolina, wouldn't our terms stagger them? i've always understood that southern gentlemen lost all their money in the war." "nevertheless," said mr. langham, "this is the writing of a rich man." "how _can_ you know that?" "i tell you that i have made a study of handwriting. it is also the writing of a horse-loving, war-loving, much-travelled man--in the late twenties." "you will tell me next that he is about five feet ten inches tall, has blue eyes, and is handsome as an angel." "you take the words out of my mouth, miss maud." "tell me more." she was laughing now. "he is very handsome, but not as angels are--his eyes are too bold and roving. if he wasn't a good man he would be a very bad man. there was a time, even, when strong drink appealed to him. he is quixotically brave and generous. and i should by all means advise you to let him have his accommodations." "i can never tell when you are joking." "i was never more serious in my life. shall i tell you something else that i have deduced?" "please." "well, then, he isn't married, miss maud, and he is a great catch!" miss maud blushed a trifle. "i don't know if you know it," she said, "but i have made a profound study of palmistry. will you lend me your hand a moment?" "very willingly. and i don't care if some one were to see us." she studied his palm with great sternness. "i read here," she said, "with regret, that you are an outrageous flirt. it seems also that you are something of a fraud." "one more calumny," exclaimed mr. langham, "and i withdraw my hand with a gesture of supreme indignation." but she held him very tightly by the fingers. "and this little line," she cried, "tells me that you have known colonel meredith intimately for years and that you never studied handwriting in all your born days." mr. langham began to chuckle all over. "the next time," he said, "that people tell me you are easily imposed on, i shall deny it." "you _do_ know him?" he blinked and nodded like a wise owl. "shall i write or telegraph?" "you will use your own judgment." so she did both. she wrote out a telegram and sent it to carrytown in the _streak_. and she tried to picture in her mind a young man who should look like an angel if his eyes weren't too bold and roving. her sisters and her brother all proclaimed that maud was a really sensible person. but none of them knew how really sensible she was. she was, for instance, more interested in colonel meredith than in his cousin mr. jonstone, and for the simple reason that she knew the one to be rich and handsome and knew nothing whatever about the other. xxi mr. langham was at the float to welcome the two carolinians. "you have," he complimented colonel meredith, "once more proved the ability to land on your feet in a soft spot. you will be more comfortable here, better fed, better laundered than anywhere else in the world." as they strolled from the float to the office, mr. jonstone looked about him a little uneasily. not one of the beautiful girls who had looked into his eyes from the page of _the four seasons_ was in sight, or, indeed, any girl, woman, or female of any sort whatever. he had led himself to expect a resort crowded with rustling and starchy boarders. he found himself, instead, in a primeval pine forest in which were sheltered many low, austere buildings of logs, above whose great chimneys stood vertical columns of pale smoke. it was not yet dusk, but the air among the long shadows had an icy quality and was heavily charged with the odor of balsam. it was difficult to believe the season summer, and mr. jonstone was reminded of december evenings in the carolinas. "this is the office," said mr. langham, and he ushered them into the presence of a bright birch fire and maud darling. each of the carolinians drew a quick breath and bowed as if before royalty. mr. langham presented them to miss darling. she begged them to write their names in the guest book and to warm themselves at the fire. "and then," said sam langham, "i'll shake them up a cocktail and show them their house." "are we to have a whole house to ourselves?" asked colonel meredith. he had not yet taken his eyes from maud darling's face. "it's only two rooms: bath, parlor, and piazza," she explained. "that last?" asked mr. jonstone. "it's the same thing as a 'poach,'" explained mr. langham with a sly twinkle in his eyes. "it's to sit on and enjoy the view from," added maud. "but i don't want to admire the view," complained colonel meredith. "i want to lounge about the office. it's the prerogative of every american citizen to lounge about the office of his hotel." colonel meredith had yet to take his eyes from maud darling's face. and it was with protest written all over it that he at length followed his cousin and mr. langham into the open air. the three were presently sampling a cocktail of the latter's shaking in the latter's snug little house, and speech was loosened in their mouths. "darling, _pã¨re_," explained sam langham, "went broke. he used to run this place as it is run now, with this difference: that in the old days he put up the money, while now it is the guests who pay. two years ago the miss darling you just met was one of the greatest heiresses in america; now she keeps books and makes out bills." "and are there truly five others equally lovely?" asked colonel meredith. "some people think that the oldest of the six is also the loveliest," said sam langham, loyal to the choice of his own heart. "but they are all very lovely." to the carolinians, warmed by langham's cocktail, it seemed pitiful that six beautiful girls who had had so much should now have so little. and with a little encouragement they would have been moved to the expression of exaggerated sentiments. it was maud, however, and not the others, who had aroused these feelings in their breasts. the desire to benefit her by some secret action--and then to be found out--was very strong in them both. langham left them after a time and they began to dress for dinner. usually they had a great deal to say to each other; often they disputed and were gorgeously insolent to each other about the most trifling things, but on the present occasion their one desire was to dress as rapidly as possible and to visit the office upon some pretext or other. when colonel meredith from the engulfment of a starched shirt announced that he had several letters to write and wondered where one could buy postage-stamps, it afforded bob jonstone malicious satisfaction to inform him that the "little drawer in their writing-table contained not only plenty of twos but fives and a strip of special deliveries." "all i have to think about," said he, "is my laundry. i suppose they can tell me at the office." "_they?_" exclaimed colonel meredith. as he spoke the collar button sprang like a slippery cherry-stone from between his thumb and forefinger, fell in the exact middle of the room in a perfectly bare place, and disappeared. up to this moment the cousins had remained on even terms in the race to be dressed first. but now mr. jonstone gained and, before the collar button was found, had given a parting "slick" to his hair and gone out. it was now dark, and the woodland streets of the camp were lighted by lanterns. windows were bright-yellow rectangles. a wind had risen and the lake could be heard slapping against the rocky shore. maud darling had left the office long enough to change from tailor-made tweeds to the simplest white muslin. she was adding up a column in a fat book. she looked golden in the firelight and the lamplight, and resembled some heavenly being but for the fact that, for the moment, she was puzzled to discover the sum of seven and five and was biting the end of her pencil. the divine muse of inspiration lives in the "other" ends of pens and pencils. the world owes many of its masterpieces of literature and invention to reflective nibbling at these instruments, and if i were a teacher i should think twice before i told my pupils to take their pencils out of their mouths. mr. jonstone knocked on the open door of the office. "this is the office," said miss maud darling; "you don't have to knock. is anything not right?" "everything is absolutely perfect," bowed mr. jonstone. "but you are busy. i could come again. i only wanted to ask about sending some things to a laundry." "you're not supposed to think about that," said maud. "there is a clothes-bag in the big closet in your bedroom and my sister eve does the rest." "oh, but i couldn't allow----" "not with her own hands, of course; she merely oversees the laundry and keeps it up to the mark. but if you like your things to be done in any special way you must see her and explain." "in my home," said jonstone, "my old mammy does all the washing and most everything else, and i wouldn't dare to find fault. she would follow me up-stairs and down scolding all the time if i did. you see, though she isn't a slave any more, she's never had any wages, and so she takes it out in privileges and prerogatives." "no wages ever since the civil war!" exclaimed maud. "we had to have servants," he explained, "and until the other day there was never any money to pay them with. we had nothing but the plantation and the family silver." "and of course you couldn't part with that. in the north when we get hard up we sell anything we've got. but in the south you don't, and i've always admired that trait in you beyond measure." "in that case," said mr. jonstone, turning a little pale, "it is my duty to tell you that the other day i parted with my silver in exchange for a large sum of money. i made up my mind that i had only one life to live and that i was sick of being poor." maud smiled. "if you want to keep your ill-gotten gains," she said, "you ought never to have come to this place. wasn't there some kind friend to tell you that our prices are absolutely prohibitive? we haven't gone into business for fun but with the intention of making money hand over fist. it's only fair to warn you." she imagined that, at the outside, he might have received a couple of thousand dollars for his family silver, and it seemed wicked that he should be allowed to part with this little capital for food, lodging, and a little trout-fishing. "my silver," he said, "turned out to be worth a lot of money, and i have put it all in trust for myself, so that my wife and children shall never want." a flicker of disappointment appeared in maud darling's eyes. "but i didn't know you were married," she said lamely. "oh, i'm not--yet!" he exclaimed joyfully. "but i mean to be." "engaged?" she asked. "hope to be--mean to be," he confessed. and at this moment colonel melville meredith came in out of the night. having bowed very low to miss darling, he turned to his cousin. "did langham find you?" he asked. "no." "well, he's a-waiting at our house. i said i thought you'd be right back." "then we--" began jonstone. "not we--_you_," said his cousin, malice in his eyes. "i want to ask miss darling some questions about telegrams and special messages by telephone." bob jonstone withdrew himself with the utmost reluctance. "we have a telephone that connects us with the telegraph office at carrytown," maud began, but colonel meredith interrupted almost rudely. "we engaged our rooms for ten days only," he said, "but i want to keep them for the rest of the summer. please don't tell me that they are promised to some one else." "but they are," said she; "i'm very sorry." "can't you possibly keep us?" she shook her fine head less in negation than reflection. "i don't see how," she said finally, "unless some one gives out at the last minute. there are just so many rooms and just so many applicants." "how long," he asked, "would it take to build a little house for my cousin and me?" "if we got all the carpenters from carrytown," said maud, "it could be done very quickly. but----" "now you are going to make some other objection!" "i was only going to say that if you wanted to go camping for a few weeks, we could supply you with everything needful. we have first-rate tents for just that sort of thing." "but we don't want to go camping. we want to stay here." "exactly. there is no reason why you shouldn't pitch your tent in the main street of this camp and live in it." "that's just what we'll do," said colonel meredith, "and to-morrow we'll pick out the site for the tent--if you'll help us." xxii early the next morning colonel meredith and his cousin bob jonstone presented themselves at the office dressed for walking. butter would not have melted in their mouths. "can you come now and help us pick out a site for the tent?" asked the youthful colonel. maud was rather busy that morning, but she closed her ledger, selected a walking-stick, and smiled her willingness to aid them. "it will seem more like real camping-out," said mr. jonstone, "if we don't pitch our tent right in the midst of things. suppose we take a boat and row along the shores of the lake, keeping our eyes peeled." maud was not averse to going for a row with two handsome and agreeable young men. they selected a guide boat and insisted on helping her in and cautioning her about sitting in the middle. maud had almost literally been brought up in a guide boat, but she only smiled discreetly. the cousins matched for places. as maud sat in the stern with a paddle for steering, colonel meredith, who won the toss, elected to row stroke. bob jonstone climbed with gingerness and melancholy into the bow. not only was he a long way from that beautiful girl, but meredith's head and shoulders almost completely blanketed his view of her. "we ought to row english style," he said. "what is english style, and why ought we to row that way?" "in the american shells," explained jonstone, "the men sit in the middle. in the english shells each man sits as far from his rowlock as possible." "why?" asked meredith, who understood his cousin's predicament perfectly. "so's to get more leverage," explained jonstone darkly. "it's for miss darling to say," said meredith. "which style do you prefer, miss darling, english or american?" "i think the american will be more comfortable for you both and safer for us all," said she. "there!" exclaimed the man of war, "what did i tell you?" "but--" continued maud. "i could have told you there would be a 'but,'" interrupted jonstone triumphantly. "but," repeated maud, "i'm coxswain, and i want to see what every man in my boat is doing." so they rowed english style. "it's like a dinner-party," explained maud to colonel meredith, who appeared slightly discomforted. "don't you know how annoying it is when there's a tall centrepiece and you can't see who's across the table from you?" "even if you don't want to look at him when you have found out who he is," agreed meredith. "exactly." they came to a bold headland of granite crowned with a half-dozen old pines that leaned waterward. "that's rather a wonderful site, i think," said maud. "where?" said the gentlemen, turning to look over their shoulders. then, "it looks well enough from the water," said jonstone, "but we ought not to choose wildly." "let us land," said colonel meredith, "and explore." they landed and began at once to find reasons for pitching the tent on the promontory and reasons for not pitching it. "the site is open and airy," said jonstone. "it is," said colonel meredith. "but, in case of a southwest gale, our tent would be blown inside out." a moment later, "how about drinking-water?" asked the experienced military man. "i regret to say that i have just stepped into a likely spring," said jonstone. "we must sit down and wait till it clears." when the spring once more bubbled clean and undefiled mr. jonstone scooped up two palmfuls of water and drank. "delicious!" he cried. colonel meredith then sampled the spring and shook his head darkly. "this spring has a main attribute of drinking-water," he said; "it is wet. otherwise----" "what's the matter with my spring?" demanded his cousin. "silica, my dear fellow--silica. and you know very well that silica to a man of your inherited tendencies spells gout." jonstone nodded gravely. "i'm afraid that settles it." and he turned to maud darling. "i can keep clear of gout," he explained, "only just as long as i keep my system free from silica." "do you usually manage to?" asked maud, very much puzzled. "so far," he said, "i have _always_ managed to." "then you have never suffered from gout?" "never. but now, having drunk at this spring, i have reason to fear the worst. it will take at least a week to get that one drink out of my system." and so they passed from the promontory with the pine-trees to a little cove with a sandy beach, from this to a wooded island not much bigger than a tennis-court. in every suggested site jonstone found multitudinous charms and advantages, while colonel meredith, from the depths of his military experience, produced objections of the first water. for to be as long as possible in the company of that beautiful girl was the end which both sought. maud had gone upon the expedition in good faith, but when its true object dawned upon her she was not in the least displeased. the very obvious worship which the carolinians had for her beauty was not so personal as to make her uncomfortable. it was rather the worship of two artists for art itself than for a particular masterpiece. of the six beautiful darlings maud had had the least experience of young men. she was given to fits of shyness which passed with some as reserve, with others as a kind of common-sense and matter-of-fact way of looking at life. the triplets, young as they were, surpassed the other three in conquests and experience. and this was not because they were more lovely and more charming but because they had been a little spoiled by their father and brought into the limelight before their time. furthermore, with the exception of phyllis, perhaps, they were maidens of action to whom there was no recourse in books or reflection. such accomplishments as drawing and music had not been forced upon them. they could not have made a living teaching school. but lee and gay certainly could have taught the young idea how to shoot, how to throw a fly, and how to come in out of the wet when no house was handy. as for phyllis, she would have been as like them as one pea is like two others but for the fact that at the age of two she had succeeded in letting off a 45-90 rifle which some fool had left about loaded and had thereby frightened her early sporting promises to death. but it was only of weapons, squirming fish, boats, and thunder storms that she was shy. young gentlemen had no terrors for her, and she preferred the stupidest of these to the cleverest of books. mary, maud, and eve had wasted a great part of their young lives upon education. they could play the piano pretty well (you couldn't tell which was playing); they sang charmingly; they knew french and german; they could spell english, and even speak it correctly, a power which they had sometimes found occasion to exercise when in the company of foreign diplomatists. the change in their case from girlhood to young womanhood had been sudden and prearranged: in each case a tremendous ball upon a given date. the triplets had never "come out." if lee or gay had been the victim of the present conspiracy, the gentlemen from carolina would have found their hands full and overflowing. they would have been teased and misconstrued within an inch of their lives; but maud darling was genuinely moved by the candor and chivalry of their combined attentions. there was a genuine joyousness in her heart, and she did not care whether they got her home in time for lunch or not. and it was only a strong sense of duty which caused her to point out the high position attained by the sun in the heavens. with reluctance the trio gave up the hopeless search for a camp site and started for home upon a long diagonal across the lake. it was just then, as if a signal had been given, that the whole surface of the lake became ruffled as when a piece of blue velvet is rubbed the wrong way, and a strong wind began to blow in maud's face and upon the backs of the rowers. several hours of steady rowing had had its effect upon unaccustomed hands. it was now necessary to pull strongly, and blisters grew swiftly from small beginnings and burst in the palms of the carolinians. maud came to their rescue with her steering paddle, but the wind, bent upon having sport with them, sounded a higher note, and the guide boat no longer seemed quick to the least propulsion and light on the water, but as if blunt forward, high to the winds, and half full of stones. she did not run between strokes but came to dead stops, and sometimes, during strong gusts, actually appeared to lose ground. the surface of the lake didn't as yet testify truly to the full strength of the wind. but soon the little waves grew taller, the intervals between them wider, and their crests began to be blown from them in white spray. the heavens darkened more and more, and to the northeast the sky-line was gradually blotted out as if by soft gray smoke. "we're going to have rain," said maud, "and we're going to have fog. so we'd better hurry a little." "hurry?" thought the carolinians sadly. and they redoubled their efforts, with the result that they began to catch crabs. "some one ought to see us and send a launch," said maud. at that moment, as the wind flattens a field of wheat to the ground, the waves bent and lay down before a veritable blast of black rain. it would have taken more than human strength to hold the guide boat to her course. maud paddled desperately for a quarter of a minute and gave up. the boat swung sharply on her keel, rocked dangerously, and, once more light and sentient, a creature of life, made off bounding before the gale. "we are very sorry," said the carolinians, "but the skin is all off our hands, and at the best we are indifferent boatmen." "the point is this," said maud: "can you swim?" "i can," said colonel meredith, "but i am extremely sorry to confess that my cousin's aquatic education has been neglected. where he lives every pool contains crocodiles, leeches, snapping-turtles, and water-moccasins, and the incentive to bathing for pleasure is slight." "don't worry about me," said mr. jonstone. "i can cling to the boat until the millennium." "we shan't upset--probably," said maud. "it will be better if you two sit in the bottom of the boat. i'll try to steer and hold her steady. this isn't the first time i've been blown off shore and then on shore. i suppose i ought to apologize for the weather, but it really isn't my fault. who would have thought this morning that we were in for a storm?" "if only you don't mind," said colonel meredith. "it's all _our_ fault. you probably didn't want to come. you just came to be friendly and kind, and now you are hungry and wet to the skin----" "but," interrupted bob jonstone, "if only you will forget all that and think what pleasure we are having." "i can't hear what you say," called maud. "i beg your pardon," shouted mr. jonstone. "i didn't quite catch that. what did miss darling say, mel?" "she said she wanted to talk to me and for you to shut up." mr. jonstone made a playful but powerful swing at his cousin, and the guide boat, as if suddenly tired of her passengers, calmly upset and spilled them out. a moment later the true gallantry of mr. bob jonstone showed forth in glorious colors. having risen to the surface and made good his hold upon the overturned boat, he proposed very humbly, as amends for causing the accident, to let go and drown. "if you do," said maud, excitement overcoming her sense of the ridiculous, "i'll never speak to you again." colonel meredith opened his mouth to laugh and closed it a little hastily on about a pint of water. xxiii the water was so rough, the weather so thick, and their point of view so very low down in the world that maud and the carolinians could neither see the shore from which they had departed nor that toward which they were slowly drifting. the surface water was warm, however, owing to a week of sunshine, and it was not necessary to drop one's legs into the icy stratum beneath. it is curious that what the three complained of the most was the incessant, leaden rain. their faces were colder than their bodies. they admitted that they had never been so wet in all their lives. maud and colonel meredith, not content with the slow drifting, kicked vigorously; but bob jonstone had all he could do to cling to the guide boat and keep his head above water. his legs had a way of suddenly rising toward the surface and wrapping themselves half around the submerged boat. an effort was made to right the boat and bale her out. but maud's water-soaked skirt and a sudden case of rattles on the part of jonstone prevented the success of the manoeuvre. half an hour passed. "personally," said jonstone, "i've had about enough of this." his clinging hands looked white and thin; the knuckles were beginning to turn blue. he had a drawn expression about the mouth, but his eyes were bright and resolute. "i've always understood," said colonel meredith, "that girls suffer less than men from total submersion in cold water. i sincerely hope, miss darling, that this is so." "oh, i'm not suffering," said she; "not yet. my father used to let us go in sometimes when there was a skin of ice along shore. so please don't worry about me." mr. jonstone's teeth began to chatter very steadily and loudly. and just then maud raised herself a little, craned her neck, and had a glimpse of the shore--a long, half-submerged point, almost but not quite obliterated by the fog and the splashing rain. "land ho!" said she joyfully. "all's well. there's a big shallow off here; we'll be able to wade in a minute." and, indeed, in less than a minute bob jonstone's feet found the hard sand bottom. and in a very short time three shipwrecked mariners had waded ashore and dragged the guide boat into a clump of bushes. "and now what?" asked colonel meredith. "and now," said maud, "the luck has changed. half a mile from here is a cave where we used to have picnics. there's an axe there, matches, and probably a tin of cigarettes, and possibly things to eat. it's all up-hill from here, and if you two follow me and keep up, you'll be warm before we get there." her wet clothes clung to her, and she went before them like some swift woodland goddess. their spirits rose, and with them their voices, so that the deer and other animals of the neighboring woods were disturbed and annoyed in the shelters which they had chosen from the rain. sometimes maud ran; sometimes she merely moved swiftly; but now and then while the way was still among the dense waterside alders, she broke her way through with fine strength, reckless of scratches. the following carolinians began to worship the ground she trod and to stumble heavily upon it. they were not used to walking. it had always been their custom to go from place to place upon horses. they panted aloud. they began to suspect themselves of heart trouble, and they had one heavy fall apiece. suddenly maud came to a dead stop. "i smell smoke," she said. "some one is here before us. that's good luck, too." she felt her way along the face of a great bowlder and was seen to enter the narrow mouth of a cave. "who's here?" she called cheerfully. the passageway into the cave twisted like the letter s so that you came suddenly upon the main cavity. this--a space as large as a ball-room--had a smooth floor of sand, broken by one or two ridges of granite. at the farther end burned a bright fire, most of whose smoke after slow, aimless drifting was strongly sucked upward through a hole in the roof. closely gathered about this fire were four men, who looked like rather dissolute specimens of the adirondack guide, and a young woman with an old face. maud's quick eyes noted two rusty winchester rifles, a leather mail-bag, and the depressing fact that the men had not shaved for many days. it is always awkward to enter your own private cave and find it occupied by strangers. "you mustn't mind," said maud, smiling upon them, "if we share the fire. it's really our cave and our fire-wood." "sorry, miss," said one of the men gruffly, "but when it comes on to rain like this a man makes bold of any shelter that offers." "of course," said maud. "i'm glad you did. we'll just dry ourselves and go." she seated herself with a carolinian on either side, and their clothes began to send up clouds of steam. the young woman with the old face, having devoured maud with hungry, sad eyes, spoke in a shy, colorless voice. "it would be better, miss, if you was to let the boys go outside. i could lend you my blanket while your clothes dried." "that's very good of you," said maud, "but i'm very warm and comfortable and drying out nicely." one of the men rose, grinned awkwardly, and said: "i'll just have a look at the weather." with affected carelessness he caught up one of the winchesters and passed from sight toward the entrance of the cave. this manoeuvre seemed to have a cheering effect upon the other three. "what do you find to shoot at this time of year?" asked maud, and she smiled with great innocence. "the game-laws," said the man who had spoken first, "weren't written for poor men." "don't tell me," exclaimed maud, "that you've got a couple of partridges or even venison just waiting to be cooked and eaten!" "no such luck," said the man. neither of the carolinians had spoken. they steamed pleasantly and appeared to be looking for pictures in the hot embers. their eyes seemed to have sunk deeper into their skulls. men who were familiar with them would have known that they were very angry about something and as dangerous as a couple of rattlesnakes. after a long while they exchanged a few words in low voices and a strange tongue. it was the dialect of the sea island negroes--the purest african grafted on english so pure that nobody speaks it nowadays. "what say?" asked one of the strangers roughly. colonel meredith turned his eyes slowly upon the speaker. "i remarked to my cousin," said he icily, "that in our part of the world even the lowest convict knows enough to rise to his feet when a lady enters the room and to apologize for being alive." "in the north woods," said the man sulkily, "no one stands on ceremony. if you don't like our manners, mr. baltimore oriole, you can lump 'em, see?" "i see," said colonel meredith quietly, "that that leather mail-bag over there belongs to the united states government. and i have a strong suspicion, my man, that you and your allies were concerned in the late hold-up perpetrated on the montreal express. and i shall certainly make it my business to report you as suspicious characters to the proper authorities." "that'll be too easy," said the man. "and suppose we was what you think, what would we be doing in the meantime? i ask you _what_?" mr. jonstone interrupted in a soft voice. "oh, quit blustering and threatening," he said. "say," said a man who had not yet spoken, "do you two sprigs of jasmine ever patronize the 'movies'? and, if so, did you ever look your fill on a film called 'held for ransom'? you folks has a look of being kind o' well to do, and it looks to me as if you'd have to pay for it." "why quarrel with them?" said maud, with gravity and displeasure in her voice, but no fear. "things are bad enough as they are. i saw that the minute we came in. just one minute too late, it seems." "that's horse-sense," admitted one of the men. "and when this rain holds up, one of us will take a message to your folks saying as how you are stopping at an expensive hotel and haven't got money enough to pay your bill." "and that," said colonel meredith, "will only leave three of you to guard us. once," he turned to maud, "i spent six hours in a turkish prison." "what happened?" she asked. "i didn't like it," he said, "and left." "this ain't turkey, young feller, and we ain't turks. if you don't like the cave you can lump it, but you can't leave." "we don't intend to leave till it stops raining," put in mr. jonstone sweetly. "miss darling," said colonel meredith, "you don't feel chilled, do you? you mustn't take this adventure seriously. these people are desperate characters, but they haven't the mental force to be dangerous. it will be the greatest pleasure in the world both to my cousin and myself to see that no harm befalls you." he turned once more to the unshaven men about the fire. "have you got anything worth while in that mail-bag?" he asked. "i read that the safe in the montreal express only contained a few hundred dollars. hardly worth risking prison for--was it?" "we'll have enough to risk prison for before we get through with you." "you might if you managed well, because i am a rich man. but you are sure to bungle." he turned to the woman and asked with great kindness: "is it their first crime?" "yes, sir," she said. "mr.----" "shut up!" growled one of her companions. "a gentleman from new york turned us out of the woods so's he could have them all to himself and after we'd spent all our money on lawyers. so my husband and the boys allowed they had about enough of the law. and so they held up the express, but it was more because they were mad clear through than because they are bad, and now it's too late, and--and----" here she began to cry. "it's never too late to mend," said maud. "have you spent any of the money they took?" asked colonel meredith. "no, sir; we haven't had a chance. we've got every dime of it." "did you own the land you were driven off?" "no, sir, but we'd always lived on it, and it did seem as if we ought to be left in peace----" "to shoot out of season, to burn other people's wood, trap their fish, and show your teeth at them when they came to take what belonged to them? i congratulate you. you are american to the backbone. and now you propose to take my money away from me." colonel meredith turned to his cousin, after excusing himself to maud, and they conversed for some time in their strange sea island dialect. "can that gibberish," said one of the train robbers suddenly. "i'm sick of it." "we shan't trouble you with it again, as we've already decided what to do." the robber laughed mockingly. "in view of your extreme youth," said colonel meredith sweetly, "in view of the fact that you are also young in crime and that one member of your party is a woman, we have decided to help you along the road to reform. in my state there is considerable lawlessness; from this has evolved the useful custom of going heeled." he spoke, and a blue automatic flashed cruelly in his white hand. his action was as sudden and unexpected as the striking of a rattlesnake. "all hands up," he commanded. there was a long silence. "you've got us," said the youngest of the robbers sheepishly. "how about the man on guard with a winchester?" "my cousin mr. jonstone will bring him in to join the conference. and, meanwhile, i shall have to ask the ladies to look the other way while my cousin changes clothes with one of you gentlemen." of the three villains, jonstone selected the youngest and the tidiest, and with mutual reluctance, suspicion, and startled glances toward where the ladies sat with averted faces, they changed clothes. a broad felt hat, several sizes too big for him, added the touch of completion to the carolinian's transformation. he took the spare winchester and, without a word, walked quietly toward the mouth of the cave and was lost to sight. maud did not breathe freely until he had returned, unhurt, carrying both winchesters and driving an exceedingly sheepish backwoodsman before him. he expressed the wish to resume his own clothes. this done, he and his cousin broke into good-natured, boyish laughter. the oldest and most sheepish of the backwoods-men kept repeating, "who would 'a' thought he'd have a pistol on him!" and seemed to find a world of comfort in the thought. "what are you going to do with them?" maud asked almost in a whisper. "i think i feel a little sorry for them." "bob!" exclaimed colonel meredith. "what?" "_she_ feels a little sorry for them. don't you?" "yes, _sir_!" replied mr. jonstone fervently. colonel meredith addressed himself to the young woman with the old face. "do you believe in fairies?" he asked. she only looked pathetic and confused. "miss darling, here," he went on, "is a fairy. she left her wand at home, but if she wants to she can make people's wishes come true. now suppose you and your friends talk things over and decide upon some sensible wishes to have granted. of course, it's no use wishing you hadn't robbed a train; but you could wish that the money would be returned, and that the police could be induced to stop looking for you, and that some one could come along and offer you an honest way of making a living. so you talk it over a while and then tell us what you'd like." "aren't you going to give us up?" asked one of the men. "not if you've any sense at all." "then i guess there's no use us talking things over. and if the young lady is a fairy, we'd be obliged if she'd get busy along the lines you've just laid down." all eyes were turned on maud. and she looked appealingly from colonel meredith to mr. jonstone and back again. "what ought i to say? what ought i to promise? _can_ the money be returned? can the police be called off? and if i only had some work to give them, but over at the camp----" "every good fairy," said colonel meredith, "has two helpers to whom all things are possible." "truly?" the carolinians sprang to their feet, clicked their heels together into the first position of dancing, laid their right hands over their hearts, and bowed very low. "then," said maud laughing, "i should like the money to be returned." "i will attend to that," said colonel meredith. "and the police to be called off." again the soldier assumed responsibility. "but who," she asked, "will find work for them?" "i will," said mr. jonstone. "they shall build the house for my cousin and me to live in. you can build a house, can't you? a log house?" "but where will you build it?" asked maud. "you found fault with all the best sites on the lake." "the very first site we visited suited us to perfection." "but you said the spring contained cyanide or something." "we were talking through our hats." "but why----" the carolinians gazed at her with a kind of beseeching ardor, until she understood that they had only found fault with one promising building site after another in order that they might pass the longest time possible in her company. and she returned their glance with one in which there was some feeling stronger than mere amusement. xxiv concerning information, mark twain wrote that it appeared to stew out of him naturally, like the precious ottar of roses out of the otter. with the narrator of this episodical history, however, things are very different. and just how the good fairy, maud darling, was enabled to keep her promises to the outlaws seems to him of no great moment. but the money _was_ returned to the express company; the police _were_ called off; and the four robbers, with the woman to cook for them, went to work at building a log house on the point of pines to be occupied in the near future by the carolinians. they were not sorry to have been turned from a life of sin. it is only when a life of sin is gilded, padded, and pleasant that people hate to turn from it. when virtue entails being rained on, starved, and hunted, it isn't a very pleasant way of life, either. the face of the young female bandit lost its look of premature old age. she went about her work singing, and the humming of the kettle was her accompaniment. the four men looked the other men of the camp in the face and showed how to lay trees by the heels in record time. to their well-swung and even better-sharpened axes even the stems of oaks were as wax candles. it became quite "the thing" for guests at the camp to go out to the point and admire the axe-work and all the processes of frontier house-building. when people speak of "love in a cottage," there rises nearly always, in my mind, the memory of a log house that a friend of mine and i came across by the headwaters of a great river in canada. it stood--the axe marks crisp, white, and blistered with pitch--upon the brink of a swirling brown pool full of grilse. the logs of which it was built had been dragged from a distance, so that in the immediate neighborhood of the cabin was no desolation of dead tree-tops and dying stumps. everything was wonderfully neat, new, and in order. about the pool and the cabin the maples had turned yellow and vermilion. and above was the peaceful pale blue of an indian-summer sky. we opened the door, held by a simple latch, and found ourselves in the pleasantest of rooms, just twenty feet by fifteen. the walls and the floor had been much whitened and smoothed by the axe. the place smelt vaguely of pitch and strongly of balsam. there was a fireplace--the fire all laid, a bunk to lie on, a chair to sit on, a table to write on, a broom to sweep with. and neatly set upon clean shelves were various jams in glass, and meats, biscuits, and soups in tins. there was also a writing (on birch bark) over the shelves, which read: "help yourself." we took down the shutters from the windows and let in floods of autumn sun. then we lighted the fire, and ate crackers and jam. it hurt a little to learn at the mouth of our guide that the cabin belonged to a somewhat notorious and decidedly crotchety new york financier who controlled the salmon-fishing in those waters. i had pictured it as built for a pair of eminently sensible and supernaturally romantic honeymooners or for a poet. and i wanted to carry away that impression. for in such a place love or inspiration must have lasted just as long as the crackers and jam. and there is no more to be said of a palace. one day mary darling and sam langham visited the new cabin. and sam said: "if one of the happy pair happened to know something of cooking, what a place for a honeymoon!" shortly afterward, phyllis and herring came that way, and herring said: "if i was in love, and knew how to use an axe, i'd build just such a house for the girl i love and make her live in it. i believe i will, anyway." "believe what?" asked phyllis demurely. "believe you will make her live in it?" "yes," he said darkly--"no matter who she is and no matter how afraid of the mice and spiders with which such places ultimately become infested." lee and renier visited the cabin, also. they remarked only that it had a wonderfully smooth floor, and proceeded at once thereon, lee whistling exquisitely and with much spirit, to dance a maxixe, which was greatly admired by the ex-outlaws. maud came often with the carolinians, and as for eve, she came once or twice all by herself. jealousy is a horrid passion. it had never occurred to eve darling that she was or ever could be jealous of anybody. and she wasn't--exactly. but seeing her sisters always cavaliered by attractive men and slipping casually into thrilling and even dangerous adventures with them disturbed the depths of her equanimity. it was delightful, of course, to be made much of by arthur and to go upon excursions with him as of old. but something was wanting. arthur's idea of a pleasant day in the woods was to sit for hours by a pool and attempt to classify the croaks of frogs, or to lie upon his back in the sun and think about the girl in far-off china whom he loved so hopelessly. thanks to her excellent subordinate, and to her own administrative ability, laundry house made fewer and fewer encroachments upon eve's leisure. and often she found that time was hanging upon her hands with great heaviness. memory reminded her that things had not always been thus; for there are men in this world who think that she was the most beautiful of all the darlings. it was curious that of all the men who had come to the camp, mr. bob jonstone had the most attraction for her. they had not spoken half a dozen times, and it was quite obvious that his mind, if not his heart, was wholly occupied with maud. wherever you saw maud, you could be pretty sure that the carolinians, hunting in a couple, were not far off. of the two, colonel meredith was the more brilliant, the more showy, and the better-looking. added to his good breeding and lazy, pleasant voice were certain yankee qualities--a total lack of gullibility, a certain trace of mockery, even upon serious subjects. mr. jonstone, on the other hand, was a perfect lamb of earnestness and sincerity. if he heard of an injustice his eyes flamed, or if he listened to the recital of some pathetic happening they misted over. once beyond the direct influence of his cousin there was neither mischief in him nor devilment. it was for this reason, and in this knowledge, that he had put his newly acquired moneys in trust for himself. in the little house by the lake where the cousins still slept, conversation seldom flagged before one or two o'clock in the morning. having said good-night to each other at about eleven, one or the other was pretty sure to let out some new discovery about the darlings in general and maud darling in particular, and then all desire for sleep vanished and their real cousinly confidences began. but these confidences had their limits, for neither confessed to being sentimentally interested in the young lady, whereas, within limits, they both were. and each enjoyed the satisfaction of believing (quite erroneously) that he deceived the other. i do not wish to convey the impression that they were actually in love with her. when you are really in love, you are also in love before breakfast. that is the final test. and when love begins to die, that is the time when its weakening pulse is first to be concerned. what honest man has not been mad about some pretty girl (in a crescendo of madness) from tea time till sleep time and waked in the morning with no thought but for toast and coffee the soonest possible? and gone about the business of the morning and early afternoon almost heart-whole and fancy-free, and relapsed once more into madness with the lengthening of the shadows? a man who proposes marriage to a girl until he has been in love with her for twenty-four consecutive hours is a light fellow who ought to be kicked out of the house by her papa. as for the girl, let her be sure that he is bread and meat to her, comfort and rest, demigod and man, wholly necessary and not to be duplicated in this world, before she even says that she will think about it. in the early morning there would arise in the house of the carolinians the sounds of whistling, of singing, laughter, scuffling, and running water. so that a girl who really wanted either of them must, in listening, have despaired. as for maud darling, she was disgusted with herself--theoretically. but practically she was having the time of her life. in theory, she felt that no self-respecting girl ought to be unable to decide which of the two young men she liked the better. in practice, she found a constant pondering of this delicate question to be delightful. it was very comfortable to know that the moment she was free to play there were two pleasant companions ready and waiting. sentiment and gayety attended their goings and comings. the carolinians, fortified by each other's presence, were veritable raleighs of extravagant devotion. in engineering, for instance, so that maud should not have to step in a damp place, there were displayed enough gallantry and efficiency to have saved her from an onslaught of tigers. if the trio climbed a mountain, maud gave herself up to the heart-warming delight of being helped when help was not in the least necessary. in short, she behaved as any natural young woman would, and should. she flirted outrageously. but in the depths of her heart a genuine friendship for the carolinians was conceived and grew in breadth and strength. what if they did out-gallant gallantry? xxv one sunday, eve, from her window--she was rather a lazy girl that sunday--witnessed the following departures from the camp. sam langham and mary in a guide boat, with fishing-tackle and an immense hamper which looked like lunch. herring and phyllis could be seen hoisting the sails on the knockabout. herring had never sailed a boat and was prepared to master that simple art at once. lee and renier were girt for the mountain. renier appeared to have a flobert rifle in semihiding under his coat, and it was to be feared that if he saw a partridge, he would open fire on it, close season though it was. he and lee would justify this illegal act by cooking the bird for their lunch. gay commandeered the _streak_ and departed at high speed toward carrytown. she had in one hand a sheet of blue-striped paper, folded. it resembled a cablegram. and eve thought that it must be of a very private nature, or else gay would have telephoned it to the western union office, instead of carrying it by hand. the next to depart from the camp was arthur. he moved dreamily in a northwesterly direction, accompanied by uncas, the chipmunk, and wow, the dog. other guests made departures. all of which eve, half dressed and looking lazily from her window, lazily noted, remarking that for her sunday was a day of rest and that she thanked heaven for it. and she did not feel any differently until maud and the carolinians walked out on the float and began to pack a guide boat for the day. then her lazy, complacent feelings departed, and were succeeded by a sudden, wide-awake surge of self-pity. she felt like cinderella. nobody had asked her to go anywhere or do anything, and nobody had even thought of doing so. when she was dead they would gather round her coffin and remember that they hadn't asked her to go anywhere or do anything, and they would be very sorry and ashamed and they would say what a nice girl she had been, and how she had always tried to give everybody a good time. between laughter and tears and mortification, eve finished dressing, set her lovely jaw, and went out into the delicious, cool calm of the mountain morning. she could still hear the voices of many of the departing ones; and the rattling and creaking of the knockabout's blocks and rigging. she heard herring say to phyllis: "i think it would be better if i could make the boom go out on this side, but i can't." phyllis's answer was a cool, contented laugh. it was as if she said: "hang the boom! _we're_ here!" have you ever had the feeling that you would like to board a swift boat, head for the open sea, and never come back? or that you could plunge into some boundless, trackless forest and keep straight on until you were lost, and died (beautifully and painlessly), and were covered with beautiful leaves by little birds? eve enjoyed (and suffered from) a hint of this latter feeling. she ate a light breakfast (it would be better not to begin starving till she was actually lost in the boundless, trackless forest), selected a light, spiked climbing-stick with a crooked handle, headed for one of the northeasterly mountains, and was soon deep in the shade of the pines and hemlocks. after a few miles, the trail that she followed split and scattered in many directions, like the end of an unravelled rope. she followed an old lumber road for a long way, turned into another that crossed it at an angle of forty-five degrees, took no account of the sun's position in the heavens or of the marked sides of trees. if she came to a high place from which there was a view, she did not look at it. she just kept going--this way and that, up and down. in short, she made a conscious, anxious effort to lose herself. the easterly mountain toward which she had first headed kept bobbing up straight ahead. and always there was the knowledge in the back of her head of the exact location of the camp, and of all the other landmarks, familiar to her since early youth. "drag it!" she said, at length, her eyes on the mountain. "i'll climb the old thing, put melancholy aside, and call this a good, if unaccompanied, sunday." the morning coolness had departed. it was one of those hot, breathless, mountain forenoons that kill the appetite and are usually followed, toward the late afternoon, by violent electrical disturbances. eve was not as fit as she had supposed, or as she thought. as a matter of fact, she was setting too fast a pace, considering the weather and the angle of the mountain slope; and she was as wet as if she had played several hard sets of tennis with a partner who stood in one corner of the court and let her do all the running. as she climbed, reproaching her wind for being so short, she remembered that the hollow tip of this particular northeastern mountain was filled with a deep pool of water. nobody had ever called it a lake. the map called it a pond; but it wasn't even that--it was a pool. springs fed it just fast enough to make up for the evaporation. it had no outlet. it was shaped like a fat letter o. at one end was a little beach of white sand. indeed, the bottom of the pool was all firm, smooth, and clean, and the whole charming little body of water was surrounded by thick groves of dwarf mountain trees and bushes. not content with being a perfect replica, in miniature, of a full-grown adirondack lake, this pool had in its midst an island, a dozen feet in diameter, densely shrubbed and shaded by one diminutive japanesque pine. when eve came to the pool, hot, tired, and rather bothered at the thought of the long walk back to camp, she had but the vaguest idea of just why the lord had placed such a pool on top of a mountain, impelled her to climb that mountain, and made the day so piping hot. eve stood a little on the sand beach. she felt hotter and hotter, and the pool looked cooler and cooler. presently, a heavenly smile of solution brightened her flushed, warm face, and she withdrew into a shady clump of bushes. from this there came first the exclamation "drag it!" then a sound of some sort of a string being sharply broken in two, and then there came from the clump of bushes eve herself, looking for all the world like a slice of the silver moon. and as you may have seen the silver moon slip slowly into the sea, so eve vanished slowly into the pool--all but her shapely little round head, with its crisp bright-brown hair and its lovely face, happy now, exhilarated, and eager as are the faces of adventurers. and eve thought if one didn't have to eat, if one didn't end by being cold, if one could make time stand still--she would choose to be always and forever a slice of the silver moon, lolling in a mountain pool. she had the kind of hair that wets to perfection. but it was not the sort of permanent wave which lasts six months or so, costs twenty-five dollars, and is inculcated by hours of alternate baking and shampooing. eve had always had a permanent wave. she feared neither fog nor rain, nor water in any form of application. and so it was that, now and then, as she lolled about the pool, she disappeared from one fortunate square yard of surface and reappeared in another. half an hour had passed, when suddenly the mountain stillness was broken by men's voices. eve was at the opposite side of the pool from where she had left her clothes. between her and the approaching voices was the little island. she landed hastily upon this and hid herself among the bushes. three gross, fat men and one long, lean man, with a face like leather and an adam's apple that bobbed like a fisherman's float, came down to the beach, sweating terribly, and cast thereon knapsacks, picnic baskets, hatchets, fishing-tackle, and all the complicated paraphernalia of amateurs about to cook their own lunch in the woods. all but one had loud, coarse, carrying voices, and they all appeared to belong to the ruling class. they appeared, in short, to have neither education nor refinement nor charm nor anything to commend them as leaders or examples. eve wondered how it was possible for them to find pleasure even in each other's company. they quarrelled, wrangled, found fault, abused each other, or suddenly forgot their differences, gathering about the fattest of the fat men and listening, almost reverently, while he told a story. when he had finished, they would throw their heads far back and scream with laughter. he must have told wonderfully funny stories; but his voice was no more than a husky whisper, so that eve could not make head or tail of them. after a while the whispering fat man produced from one of the baskets four little glasses and a fat dark bottle. and shortly after there was less wrangling and more laughter. the thin man with the leathery face and the bobbing adam's apple put a fishing-rod together, tied a couple of gaudy flies to his leader, and began to cast most unskilfully from the shores of the pool, moving along slowly from time to time. the fat men, occasionally calling to ask if he had caught anything, busied themselves with preparations for lunch. one of them made tremendous chopping sounds in the wood and furnished from time to time incommensurate supplies of fire-wood. smoke arose and a kettle was slung. meanwhile eve, cowering among the bushes, for all the world like her famous ancestress when the angel came to the garden, did not quite know what to do. she had only to lift her voice and explain, and the men would go away for a time. she felt sure of that. she had been brought up to believe in the exquisite chivalry of the plain american man. but there was something about the four which repelled her, which stuck in her throat. she did not wish to be under any sort of obligation to any of them. and so she kept mousy-quiet, and turned over in her mind an immense number of worthless stratagems and expedients. have you ever tried to lie on the lawn under a tree and read for an hour or two--incased in all your buffer of clothes? try it some time--without the buffers. try it in the buff. and then imagine how comfortable eve was on the island. imagine how soft it felt to her elbows, for instance. and imagine to yourself, too, that it was not an uninhabited island--but one upon which an immense gray spider had made a home and raised a family. from time to time the inept caster of flies returned to the camp-fire, always in answer to a boisterous summons from his friends. and after each visit, his leathery face became redder and his casting more absurd. finally his flies caught in a tree, his rod broke, and he abandoned the gentle art of angling for that time and place. meanwhile steam ran from the kettle and mingled with the smoke of the fire. the sound of voices was incessant. ten minutes later the gentlemen were served. midway of the meal, some of which was burnt black and some of which was quite raw, there was produced a thermos bottle as big as the leg of a rubber boot. and a moment later, icy-cold champagne was frothing and bubbling in tumblers. in that high air, upon a thick foundation of raw whiskey, the brilliant wine of france had soon built a triumphant edifice, so that eve, cold now, miserable, and frightened, felt that the time for an appeal to chivalry was long since past. far from their wives and constituents, the four politicians were obviously not going to stop short of complete drunkenness. indeed, it was an opportunity hardly to be missed. for where else in the woods could nature be more exquisite, dignified, and inspiring? it got so that eve could no longer bear to watch them or to listen to them. pink with shame, fury, hatred, and fear, she stuffed her fingers in her ears and hid her face. thus lying, there came to her after quite a long interval, dimly, a shout and a howl of laughter with an entirely new intonation. she looked up then and saw the thin man, waist-deep in the bushes, just where she had left her clothes, making faces of beastly mystery at his companions, beckoning to them and urging them to come look. they went to him, presently, staggering and evil. and then they scattered and began to hunt for her. xxvi "tired?" queried mr. bob jonstone, with some indignation. "i'm not a bit tired. i haven't had enough exercise to keep me quiet. and if it wasn't your turn to make the fire, your privilege, and your prerogative, i'd insist on chopping the wood myself. no," he said, leaning back luxuriously, "i find it very hard to keep still. this walking on the level is child's play. what i need to keep me in good shape is mountains to climb." "like those we have at home," said colonel meredith, and if he didn't actually wink at maud, who was arranging some chops on a broiler, he made one eye smaller than the other. "what's wrong with _this_ mountain?" asked maud. "why, we are only half-way up, and the real view is from the top!" "of course," said colonel meredith, "if you want to see the view, don't let us stop you. we'll wait for you. won't we, miss maud?" she nodded, her eyes shining with mischief. "but," the colonel continued, "bob is a bluff. he's had all the climbing he can stand. nothing but a chest full of treasure or a maiden in distress would take him a step farther." "after lunch," said mr. jonstone, "i shall." "do it now! lunch won't be ready for an hour. any kind of a walker could make the top of the mountain and be back in that time. but i'll bet you anything you like that you can't." "you will? i'll bet you fifty dollars." "done!" mr. jonstone leaped to his feet in a business-like way, waved his hand to them, and started briskly off and up along the trail by which they had come, and which ended only at the very top of the mountain. it wasn't that he wanted any more exercise. he wanted to get away for a while to think things over. he had learned on that day's excursion, or thought he had, that two is company and that three isn't. the pleasant interchangeableness of the trio's relations seemed suddenly to have undergone a subtle change. it was as if maud and colonel meredith had suddenly found that they liked each other a little better than they liked him. so it wasn't a man in search of exercise or eager to win a bet who was hastening toward the top of a mountain, but a child who had just discovered that dolls are stuffed with sawdust. he suffered a little from jealousy, and a little from anger. he could not have specified what they had done to him that morning, and it may have been his imagination alone that was to blame, but they had made him feel, or he had made himself feel, like a guest who is present, not because he is wanted but because for some reason or other he had to be asked. he walked himself completely out of breath and that did his mind good. resting before making a final spurt to the mountain-top, he heard men's voices shouting and hallooing in the forest. the sounds carried him back to certain coon and rabbit hunts in his native state, and he wondered what these men could be hunting. and having recovered his breath, he went on. he came suddenly in view of a great round pool of water in the midst of which was a tiny island, thickly wooded. just in front of him a fire burned low on a beach of white sand. upon the beach, his back to jonstone, stood a tall, thin man who appeared to be gazing at the island. suddenly this man began to shout aloud: "she's on the island! she's on the island!" from the woods came the sound of crashings, scramblings, and oaths, and, one by one, three fat men, very sweaty and crimson in the face, came reeling out on the beach, and ranged themselves with the thin man, and looked drunkenly toward the island. "she's hiding on the island, the cute thing," said the thin man. "did you see her?" "i saw the bushes move. that's where she is." "how deep's the water?" "i'll tell you in about a minute," said the thin man. he threw his coat from him, and, sitting down with a sudden lurch, began to unlace his boots. "maybe you don't know it," he said, "but i'm some swimmer, i am." there was a moment of silence and then there came from the island a voice that sent a thrill through mr. bob jonstone from head to foot. the voice was like frightened music with a sob in it. "won't you please go away!" "good god," he thought, "they're hunting a woman!" the drunken men had answered that sobbing appeal with a regular view-halloo of drunken laughter. mr. bob jonstone stepped slowly forward. his thin face had a bluish, steely look; and his eyes glinted wickedly like a rattlesnake's. being one against four, he made no declaration of war. he came upon them secretly from behind. and first he struck a thin neck just below a leathery ear, and then a fat neck. he was not a strong man physically. but high-strung nerves and cold, collected loathing and fury are powerful weapons. the thin man and the fat man with the whispering voice lay face down on the beach and passed from insensibility into stupefied, drunken sleep. but with the other two, mr. jonstone had a bad time of it, for he had broken a bone in his right hand and the pain was excruciating. often, during that battle, he thought of the deadly automatic in his pocket. but if he used that, it meant that a woman's name would be printed in the newspaper. the fat men fought hard with drunken fury. their strength was their weight, and they were always coming at him from opposite sides. but an empty whiskey bottle caught mr. jonstone's swift eye and made a sudden end of what its contents had begun. he hit five times and then stood alone, among the fallen, a bottle neck of brown glass in his hand. then he lifted his voice and spoke aloud, as if to the island: "they'll not trouble you now. what else can i do?" "god bless you for doing what you've done! i'm a fool girl, and i thought i was all alone and i went in swimming, and they came and i hid on the island. and i--i haven't got my things with me!" "couldn't you get ashore without being seen? these beasts won't look. and i won't look. you can trust me, can't you?" "when you tell me that nobody is looking i'll come ashore." "nobody is looking now." he heard a splash and sounds as of strong swimming. and he was dying to look. he took out his little automatic and cocked it, and he said to himself: "if you do look, bob, you get shot." ten minutes passed. "are you all right?" he called. "yes, thank you, all right now. but how can i thank you? i don't want you to see me, if you don't mind. i don't want you to know who i am. but i'm the gratefulest girl that ever lived; and i'm going home now, wiser than when i came, and, listen----" "i'm listening." "i think i'd almost die for you. there!" mr. jonstone's hair fairly bristled with emotion. "but am i never to see you, never to know your name?" the answer came from farther off. "yes, i think so. some time." "do you promise that?" silence--and then: "i _almost_ promise." * * * * * having assured himself that the drunken men were not dead, mr. jonstone sighed like a furnace and started down the mountain. his hand hurt him like the devil, but the pain was first cousin to delight. xxvii the camp was much concerned to hear of poor mr. jonstone's accident. a round stone, he said, had rolled suddenly under his foot and precipitated him down a steep pitch of path. he had put out his hands to save his face and, it seemed, broken a bone in one of them. and at that, the attempted rescue of his face had not been an overwhelming success. it was not until the doctor had come and gone that mr. jonstone told his cousin what had really happened. colonel meredith was much excited and intrigued by the narrative. "and you've no idea who she was?" he asked. "no, mel; i've thought that the voice was familiar. i've thought that it wasn't. it was a very well-bred northern voice--but agitated probably out of its natural intonations. voices are queer things. a man might not recognize his own mother's voice at a time when he was not expecting to hear it." "voices," said colonel meredith, "are beautiful things. this wasn't a motherly sort of voice, was it?" "but it might be," said mr. jonstone gently. "i wonder if they've anything in this place to make a fellow sleep. bromide isn't much good when you've a sure-enough sharp pain." "you feel mighty uncomfortable, don't you, bob?" the invalid nodded. he was pale as a sheet, and he could not keep still. he had received considerable physical punishment and his entire nervous system was quivering and jumping. "i'll see if anybody's got anything," said colonel meredith, and he went straight to the office, where he found maud darling and eve. "my cousin is feeling like the deuce," he said. "he won't sleep all night if we don't give him something to make him. do you know of any one that's got anything of that sort--morphine, for instance?" "the best thing will be to take the _streak_ and get some from the doctor," said maud. "let's all go." "i think i won't," said eve, looking wonderfully cool and serene. "but i'll walk down to the float and see you off. what a pity for a man to get laid up by an accident that might have been avoided by a little attention!" colonel meredith stiffened. "i am sorry to contradict a lady," he said, "but my cousin has given me the particulars of his accident, and it was of a nature that could hardly have been avoided by a man. i think, miss maud, if you will order a launch, i had better tell my cousin where i am going, in case he should feel that he was being neglected." "don't bother to do that," said eve. "i'll get word to him." "oh, thank you so much, will you?" "he's lying down, i suppose." "yes; he has retired for the night." "i'll send one of the men," said eve, "or sam langham." so they went one way and eve went the other, walking very quickly and smiling in the night. "mr. jonstone--oh, mr. jonstone! can you hear me?" with a sort of shudder of wonder mr. jonstone sat up in his bed. "yes," he said, "i do hear you--unless i am dreaming." "you're not dreaming. you are in great pain, owing to an accident which could hardly have been avoided by a man, and can't sleep." "i am in no pain now." "colonel meredith has gone to carrytown for something to make you sleep, so you aren't to fret and feel neglected if he doesn't come back to you at once." "just the same it's a horrible feeling--to be all alone." "but if some one--any one were to stay within call----?" "if _you_ were to stay within call it would make all the difference in the world." "you don't know who i am, do you?" "i don't know what you look like, and i don't know your name. but i know who you are. and once upon a time--long years ago--you promised, you half promised, to tell me the other things." "my name is a very, very old name, and i look like a lot of other people. but you say you know who i am. who am i?" mr. bob jonstone laughed softly. "it's enough," said he, "that i know. but are you comfortable out there? you're on the porch, aren't you?" "no; i'm standing on the ground and resting my lazy forehead against the porch railing." "i'd feel easier if you came on the porch and made yourself comfortable in a chair, just outside my window. and we could talk easier." "but you're not supposed to talk." "listening would be good for me." there was a sound of light steps and of a chair being dragged. "i wish you wouldn't sit just round the corner," said mr. jonstone presently. "if you sat before the window, sideways, i could see your profile against the sky." "i'm doing very well where i am, thank you." "but, please, why shouldn't i see you? why are you so embarrassed at me?" "wouldn't you be embarrassed if you were a girl and had been through the adventure i went through? wouldn't you be a little embarrassed to see the man who helped you, and look him in the face?" "don't you ever want me to see you? because, if you don't, i will go away from this place in the morning and never come back." "somehow, that doesn't appeal to me very much either." "i am glad," said mr. jonstone quietly. "how does your hand feel?" "which hand?" "the one you hurt." "it feels very happy, and the other hand feels very jealous of it." "seriously--are you having a pretty bad time?" "i am having the time of my life--seriously--the time that lucky men always have once in their lives." "are you very impatient for the morphine?" "i shall not take it when it comes. it is far better knowing what one knows, remembering what one remembers, and looking forward to what a presumptuous fool cannot help but look forward to--it is far better to keep awake; to lie peacefully in the dark, knowing, remembering, and looking forward." "and just what are you looking forward to?" "to a long life and a happy one; to the sounds of a voice; to a sudden coming to life of the whole 'oxford book of verse'; to seeing a face." there was a long silence. "are you there?" "yes; but you mustn't talk." "i think you are tired. please don't stay any more if you are tired." "i'm not tired." "then perhaps you are bored." "i'm not bored." "then what are you?" "you keep quiet." when, at last, colonel meredith came, important with morphine and the doctor's instructions, he found his cousin mr. bob jonstone sleeping very quietly and peacefully, a much dog-eared copy of the "oxford book of verse" clasped to his breast. unfortunately the colonel, after putting out the light again, bumped into a table, and mr. jonstone waked. "that you, mel?" "yes, bob; sorry i waked you. did miss darling send word explaining that i should be quite a while coming back?" "which miss darling?" "which? why, miss eve." "yes, she sent word." "and how have you been?" "i took a turn for the better shortly after you left. a little while ago i lighted a candle, and read a little and got sleepy. and now i think i'll go to sleep again." "you don't need the morphine?" "no, mel. thank you. good-night." "good-night." "mel?" "what is it?" "isn't eve about the oldest name you know?" "oldest, i guess, except adam and lilith. you go to sleep." and colonel meredith tiptoed out of the room, murmuring: "seems to be a little shaky in his upper stories." xxviii a point of land just across the lake from the camp belonged to the darlings' mother, the princess oducalchi. one night the light of fires and lanterns appeared on this point and the next morning it was seen to be studded here and there with pale-brown tents. the darlings were annoyed to think that any one should trespass on so large a scale on some one else's land. in a code of laws shot to pieces with class legislation, trespassers are, of course, exempt from punishment; their presence and depredations in one's private melon-patch are none the less disagreeable, and arthur darling, as his mother's representative, was peculiarly enraged. arthur, in his idle moments, when, for instance, he was not studying the webs of spiders or classifying the cries of frogs, sometimes let his mind run on politics and the whole state of the union. in such matters, of course, he was only a tyro. why should the puny and prejudiced population of texas have two votes in the senate when the hordes of new york have but two? why, in a popular form of government, should the minority do the ruling? why should not a hard-working rich man have an equal place in the sun with a man who, through laziness and a moral nature twisted like a pretzel, remains poor? why should education be forced on children in a country where education, which means good manners and the ability to distinguish between right and wrong, amounts practically to disfranchisement? arthur, in his political ruminations, could never get beyond such questions as these. if a has paid for and owns a piece of land, why is it not a's to enjoy, rather than b's, whose sole claim thereto is greater strength of body than a, and the desire to possess those things which are not his? at least, arthur could row across to the point and protest in his mother's name. if the trespassers were gentlefolk who imagined themselves to have camped upon public land, they would, of course, offer to go and to pay all damages--in which event, arthur would invite them to stay as long as they pleased, only begging that they would not set the woods on fire. if, however, the trespassers belonged to one of the privileged classes for whose benefit the laws are made and continued, he would simply be abused roundly and perhaps vilely. he would then take a thrashing at the hands of superior numbers, and the incident would be closed. colonel meredith, seeing arthur about to embark on his mission, offered help and comfort in the emergency. "just you wait till i fetch my rifle," he said; "and if there's any trifling, we'll shoot them up." "shoot them up!" exclaimed arthur. "if we shot them up, we'd go from here to prison and from prison to the electric chair." "in south carolina," colonel meredith protested, "if a man comes on our land and we tell him to get off and he won't, we drill a hole in him." "and that's one of the best things about the south," said arthur. "but we do things differently in the north. if a man comes on my land and i tell him to get off and he says he won't, then i have the right to put him off, using as much force as is necessary. and if he is twice as big as i am and there are three or four of him, you can see, without using glasses, how the matter must end." "then all you are out for is to take a licking?" "that is my only privilege under the law. but i hope i shall not have to avail myself of it. where there are so many tents there must be money. where there is money there are possessions, and where there are possessions, there are the same feelings about property that you and i have." "still," said colonel meredith, "i wish you'd take me along and our guns. there is always the chance of managing matters so that fatalities may be construed into acts of self-defense." "get behind me, you man of blood!" exclaimed arthur, laughing, and he leaped into a canoe, and with a part of the same impulse sent it flying far out from the float. then, standing, he started for the brown tents with easy, powerful strokes, very earnest for the speedy accomplishment of a disagreeable duty. that anything really pleasant might come of his expedition never entered his head. "arthur gone to put them off?" "why, yes! good-morning, miss gay." "good-morning, yourself, colonel meredith, and many of them. want to look?" "thank you." colonel meredith focussed the glasses upon the brown tents. "what do you make them out to be?" "i can make out a sort of nigger carrying tea into one of the tents. and there's a young lady in black. she seems to be walking down to the shore to meet your brother. and now she's waving her hand to him." "the impudent thing," exclaimed gay. "what's my brother doing?" "he's paddling as if he expected to cross a hundred yards of water in a second. if the young lady comes any closer to the water, she'll get wet." suddenly blushing crimson, he thrust the field-glasses back into gay's hands, and cried with complete conviction that he was "blessed." in the bright field of magnification, hastily focussed to her own vision, gay beheld her brother and the young woman in black tightly locked in each other's arms. xxix to arthur, half-way across the lake, considering just what he should say to the trespassers, the sudden sight of the person whom of all persons in the world he least expected and most wanted to see was a staggering physical shock. he almost fell out of his canoe. and if he had done that he might very likely have drowned, so paralyzing in effect were those first moments of unbelievable joy and astonishment. then she waved her hand to him and swiftly crossed the beach, and he began to paddle like a madman. when the canoe beached with sudden finality, arthur simply made a flying leap to the shore and caught her in his arms. then he held her at arm's length, and if eyes could eat, these would have been the last moments upon earth of a very lovely young woman. then a sort of horror of what he had done and of what he was doing seized him. his hands dropped to his sides and the pupils of his eyes became pointed with pain. but she said: "it's all right, arthur; don't look like that. my husband is dead." "dead?" said arthur, his face once more joyous as an angel's. "thank god for that!" and why not thank god when some worthless, cruel man dies? and why not write the truth about him upon his tombstone instead of the conventional lies? "but why didn't you write to me?" demanded arthur. "it had been such a long time since we saw each other. how did i know that you still cared?" "but how could i stop caring--about you?" "couldn't you?" "why, i didn't even try," said arthur. "i just gave it up as a bad job. but how, in the name of all that's good and blessed, do you happen to be in this particular place at this particular time? did you, by any chance, come by way of the heavens in a 'sweet chariot'? i came to eject trespassers, and i find you!" "and i came to spy on you, arthur, and to find out if you still cared. and if you didn't, i was going to tie a stone round my neck and lie down in the lake. of course, if i'm a trespasser----" they had moved slowly away from the shore toward the tents. from one of these a languid, humorous voice that made arthur start hailed them. and through the fly of the tent was thrust a beautiful white hand and the half of a beautiful white arm. "i can't come out, arthur," said the voice; "but good-morning to you, and how's the family?" "of all people in the world," exclaimed arthur; "my own beautiful mamma!" and he sprang to the extended hand and clasped it and kissed it. "your excellent stepfather," said the voice, "is out walking up an appetite for breakfast. i hope you will be very polite to him. if it hadn't been for him, cecily would have stayed in london, where we found her. he wormed her secret out of her and brought her to you as a peace-offering." there was a deep emotion in arthur's voice as he said: "then there shall always be peace between us." the hand had been withdrawn from the light of day; but the languid, humorous voice continued to make sallies from the brown tent. "we didn't want to be in the way; so, remembering this bit of property, we just chucked our somali outfit into a ship, and here we are! i was dreadfully shocked and grieved to hear that you were all quite broke and had started an inn. in new york it is reported to be a great success, is it?" "why, i hope so," said arthur; "i don't really know. mary's head man. maud keeps the books; the triplets keep getting into mischief, and eve, so far as i know, keeps out. as for me, i had an occupation, but it's gone now." "what was your job, arthur?" "my job was to have my arm in imagination where it now is in reality." "cecily!" exclaimed the voice. "is that boy hugging you publicly? am i absolutely without influence upon manners even among my own tents?" "absolutely, princess!" laughed cecily. "then the quicker i come out of my tent the better! you'll stop to breakfast, arthur?" "with pleasure, but shan't i get word to the girls? of course, they would feel it their duty to call upon you at once." "i should hope so--as an older woman i should expect that much of them. but, princess or no princess, i refuse to stand on ceremony. in my most exalted and aristocratic moments i can never forget that i am their mother. so after breakfast _i_ shall call on _them_." at this moment, very tall and thin, in gray scotch tweeds, carrying a very high, foreheady head, there emerged from the forest prince oducalchi, leading by the hand his eight-year-old son, andrea, and singing in a touching, clear baritone something in italian to the effect that a certain "mariana's roses were red and white, in the market-place by the clock-tower!" andrea wore a bright-red sweater, carried a fine twenty-bore gun made by a famous london smith, and looked every inch a prince. he had all the darling beauty in his face and all the oducalchi pride of place and fame. "mr. darling, i believe?" asked the prince, his left eyebrow slightly acockbill. "i have not had the pleasure of seeing you for some years, but i perceive that you are by way of accepting my peace-offering." "i was never just to you," said arthur, a little pale and looking very proud and handsome, "and you have been very good to my mamma and you have been very good to me. will you forgive me?" "i cannot do that. there has been nothing to forgive. but i will shake hands with you with all the pleasure in the world--my dear cecily, does he come up to the memories of him? poor children, you have had a sad time of it in this merry world! i may call you 'arthur'? arthur, this is your half-brother, andrea. i hope that you will take a little time to show him the beautiful ways of your north woods." arthur shook hands solemnly with the small boy, and their stanchly met eyes told of an immediate mutual confidence and liking. "i've always wanted a brother in the worst way," said arthur. "so have i," piped andrea. and then princess oducalchi came out of her tent, and proved that, although her daughters resembled her in features, simplicity, and grace and dignity of carriage, they would never really vie with her in beauty until they had loved much, suffered much, borne children into the world, and remembered all that was good in things and forgotten all that was evil. "mamma," said arthur, "is worth travelling ten thousand miles to see any day, isn't she?" "on foot," said prince oducalchi, "through forests and morasses infested with robbers and wild beasts." the princess blushed and became very shy and a little confused for a few moments. then, with a happy laugh, she thrust one hand through her husband's arm, the other through arthur's, and urged them in the direction of the tent, where breakfast was to be served. andrea followed, with cecily holding him tightly by the hand. "if we had not been buried in somaliland at the time," said arthur's mother, "we would never have let this 'inn' happen. i'm sure you were against it, arthur?" "of course," said he simply. "but with sister mary's mind made up, and the rest backing her, what could a poor broken-hearted young man do? and it has worked out better than i ever hoped. i don't mean in financial ways. i, mean, the sides of it that i thought would be humiliating and objectionable haven't been. indeed, it's all been rather a lark, and mary insists upon telling me that we are a lot better off than we were. we charge people the most outrageous prices! it's enough to make a dead man blush in the dark. and the only complaint we ever had about it was that the prices weren't high enough. so mary raised them." "but," objected prince oducalchi, "you, and especially your sisters, cannot go on being innkeepers forever. you, i understand, for instance"--and his fine eyes twinkled with mirth and kindness--"are thinking of getting married." "i am," said arthur, with so much conviction that even his cecily laughed at him. "when i divorced your poor father," said the princess, "he happened to be enjoying one of his terrifically rich moments. so, in lieu of alimony, he turned over a really huge sum of money to me. when i married oducalchi and told him about the money, he made me put it in trust for you children, to be turned over to you after your father's death. so you see there was never any real need to start the inn--but of course we were in africa and so forth and so on-if you've finished your coffee, i'm dying to see the girls. and i'm dying to tell them about the money, and to send all the horrid guests packing!" "some of the horrid guests," said arthur, "won't pack. of course, the girls think that i only study frogs and plants; but it's a libel. when two and two are thrust into my hands, i put them together, just as really sensible people do. you will find, mamma, a sad state of affairs at the camp." princess oducalchi began to bristle with interest and alarm. "andrea," said his father, "have a canoe put overboard for me." andrea rose at once and left the breakfast tent. "now, arthur," cried the princess, "tell me everything at once!" "gay," said arthur, "is in love with a young englishman, and knows that she is. he had to go home to be made an earl; but i think she is expecting him back in a few days, because she is beginning to take an interest in the things she really likes. mary is in love with sam langham, and he with her. they, however, don't know this. phyllis has forsaken her garden and become a dead-game sport. this she has done for the sake of a red-headed bostonian named herring. lee and a young fellow named renier are neglecting other people for each other. and our sedate maud, formerly very much in the company of two fiery southerners, is now very much in the company of one of them, colonel meredith, of south carolina. the other carolinian, mr. bob jonstone, sprained his wrist the other day, and it seems that sister eve was intended by an all-wise providence to be a trained nurse. but in the case of those last mentioned there are certain mysteries to be solved." at this moment andrea appeared at the tent opening and announced in his piping child voice: "the canoe is overboard, papa." xxx andrea stuck to his big brother like a leech, and insisted upon crossing to the camp in the same canoe with him and cecily. to andrea the possibility of newly engaged persons wishing to be by themselves was negligible. princess oducalchi, an old hand on inland waters, took charge of the other canoe, and, like arthur, in spite of a look of resigned horror on her husband's face, paddled standing up. arthur, too happy to make speed, was rapidly distanced by his mother, whose long, graceful figure and charming little, round head he regarded from time to time with great admiration. "she might be one of my sisters!" he exclaimed to cecily. "if she only was," said cecily, "and the others were only exactly like her, then i shouldn't be a bit frightened." "frightened?" "wouldn't you be frightened if i had six great angry brothers and you were just going to meet them for the first time?" arthur smiled steadily and shook his head. "i'm too happy to be afraid of anything." "i'm not. the happier i feel the more frightened i feel. and i can feel your sisters picking me all to pieces, and saying what a horrid little thing i am!" "little? haven't i told you that you are exactly the right size?" "no, you haven't." "then i tell you now. i leave it to andrea. isn't she exactly the right size, andrea?" "then mamma is too tall." "no, mamma is exactly the right size for a mamma. in fact, andrea," exulted arthur, "on this particular morning of this particular year of grace everything in the world is exactly the right size, except me. i'm not half big enough to contain my feelings. so here goes!" and the sedate arthur put back his head, which resembled that of the young galahad, and opened his mouth, and let forth the most blood-curdling war-whoop that has been sounded during the christian era. cecily clapped her hands to her ears, and andrea gazed upon his big brother with redoubled admiration. "is that like indians do?" he asked. "not at all," said arthur; "that's what studious and domesticated young men do when they've overslept, and wake up to find the sky blue and the forest green." and once more he whooped terrifically. and wow, the dog, heard him, and thought he had gone mad; and uncas, the chipmunk, ran to the top of a tall tree at full speed, down it even faster, and into a deep and safe hole among the roots. gay alone was at the float to receive the oducalchis; but now word of their coming had gone about the camp, and the remaining darlings could be seen hurrying up from various directions. from embracing her mother, gay turned with characteristic swiftness and sweetness to cecily, who had just stepped from arthur's canoe to the float, flung her arms around her, and kissed her. "i'm not quite sure of your name," she said; "but i love you very much, and you're prettier than all outdoors." then maud came, followed by eve and mary, with lee next and phyllis last, and they all talked at once, and made much of their mother and cecily and little andrea. and they all teased arthur at once, and showered oducalchi with polite and hospitable speeches. and he was greatly moved, because he knew very well that these beautiful maidens had loved their own brilliant scapegrace father to distraction, and that it was hard for them to look with kindness upon his successor. never, i think, did a mere float, an affair of planks supported by the displacing power of empty casks, have gathered upon it at one time so much beauty, so many delighted and delightful faces. and now came guides, servants, and camp helpers, to whom princess oducalchi had been a kind and understanding mistress in the old days, and then, shyly and hanging back, hoping they were wanted and not sure, sam langham, renier, herring, the carolinians, and others, until the float began to sink and there was a laughter panic and a general rush up the gangway to the shore. here wow, the dog, did a great deal of swift wagging and loud barking, and uncas, the chipmunk, from the top of a tree said: "i'm not really angry, but i'm scolding because i'm afraid to come down, and nobody loves me or makes much of me--ever!" to arthur, standing a little aside, beaming with pride and happiness, and recording in his heart every pleasant thing which his sisters said to cecily and every pleasant look they gave her, came gay presently, and slipped an arm through his. "i'm so glad," she said. but there was something in her voice that was not glad, and with one swift glance he read her wistful heart. he pressed her arm, and said: "i know one poor little kid that's left out in the cold for the moment; one little lion that feels as if it wasn't going to get any martyr; one little sister that a big brother loves and understands a little bit better than any of the others-so there! at the moment every _chacune_ has her _chacun_, except one. moments are fleeting, my dear, and other moments are ahead. i, too, have lived bad, empty, unhappy moments." "but you always knew that she cared." "and don't you know about him?" "i only know that i've seen so many people appear to be idiotically happy at the same time, and it makes me want to cry." "and for that very reason," said arthur, "the moments that are ahead will be the happier." "i wonder," said gay, and, "i know," said arthur. xxxi the fact of arthur's sudden blossoming into a full-fledged and emphatic figure of romance had an unsettling effect upon many of the peacefully disposed minds in the camp. it is always so when friends, especially in youth, come to partings of ways. clement, who takes the low road, cannot but be disturbed at the thought of those possible adventures which lie in wait for covington, who has fared forth by the high. there was the feeling among many of the young people in the camp that, if they didn't hurry, they might be left behind. nobody expressed this feeling or acknowledged it or recognized in it anything more than a feeling of unrest; but it existed, nevertheless, and had its effect upon actions and affections. renier had been leading a life of almost perfect happiness. for the things that made him happy were the same sort of things that make boys happy. no school; no parental obstructions or admonitions; green-and-blue days filled from end to end with fishing, sailing, making fires, shooting at marks, and perfecting himself in physical attainments. add to these things the digestion and the faculties of a healthy boy interested neither in drink, tobacco, nor in any book which failed to contain exciting and chivalrous adventures, and, above all, a companion whose tastes and sympathies were such that she might just as well have been a boy as not. they were chums rather than sweethearts. it needed a sense of old times coming to an end and new times beginning to make them realize the full depth and significance of their attachment for each other. there were four of us once "in a kingdom by the sea," and i shall not forget the awful sense of partings and finality, and calamity, for that matter, furnished by a sudden sight of the first flaming maple of autumn. "i think your mother's a perfect brick," said renier. "she makes you feel as if she'd known you all your life, and was kind of grateful to you for living." "i'm rather crazy about the prince," said lee. "of course, i oughtn't to be. but i can't help it, and after all he's been awfully good to mamma. do you believe in divorce?" "i never did until i saw your mother. she wouldn't ask for anything that she didn't really deserve." "but it's funny, isn't it," said lee, "that so many people get on famously together until they are actually married, and then they begin to fight like cats? i knew a girl who was engaged to a man for five years. you'd think they'd get to know each other pretty well in that time, wouldn't you? but they didn't. they hadn't been married six months before they hated each other." "and that proves," said renier, "that long engagements are a mistake." "smarty!" exclaimed lee. "i suppose your brother'll be getting married right away, won't he? haven't they liked each other for ever so long?" "m'm!" lee nodded. "but arthur never does anything right away. he does too much mooning and wool-gathering. if a united family can get him to the altar in less than a year they'll have accomplished wonders. there's one thing, though--when we do get him married good and proper, he'll stay married. he's like that at all games. it comes natural to him to keep his eyes in the boat. he's got the finest and sweetest nature of any man in this world, _i_ think." "of course, you except present company?" "heavens, yes!" cried lee, and they both laughed. then, suddenly, lee looked him in the eyes quite solemnly. "i wasn't fooling," she said, "not entirely. i _do_ think you're fine and sweet. i didn't always, but i do now." there was levity in renier's words but not in his voice. "this," he said, "so far has been a perfectly good tuesday." "whatever we do together," said lee, "you always give me the best of it. it's been a good summer." "do you feel as if summer was over, too?" she nodded. "that's funny, isn't it? because it's nowhere near over, is it? maybe it's the excitement of the oducalchis' arrival and your brother's engagement. it makes you sort of feel as if there wasn't time to settle back into the regular life and get things going again before the leaves fall." he spoke. and from the fine striped maple under which they sat there fell, and fluttered slowly into lee's lap, a great yellowing leaf ribbed with incipient scarlet. "that only means," said renier--but there was a kind of awe in his voice--"that this particular tree has indigestion." and they sat for a time in silence and looked at the leaf. and lo! arthur came upon them, smiling. "i was looking for you two," he said. "i thought maybe you'd do me a great favor. i've got to play host, and----" "nobody would miss us!" exclaimed lee. "they wouldn't?" said arthur. "i'll bet you anything you like that, during your absence, you will both be mentioned among the missing, by name, at least five times." "what'll you bet?" asked lee eagerly. "nobody ever thinks of _us_. nobody ever mentions _us_. nobody even loves _us_. what'll you bet?" "anything you like," said arthur, "and if necessary i will take charge of the five personal mentionings and make them myself!" lee shook her head sadly, and said: "once an accepted lover, always a sure thing, man. oh, arthur, how low you have fallen! you used to engineer bets with me for the sheer joy of seeing me win them. but now you are on the make, and it looks as if there was no justice under heaven-where do you want us to go and what do you want us to do when we get there? of course, we'll go; we always do. everybody sends us on errands, and we always go. the longer the errands the oftener we go. but nobody seems to realize that we might enjoy spending one single solitary afternoon sitting under a striped maple and watching the green leaves turn yellow. nobody even loves us! but when we are dead there will be the most frightful remorse and sorrow." arthur leaned heavily against the stem of the striped maple. "your sad case," he said, "certainly cries aloud for justice and redress----" "'kid us along, bo,'" said lee; "we love it!" "i want two people," said arthur, "for whom i have affection and in whom i have confidence, to go at once to carrytown in the _streak_ and consult a lawyer upon a matter of paramount importance and delicacy--" he hesitated, and lee said: "i pray you, without further ado, continue your piquant narrative." then arthur, in a tone of solemn, confidential eagerness: "look here, you two, go to carrytown, will you, and find out how quickly two people can get married in the state of new york, and what they have to do about licenses and things? will you? i'll be eternally obliged." "of course, we will," exclaimed lee in sudden excitement. "are you game?" "you bet your sweet life i'm game!" cried the vulgar renier. and a few minutes later the two inseparable school-boyesque chums, whom nobody mentioned, whom everybody sent on errands, and whom nobody even loved, were streaking across the lake in the _streak_. there was but the one lawyer in carrytown and the one stenographer. their shingles hang one above the other on the face of the one brick building. at the door of this building lee suddenly drew back. "look here!" she said. "won't it look rather funny if we march in hand in hand and say: 'beg pardon, sir, but how do you get married in the state of new york?'" "it _would_ look funny," said renier, "and i shouldn't wonder if it made us feel funny. but the joke would really be on the lawyer. we could say '_honi soit qui mal y pense_' to him. of course, if it would really embarrass you----" "it wouldn't," said lee, "_really_." so they went up a narrow flight of stairs and knocked on the door of room number five. there was no answer. so they pushed open the door and entered a square room bound in sheepskin with red-and-black labels. there was nobody in the room, and lee exclaimed: "nobody even loves us." "he'll be in the back room," said renier. "i know. once i swiped a muskmelon from a lawyer's melon-patch, and had to see him about it. _he_ was in the back room----" "'counting out his money'?" "no; he was drinking whiskey with a judge and a livery-stable keeper, and they were all spitting on a red-hot stove." "what did he do about the melon?" "he told me to can the melon and have a drink. i had already canned the melon as well as i could (i wasn't educated along scientific lines) and my grandmother had promised me any watch i wanted if i didn't drink till i was twenty-one." "did you?" "i did not." "did you get the watch?" "i did not." "why not?" "grandma reneged. she said she didn't remember making any such promise." they pushed open a swinging door and entered the back room. here, in a revolving chair, sat a stout young man with a red face. upon his knees sat a stout young woman with a red face. and with something of the consistency with which a stamp adheres to an envelope so the one red face appeared glued to the other red face. the red face of the stout young man had one free eye which detected the presence of intruders. and the stout young man said: "caught with the goods! jump up, minnie, and behave yourself!" minnie's upspring was almost a record-breaker. renier began to stammer: "i b-b-beg your pardon," he said, "but i thought you might b-b-be able to tell me how to g-g-get married in new york state." the stout young man rose from his revolving chair; he was embarrassed almost to the point of paralysis, but his mind and mouth continued to work. "you've come to just the right man," he said, "at just the right time, for information of that sort. first, you hire a stenographer; then you get a mash on her. then she sits in your lap--she _will_ do it--and then you kiss her. and then you get a license, and then you curse laws and red tape for a while, and then you wed. now, what you want is a license?" "exactly," said renier. "it--it's for another fellow." "friend of yours?" queried the stout young man. "yes." "and you want a license for him, not for yourself?" renier nodded. "at this moment," said the stout young man, "there are assembled on the long wharf, chewin' tobacco and cursin', some twenty-five or thirty marines. would you mind just stepping down and telling that to them?" "i am quite serious," said renier. "it is my friend who wants to get married." "and _you_ don't?" renier stammered ineffectually. "then," said the stout young man, with a glance at lee (of the highest admiration), "you're a gol-darn fool." and forthwith he was so vulgar as to burst into a sudden snatch of song: "old man rule was a gol-darn fool, for he couldn't see the water in the gol-darn pool!" at the finish of this improvisation the dreadfully confused minnie went, "tee-hee!" and, horror of horrors, that charming boylike companion, lee darling, behind whom were well-bred generations, also went suddenly, "tee-hee." "licenses," said the stout young man, "are applied for in room five. after you, sir; after you, miss." and, with a waggish expression, he turned to minnie. "be back in five minutes," he said; "try not to forget me, my flighty one." when they were in the front room, he said: "before a license is issued, the licensor must be satisfied as to the preliminaries. now, then, what can you tell me as to lap sitting and kissings?" "you," cried lee, in a sudden blaze of indignation, "are the freshest, most objectionable american i ever set eyes on." the stout young man turned appealingly to renier. "you wouldn't say that," he said; "you'd say i was just typical, wouldn't you, now? and i wish you would tell her that, though in these backwoods i have been obliged to eschew my chesterfield, i've got a great big heart in me and mean well." during the last words of this speech he became appealingly wistful. "why," said he to lee, "just because minnie and me is stout, don't you think we know heaven when we see it--the empyrean! yesterday she threw me down, and i says to her: 'since all my life seems meant for "fails"--since this was written and needs must be--my whole soul rises up to bless your name in pride and thankfulness. who knows but the world may end to-night?' to-day she sits in my lap and we see which can hug the hardest. ever try that?" and suddenly the creature's voice melted and shook. he was a genuine orator, as we americans understand it, having that within his powers of voice that defies logic and melts the heart. "wouldn't you," he said, "even _like_ to sit in his lap? wouldn't you _love_ to sit in his lap and be hugged?" lee looked to renier for help, as he to her. and they took a step apiece directly toward each other, and another step. it was as if they had been hypnotized. suddenly renier caught lee's hand in his, and after a moment of looking into his eyes she turned to the stout man, and sang in miraculous imitation of him: "young miss mule is a gol-darn fool, but you made her see the water in the gol-darn pool." "i'll just get a license blank," said the stout young man. "they're in the back room." "thank you," said renier--"if you will, mr.----" "heartbeat!" flashed the stout young man, and left them. and he wasn't lying or making fun that time. for that was his really truly name. and in northern new york people are beginning to think that he is by way of being up to it. suddenly lee quoted from a joke that she and renier had in common. she said, as if surprised: "'why, there's a table over there!'" and renier, his voice suddenly breaking and melting, answered: "'why, so there is--and here's a chair!'" and mr. heartbeat, making a supreme effort to live up to his name, did not return with the license blank for nearly eight minutes. during those minutes, renier resolved that in every room in his home there should be at least one revolving chair. and they came out of mr. heartbeat's office no longer boyish companions but lovers, a little startled, engaged, and licensed to be married. xxxii "lee, dear," said renier, "you don't feel that that fellow buncoed you into this, do you? please say you don't." "of course, i wasn't buncoed," she said, and with infinite confidence. "why, i've seen the thing coming for months! haven't you?" "i've seen a certain girl begin by being very dear and grow dearer and dearer--i wish we could _walk_ back. i'm afraid of motor-boats, fresh water, and sudden storms on mountain lakes. and i hereby highly resolve that after this perilous trip i shall never again do anything dangerous, such as watching people going up in aeroplanes, such as sitting around with wet feet, such as eating green fruit, such as-oh, my own darling little kiddie," he whispered with sudden trembling emotion, "but this life is precious." "george and charley are looking at us," said lee, "with funny looks. i wonder if they are _on_? i wonder if everybody will be _on_--just by looking at us. _do_ i look foolish?" "you do not, but i think you are foolish to take a feller like me, and that's why i'm going to dance down this gang-plank and snap my fingers and shock george and charley out of their senses." during this first part of the _streak_'s swift rush from carrytown to the camp a tranquil silence came over them. lee, i think, was searching her heart with questions. but she had no doubt of her love for renier; she doubted only her capacity to be to him exactly the wife he needed. and i know that renier just sat, brazening the critical glances of george and charley, and adored her with his eyes. and what were his thoughts? would you give a penny for them? he leaned closer to her, and in a whisper that thrilled them both to the bone, he quoted from poe: "and neither the angels in heaven above, nor the demons down under the sea, can ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful annabel lee." and a little later he said: "i never knew till to-day what poetry is for. i thought people who wrote it were just a little simple and that people who read and quoted it were perfect jackasses." "and what is poetry for?" asked lee, smiling. "poetry," he said, "is for _you_." as they neared the camp the sentiment in their hearts yielded a little to excitement. "when we tell 'em," said lee, "it's going to be just like a bomb going off. and everybody will be terribly envious." "nobody even loves us," laughed renier, and he quoted: "among ten million, one was she, and surely all men hated me." and like a flash lee answered: "among ten million he was one, so all the ladies fought like fun." "one thing is sure," sand renier, "we've more than executed brother arthur's delicate and confidential commission. what we don't know about getting married in the state of new york simply doesn't exist." arthur, eager and impatient, was like a more famous person, watching and waiting. "well," he said, "thank you a thousand times. and what did you find out?" "we've brought you a license blank," said lee; "you simply fill it out with your names and ages and things--like this--" and she placed a second paper in her brother's hands. and conspicuous on the paper he saw lee's name and renier's. his hands shook a little, and his face became very grave and tender. "say you're surprised!" exclaimed lee; "say you were never so surprised in all your born days!" "but i'm not surprised," said arthur. "come here to me!" he opened his arms to her and she flung herself into them. over her shoulder and hiding head arthur spoke to renier. "no man," he said, "knows his own heart, and no woman knows hers. nobody can promise with honesty to love forever. for sometimes love dies just as simply and inexplicably as it is born. but a man can promise to be good to his wife always, and tender with her and faithful to her, and if he is a gentleman he will make those promises good." "i make those promises," said renier simply; "will you give her to me?" "it is for no man to give or to withhold," said arthur. "the gods give. the duty of brothers is just to try to help things along and to love their sisters and to be friends with their brothers-in-law." xxxiii "and now," said lee, "i think i'll tell mamma." on the way to find the princess, lee and renier encountered herring. he appeared to be hurrying, but something in their faces brought him to a sudden stop. their attempts to meet his inquiring gaze with indifference proved unavailing, for he closed one eye and said: "which of you two has swallowed the family canary? or has each of you swallowed half of him?" the guilty pair were unable to preserve their natural coloring. they turned crimson, and each showed a courteous willingness to let the other be the first to speak. "you've been to carrytown," said herring. "i saw you start. you raced down to the float. and in your rivalry to see which should board the _streak_ first, it looked as if you were going to knock each other overboard. renier, he won, and you, miss lee, were annoyed. when you returned from carrytown, you had long, pensive, anxious faces. renier stepped ashore and, in helping you ashore, gave you both hands. when a girl whom i have seen climb a tree after a baby owl accepts the aid of a man's two hands in stepping from a solid boat to a solid float, there is food for thought. having landed, you proceeded direct to the head of the darling family and were for some time engaged with him in solemn discourse. a paper was shown him. from a distance it looked as if it might be some sort of a license--a license to hunt and be hunted, perhaps----" "but it wasn't," said lee suddenly, and she thrust her hand under renier's arm. "if you must know, mr. sherlock holmes, it was a license to love and be loved. so there!" she was no longer blinking, nor was renier. they looked so loving and proud that it was herring's turn to feel embarrassment. then he said: "i only meant to be a tease. if i'd really thought anything--i wouldn't, of course; none of my darn business. but i'm _awfully_ glad. i've hoped all along it would happen. it's the best ever. am i to be secret as the grave or can i tell--any one i happen to meet?" "give us ten minutes to tell mamma," said lee, "and then consider your lips unsealed." herring had drawn from his pocket a stop-watch and set it going. "ten minutes," he said. "thanks awfully! and good luck!" he had turned, waving his free hand to them, and darted away. lee laughed scornfully. "any one he happens to meet!" she exclaimed. "he's headed straight for the garden, and there he'll just _happen_ to meet phyllis. she was speaking of her tomatoes at breakfast, and saying that they ought to be ripening and that she was going to have a look at them." "lee, darling," said renier, "nobody can possibly see us. and when mr. heartbeat left us alone in the front room it was a frightfully long time ago. and sometimes a fellow's arms get to aching with sheer emptiness, and--and, 'this is the forest primeval, the murmuring pines and the hemlocks----'" "are mostly birches and larches hereabouts," said lee, and, with a happy laugh, she drifted into a pair of arms that closed tightly about her. and, "it doesn't matter if anybody does see us," she said. * * * * * it was characteristic of herring that he should enter the garden by leaping over the fence. it was also characteristic that he should catch his foot on the top rail and fall at full length in a bed of very beautiful and much cherished phlox. phyllis, in the path near by, gazed at the fallen man with mirth and anxiety. "hurt?" she asked. he rose and examined a watch which he was carrying in his right hand. "crystal smashed," he said, "but still going. and i've got to wait four minutes!" "why have you got to wait four minutes?" "because i promised to wait ten, and six of them have elapsed. oh, but won't you be excited when i am at liberty to speak! it's more exciting than when we were lost in the woods, crossing the swamp that had never been crossed before. meanwhile, let us calm ourselves by talking of something prosaic. how are the tomatoes getting on?" phyllis put up her hand in a smiling military salute. "'general blank's compliments,'" she said, "'and the colored troops are turning black in the face.'" "my favorite breakfast dish," said herring, "is grilled tomatoes, preceded by raw oysters and oatmeal." "isn't it nice," said phyllis, "that there is money in the family after all, and we're going to give up the camp as an inn?" "it would have been given up anyway," said herring. "a determined body of men had so resolved in secret. there's one minute left." for some reason they found nothing to say during the whole of that minute. when the last second thereof had passed forever, herring said simply: "your sister lee and renier are going to be married." i cannot describe the expression that came over phyllis's face. it wasn't exactly jealousy; it wasn't exactly the expression of a beautiful female commuter who has just missed her train. it wasn't a wild look, or a happy look, or a sad look. perhaps it was a little bit more of an aching void look than anything else. whatever its exact nature, the wily herring studied it with an immense satisfaction. and then his heart began to flurry in a sort of panic. "lee!" exclaimed phyllis, "married! why, they're nothing but children!" she felt something encircle her waist. she looked down and saw a hand and part of an arm. "what are you doing?" she asked, in a sort of daze. "i'm trying to establish a hold on you," said herring, and toward the end of so saying his voice broke; "and you're not to feel lonely and deserted with me standing here, are you?" for a moment it seemed to herring that phyllis was going to extricate herself from his encircling arm. she achieved, indeed, a quarter revolution to the left and away from him. "don't, phyllis!" he cried. "don't do it! i couldn't bear it!" then she ceased revolving to the left, stopped, and from a startled, uncertain, half-frightened young person became suddenly a warmly loving young person, warmly loved, who revolved suddenly to the right, and became the recipient of a sudden storm of ecstatic exclamations and kisses. and then, nestling close to the one and only man in the world, she listened with complete satisfaction to his efforts to explain to her just how beautiful and wonderful and good she was. xxxiv when lee and renier, locked in each other's arms, stood in the forest primeval, they were mistaken in imagining themselves to be unobserved. a short half-hour before, mary darling had received a proposal of marriage. but mr. sam langham, usually so worldly-wise, had erred, perhaps, in his choice of time and place. whatever a huge kitchen, bright with sunlight upon burnished copper, may be, it is not a romantic place. and, worse than this, mary herself was not in a romantic mood. certain supplies due by the morning express had not arrived. chef was at the telephone shouting broken french to the butcher in carrytown; one of the kitchen-maids had come down with an aching tooth, and the other had been sent upon an errand from which she should have long since returned. "oh," exclaimed mary, as mr. langham entered, smiling, "everything is in such a mess! i don't believe there's going to be any lunch to-day for any one. and i think i shall have a nervous breakdown!" "i told you you would long ago," said langham, "if you didn't rest more and take things easier. what _does_ it matter if things go wrong once in a while? and if there isn't going to be any lunch, i'm glad, for one. i was thinking of not eating mine, anyway. and if _i'm_ not hungry, you can be pretty sure that nobody else is hungry. i tell you it hurts me to see you work so hard. i admire it and i bow down, but it hurts. you tell chef to do the best he can, and you come for a brisk walk with me. we'll walk up an appetite, and----" "i can't _possibly_," said mary. "i've got to stand by." "then you go for a walk and i'll stand by. only trust me. _i'll_ see that nobody goes hungry." she did not appear to have heard his offer, and mr. langham spoke again, with a sudden change of tone. "i'd like to take you out of this. i'd like to make everything in the world easy for you, if you would only let me. but you know that. you've known it all along. and knowing it, you've never even shown that it interested you; and so i suppose it's folly for me to mention it. but a man can't give up all his hopes of happiness in this world without even stating them, can he? i've hoped that you might get to care a little about me----" mary interrupted him with considerable impatience. "really," she said, "with chef shouting at the telephone, and all, i don't know what you are driving at." at that mr. langham looked so hurt and so unhappy and woebegone that mary was touched with remorse. "i didn't realize you were in earnest," she said. "i'm sorry i've hurt your feelings, but it's no use. i'm sorry--awfully sorry; but it's no use." "i'm sorry, too," said langham; "sorry i spoke; sorrier there was no use in speaking; sorriest of all that i'm no good to any one. but as long as i had to come a cropper, why, i'm glad it was for no one less wonderful than you. will you let things be as they were? i won't bother you about my personal feelings ever again by a look or a word." after he had gone mary stood for a while with knitted brows. chef had finished telephoning. the kitchen was in silence. suddenly she broke this silence. "chef," she exclaimed, "i'm no use at all! you'll just have to do the best you can about lunch by yourself." and she left the kitchen with great swiftness, looking like an angel on the verge of tears. chef's shining red face divided into a white smile, and he began to bustle about and make a noise with pots and pans and carving tools, and to sing as he bustled: "_sur le pont d'avignon_ _l'on y danse, l'on y danse_, _sur le pont d'avignon_ _l'on y danse tout en rond--_ _les belles dames font comm'ã§a_, _et puis encore comm'ã§a._" it is probable that in his gay parisian youth chef had known a good deal about _les belles dames_. he had latterly given much attention to the progress of miss darling's friendship with mr. langham, and that this same progress had received a sharp setback under his very nose concerned him not a little. chef possessed altogether too much currency that had once belonged to that lavish tipper, mr. langham. and chef did not wish mr. langham to be driven from the kitchen and the camp. he wished mr. langham to become a permanent darling asset--like himself and the french range. and so, half singing, half speaking, and furiously bustling, he announced: "i'll show her how little difference she makes. without advice or dictation, practically without supplies of any kind, i shall arrange, _nom de dieu!_ a luncheon which, for pure deliciousness, will not have been surpassed during the entire christian era. i shall hint to her that i tolerate her in my kitchen because i have known her since she was a little girl, but i shall make it clear by words and deeds that her presence or absence is not of the least importance. let her then turn for comfort to the worthy, generous, and rich mr. langham, for whom the mere poaching of an egg is an exquisite pleasure!" and he frowned and began to think formidable and inventive thoughts about matters connected with his craft and immediate needs and necessities. mary darling had, of late, often imagined herself receiving an offer of marriage from mr. langham. that is badly expressed. only the most insufferable and self-sufficient of men make offers of marriage. your true, modest, and chivalrous lover gets down on his real or figurative knees and begs and beseeches. she had, then, often imagined her hand in the act of being besought by mr. langham. being a practical young woman, she had pictured this as happening (repeatedly) at sunset, by moonlight, in the depths of romantic forests or on the tops of romantic mountains. and some voice in her (some very practical voice) told her that it never should have happened in a kitchen. mr. langham's "sweet beseeching", instead of "moving her strangely," had made her rather cross. and such tenderness as she usually had for him had fled to cover. but now, as the clean, green forest closed about her, she had a reaction. she came to a dead stop and realized that she had been through an emotional crisis. her heart was beating as if she had just finished a steep, swift climb. and her heart was aching too, aching for the kind and gentle friend and well-wisher to whom she had been so inexplicably cold and cutting. it was in vain to mourn for that diamond of a heart which she had rejected with so much finality. he had said that he would never "bother" her again (_bother_ her! the idea!), and he never would. he was a man of his word, sam langham was. perhaps, even now he was causing his things to be packed with a view to leaving the camp for ever and a day. but what could she do? could she go to him (in person or by writing) and in his presence eat as much as a single mouthful of humble-pie? no, she could not possibly do that. then, what could she do? well, with the usual negligible results, she could cry her eyes out over the spilt milk. she went swiftly forward, the shadows dappling her as she went, and her heart swelling and swelling with self-pity and general miserableness. thoughts of arthur and his happiness flashed through her mind. the thought that she, mary darling, unmarried, would in the course of a few years be called an old maid, caused her a panicky feeling. she pictured herself as very old (and very ugly), exhibiting improbable chinese dogs at dog-shows and scowling at rosy babies. and i must say she almost laughed. the path turned sharply to the right and disclosed to mary's eyes two young people who stood locked in each other's arms and rocked slightly from side to side--rocked with ineffable delight and tenderness. she stood stock-still, in plain view if they had looked her way, until presently they unlocked arms, drew a little apart, and had a good long look at each other, and then turned their backs upon that part of the forest and departed slowly. whither she was going, mary did not know. but she went very swiftly and had upon her face the expression of a beautiful female commuter who has arrived at the station just in time to see her train pull out. but this expression changed when she found her path blocked by the diminutive house in which sam langham lived, and saw sam langham, a look of wonder on his face, rise from his big piazza chair and come toward her. "lee and renier are going to be married," she exclaimed, all out of breath, "and i didn't mean to be such a brute! and i wouldn't have hurt you for anything in the world!" sam langham only looked at her, for he was afraid to speak. "i'm just an old goose," said mary humbly, but very bravely, "and i take everything back. and if you meant what you said, sam, and want to begin all over again, why, don't just stand there and look at me." and presently she was ashamed of herself for having been so forward, and so she pursued the feelings of shame to their logical conclusion and hid her face. and now, for the first time, she realized how hard she had worked ever since the camp was changed into an inn to make it a go, and how much she needed rest and comforting and a masculine executive to lean on. "who said," murmured the ecstatic langham, "that nothing good ever came of liking good things to eat?" "sam," said mary, "i'm so happy i don't care if lunch is burned to a cinder." it wasn't. out of odds and ends of raw materials, and great slugs and gallons of culinary genius, chef produced a lunch that transcended even mary's and langham's belief in him. but it was arthur who insisted that champagne be opened; and perhaps the champagne made the lunch seem even more delicious than it really was. maud and eve had already discounted arthur's engagement and lee's. they had not, it is true, learned of the latter without feeling that if they didn't hurry they would miss their train; but they had disguised and fought off that feeling until now they were their gay and natural selves. it remained for mr. langham to shock them suddenly into a new set of emotions. "i should be obliged," said he, rising to his feet, with a glass of champagne in his hand, "if everybody would drink the health of the happiest man present." arthur and renier looked very self-conscious. but mr. langham concluded: "and that man is myself. i have the honor to announce that, beyond peradventure, the loveliest and sweetest girl in all the world----" and at that mary blushed so and looked so happy and beautiful that everybody shouted with joy and surprise and laughter, and drank champagne, and tossed compliments about like shuttlecocks. and arthur and renier and langham had a violent dispute as to which was the happiest; and decided to settle the dispute with sabres at--twenty paces. her first burst of surprise and excitement and pleasure having passed, eve darling experienced a sudden sinking feeling. she felt as if all the people she most loved to be with were going away on a delightful excursion and that she was being left behind. it was at this moment, while the uproar was still at its height, that she heard the shaken voice of mr. bob jonstone in her ear. "how about us?" he demanded. "how about us--what?" she answered. then she felt her hand seized and held in the secret asylum furnished by the table-cloth, and there stole over her the solaceful feeling of having been asked at the last moment to go upon the delightful excursion. "eve?" "eve, darling--is it all right?" "all right." and then up shot mr. jonstone like a projectile from a howitzer, and he cried aloud, his habitual calmness and lazy habit of speech flung to the winds. "you're not the only happy men in the world," he shouted. "i'm happier than the three of you put together, i am! because my darling is the best and most beautiful of all darlings, and if any man dares to gainsay that, let him just step outside with me for five minutes--that's all." colonel meredith's hair bristled like the mane of a fighting terrier. "do you mean to say," he whispered to maud in a sort of savage whisper, "that i've got to swallow that insult without protest?" it was on the tip of maud's tongue to say that she didn't know what he meant. but how could she say that when she knew perfectly well? "only give me the right to answer him," continued the sincere warrior. he rose to his feet. "is it yes--or no?" "it's yes--yes," exclaimed maud and, horrified with herself, she leaned back blushing and full of wonder. "mr. jonstone--mr. bob--jonstone!" cried colonel meredith. mr. jonstone's attention was presently attracted, and he gave his cousin a glittering look. "i'll be only too delighted to step outside with you for five minutes," said colonel meredith. and the cousins glared and glared at each other. but whether or not they were really in earnest, if only for a moment, will never be known; at any rate, each of them appeared suddenly to perceive something comic about the other, and both burst into peals of schoolboy laughter. only gay's happiness seemed a little forced, and her mother's. xxxv gay hardly slept at all. she was at her window half the night asking troubled questions of the stars and of the moon and of the moonlight on the lake. she had not, during the summer, taken her sisters' affairs very seriously, perhaps because she was so seriously engrossed with her own. she had, even in her heart, almost accused them of flirting and carrying on lest time hang heavy on their hands. her own romance she had supposed all along to be real, the others mere reflections of romantic places and situations. but it began to look as if only her own romance had been spurious. it was a long time since she had heard from pritchard. he had told her very simply that he was now the earl of merrivale, and that, as soon as certain things were settled and arranged, he intended to return to america. after that, there had been no word from him of any kind. she tried to comfort herself with the thought that if he was that kind of man--blow hot, blow cold--she was well rid of him, and she failed dismally. a man is in love with a certain girl. he learns that she is vain, gay, extravagant, heartless, and going to marry some other man. does any of this comfort him? not if he is in love with her, it doesn't. not a bit. so gay could say to herself: "he's thoughtless and inconstant, and i'm well out of it!" she could say that, and she did say that, and then she buried her face in her pillow and cried very quietly and very hard. she was up before the sun. it would have taken more than one night of wakefulness and weeping to leave marks upon that lovely face which sudden cold water and the resolution to suffer no more could not erase. but she had not rowed a mile or more before the color in her cheeks was really vivid again and the whites of her eyes showed no traces of tears. she did not know why she was rowing or whither. it was as if some strong hand had forced her from bed before sunrise, forced her into her fishing-clothes, forced her into a guide boat, placed oars in her hands, and compelled her to row. she even smiled, wondering where she was going. "i can go anywhere i like," she thought; "but i don't want to go anywhere in particular, and yet i am quite obviously on my way to somewhere or other. i'm like alice in wonderland. i think i'll go to carrytown and get the morning mail." but she had no sooner beached toward carrytown than the distance there seemed unutterably long, especially for a rower who had yet to breakfast. "i know," thought gay at last; "i'll row to placid brook and see if the big trout is still feeding in his private preserve. i'll land just where we did before and cross the meadow and spy on him from behind a bush. i wish i'd brought some tackle. i'd like to catch him and cook him for my breakfast--so i would!" upon this resolution, the work of rowing became very light. it was as if the force which had started her upon the excursion had had placid brook in mind all the time. having laid her course for the meadow at the mouth of placid brook, she kept the stern of the boat in direct line with a distant mountain-top, and so held it. the sun was now peeping over the rim of the world, and here and there morning breezes were darkening and dappling the burnished surface of the lake. now and then, as she neared the meadow, gay glanced over her shoulder, once for quite a long time, resting on her oars, because she thought she saw a doe with a fawn. they turned out to be nothing more tender than a couple of granite rocks. and once again she rested on her oars and looked for a long time--not this time upon the strength of a hallucination, but of an impulse. she followed this inconsequential act with a long sigh, and enough strokes of the oar to bring her to land. when she stood upright on the meadow she could see the very spot from which pritchard had cast for the big trout. and she saw (and had a curious dilating of the heart at the same moment) that that particular spot of meadow was once more occupied by a human being--or were her eyes and her breakfastless stomach playing tricks? a young man in rusty meadow-colored clothes appeared to be kneeling with his back toward her. she advanced swiftly toward him, curious only of a great wonder and an indescribable (and possibly fatal) beating of her heart. and suddenly she knew that her man was real and no hallucination, for she perceived at her feet the stub of a turkish cigarette, still smoking. then she called to him: "halloo, there!" the earl of merrivale started as if he had been shot at, then leaped to his feet and turned toward her with a cry of joy. "what are you doing here?" he cried. and they had approached to within touching distance of each other. "i don't know," she said. "what are you?" "it was too early to pay calls," he said, "so i thought i'd have one more whack at the big char and bring him to you for a present. but tell me--does our bet still stand?" he looked at her so tenderly and lovingly and hopefully that she hadn't the heart to be anything but tender and loving herself. "the bet still stands," she said, "if you win. i've missed you terribly." "i took him," said the earl. "i was just weighing him when you called. he weighs a lot more than three pounds. so i win." "yes, you win." "and the bet still stands?" she nodded happily. "and you won't renege--you'll pay? you'll be countess of merrivale?" "if you want me to be," she said humbly. "if i want you to be!" and she had imagined herself so often in his arms that she was not now surprised or troubled to find herself there. "i was so unhappy," she said; "and now i'm so happy." and after a little while she said: "i'd like to see him." presently they stood looking down at the great trout. "he's done a lot for us, hasn't he?" said gay. "he was the beginning of things. and it seems sort of a pity----" "he's still breathing. he'll live if we put him back. shall we?" "yes, please." there was plenty of life and fight in the old trout. he no sooner felt that water was somewhere under him than he gave a triumphant, indignant flop, tore himself from merrivale's hands, and disappeared with a splendid, smacking splash. "good old boy!" laughed merrivale. "and yet," said gay, "it's a pity that we couldn't take him back to camp and show him off. he was the biggest trout i ever saw." "he wasn't a trout, dear," said merrivale; and he grinned lovingly at her. "he was a char." "of course he was," said gay humbly; "i forgot." xxxvi i wish i could write first, "the seven darlings lived happily ever afterward," and then the word "finis." but i cannot end so easily and maintain a reputation for veracity. they can't have lived happily afterward until they are dead--can they? at the moment they have just closed the camp after the summer and scattered to their winter homes; that is, all of them except gay. the camp, of course, is no longer an inn. they run it on joint account for themselves and for their friends. and they have delightful times. colonel meredith has built a tremendous house on his ancestral acres, and during the winter arthur and his wife, the herrings, the reniers, the jonstones, and the langhams are apt to make it their headquarters. gay and her young man were to have visited the merediths this winter. there was going to be a united family effort to discover the buried silver which mr. bob jonstone sold to his cousin, but of course the great war has upset this excellent plan, together with a good many million other plans, even more excellent and important. the earl of merrivale is fighting somewhere in the wet ditches--gay doesn't know exactly where. she herself, a red cross on her sleeve, is with one of the field-hospitals, working like a slave to save life. because her husband is an englishman, she didn't think that she could ever be kind to a german or an austrian, but that turned out to be a whopping big error of judgment. they all look alike to her now, and her heart almost breaks over them. but i don't know what will become of her if anything happens to merrivale. i think poor little gay would just curl up and die. he is all the world to her, just as she is to him. well, they are only one loving couple out of a good many hundred thousands. the times are too momentous to follow them further or waste words and sympathy on them. the world is thinking in big figures, not in units. only a sentimentalist here and there regards as more important than empire and riches the little love-affairs that death is hourly ending, and the little babies who are never to be born. the haunted hotel a mystery of modern venice by wilkie collins (1824-1889) (after the edition of chatto & windus, london, 1879) the first part chapter i in the year 1860, the reputation of doctor wybrow as a london physician reached its highest point. it was reported on good authority that he was in receipt of one of the largest incomes derived from the practice of medicine in modern times. one afternoon, towards the close of the london season, the doctor had just taken his luncheon after a specially hard morning's work in his consulting-room, and with a formidable list of visits to patients at their own houses to fill up the rest of his day--when the servant announced that a lady wished to speak to him. 'who is she?' the doctor asked. 'a stranger?' 'yes, sir.' 'i see no strangers out of consulting-hours. tell her what the hours are, and send her away.' 'i have told her, sir.' 'well?' 'and she won't go.' 'won't go?' the doctor smiled as he repeated the words. he was a humourist in his way; and there was an absurd side to the situation which rather amused him. 'has this obstinate lady given you her name?' he inquired. 'no, sir. she refused to give any name--she said she wouldn't keep you five minutes, and the matter was too important to wait till to-morrow. there she is in the consulting-room; and how to get her out again is more than i know.' doctor wybrow considered for a moment. his knowledge of women (professionally speaking) rested on the ripe experience of more than thirty years; he had met with them in all their varieties--especially the variety which knows nothing of the value of time, and never hesitates at sheltering itself behind the privileges of its sex. a glance at his watch informed him that he must soon begin his rounds among the patients who were waiting for him at their own houses. he decided forthwith on taking the only wise course that was open under the circumstances. in other words, he decided on taking to flight. 'is the carriage at the door?' he asked. 'yes, sir.' 'very well. open the house-door for me without making any noise, and leave the lady in undisturbed possession of the consulting-room. when she gets tired of waiting, you know what to tell her. if she asks when i am expected to return, say that i dine at my club, and spend the evening at the theatre. now then, softly, thomas! if your shoes creak, i am a lost man.' he noiselessly led the way into the hall, followed by the servant on tip-toe. did the lady in the consulting-room suspect him? or did thomas's shoes creak, and was her sense of hearing unusually keen? whatever the explanation may be, the event that actually happened was beyond all doubt. exactly as doctor wybrow passed his consulting-room, the door opened--the lady appeared on the threshold--and laid her hand on his arm. 'i entreat you, sir, not to go away without letting me speak to you first.' the accent was foreign; the tone was low and firm. her fingers closed gently, and yet resolutely, on the doctor's arm. neither her language nor her action had the slightest effect in inclining him to grant her request. the influence that instantly stopped him, on the way to his carriage, was the silent influence of her face. the startling contrast between the corpse-like pallor of her complexion and the overpowering life and light, the glittering metallic brightness in her large black eyes, held him literally spell-bound. she was dressed in dark colours, with perfect taste; she was of middle height, and (apparently) of middle age--say a year or two over thirty. her lower features--the nose, mouth, and chin--possessed the fineness and delicacy of form which is oftener seen among women of foreign races than among women of english birth. she was unquestionably a handsome person--with the one serious drawback of her ghastly complexion, and with the less noticeable defect of a total want of tenderness in the expression of her eyes. apart from his first emotion of surprise, the feeling she produced in the doctor may be described as an overpowering feeling of professional curiosity. the case might prove to be something entirely new in his professional experience. 'it looks like it,' he thought; 'and it's worth waiting for.' she perceived that she had produced a strong impression of some kind upon him, and dropped her hold on his arm. 'you have comforted many miserable women in your time,' she said. 'comfort one more, to-day.' without waiting to be answered, she led the way back into the room. the doctor followed her, and closed the door. he placed her in the patients' chair, opposite the windows. even in london the sun, on that summer afternoon, was dazzlingly bright. the radiant light flowed in on her. her eyes met it unflinchingly, with the steely steadiness of the eyes of an eagle. the smooth pallor of her unwrinkled skin looked more fearfully white than ever. for the first time, for many a long year past, the doctor felt his pulse quicken its beat in the presence of a patient. having possessed herself of his attention, she appeared, strangely enough, to have nothing to say to him. a curious apathy seemed to have taken possession of this resolute woman. forced to speak first, the doctor merely inquired, in the conventional phrase, what he could do for her. the sound of his voice seemed to rouse her. still looking straight at the light, she said abruptly: 'i have a painful question to ask.' 'what is it?' her eyes travelled slowly from the window to the doctor's face. without the slightest outward appearance of agitation, she put the 'painful question' in these extraordinary words: 'i want to know, if you please, whether i am in danger of going mad?' some men might have been amused, and some might have been alarmed. doctor wybrow was only conscious of a sense of disappointment. was this the rare case that he had anticipated, judging rashly by appearances? was the new patient only a hypochondriacal woman, whose malady was a disordered stomach and whose misfortune was a weak brain? 'why do you come to me?' he asked sharply. 'why don't you consult a doctor whose special employment is the treatment of the insane?' she had her answer ready on the instant. 'i don't go to a doctor of that sort,' she said, 'for the very reason that he is a specialist: he has the fatal habit of judging everybody by lines and rules of his own laying down. i come to you, because my case is outside of all lines and rules, and because you are famous in your profession for the discovery of mysteries in disease. are you satisfied?' he was more than satisfied--his first idea had been the right idea, after all. besides, she was correctly informed as to his professional position. the capacity which had raised him to fame and fortune was his capacity (unrivalled among his brethren) for the discovery of remote disease. 'i am at your disposal,' he answered. 'let me try if i can find out what is the matter with you.' he put his medical questions. they were promptly and plainly answered; and they led to no other conclusion than that the strange lady was, mentally and physically, in excellent health. not satisfied with questions, he carefully examined the great organs of life. neither his hand nor his stethoscope could discover anything that was amiss. with the admirable patience and devotion to his art which had distinguished him from the time when he was a student, he still subjected her to one test after another. the result was always the same. not only was there no tendency to brain disease--there was not even a perceptible derangement of the nervous system. 'i can find nothing the matter with you,' he said. 'i can't even account for the extraordinary pallor of your complexion. you completely puzzle me.' 'the pallor of my complexion is nothing,' she answered a little impatiently. 'in my early life i had a narrow escape from death by poisoning. i have never had a complexion since--and my skin is so delicate, i cannot paint without producing a hideous rash. but that is of no importance. i wanted your opinion given positively. i believed in you, and you have disappointed me.' her head dropped on her breast. 'and so it ends!' she said to herself bitterly. the doctor's sympathies were touched. perhaps it might be more correct to say that his professional pride was a little hurt. 'it may end in the right way yet,' he remarked, 'if you choose to help me.' she looked up again with flashing eyes, 'speak plainly,' she said. 'how can i help you?' 'plainly, madam, you come to me as an enigma, and you leave me to make the right guess by the unaided efforts of my art. my art will do much, but not all. for example, something must have occurred--something quite unconnected with the state of your bodily health--to frighten you about yourself, or you would never have come here to consult me. is that true?' she clasped her hands in her lap. 'that is true!' she said eagerly. 'i begin to believe in you again.' 'very well. you can't expect me to find out the moral cause which has alarmed you. i can positively discover that there is no physical cause of alarm; and (unless you admit me to your confidence) i can do no more.' she rose, and took a turn in the room. 'suppose i tell you?' she said. 'but, mind, i shall mention no names!' 'there is no need to mention names. the facts are all i want.' 'the facts are nothing,' she rejoined. 'i have only my own impressions to confess--and you will very likely think me a fanciful fool when you hear what they are. no matter. i will do my best to content you--i will begin with the facts that you want. take my word for it, they won't do much to help you.' she sat down again. in the plainest possible words, she began the strangest and wildest confession that had ever reached the doctor's ears. chapter ii 'it is one fact, sir, that i am a widow,' she said. 'it is another fact, that i am going to be married again.' there she paused, and smiled at some thought that occurred to her. doctor wybrow was not favourably impressed by her smile--there was something at once sad and cruel in it. it came slowly, and it went away suddenly. he began to doubt whether he had been wise in acting on his first impression. his mind reverted to the commonplace patients and the discoverable maladies that were waiting for him, with a certain tender regret. the lady went on. 'my approaching marriage,' she said, 'has one embarrassing circumstance connected with it. the gentleman whose wife i am to be, was engaged to another lady when he happened to meet with me, abroad: that lady, mind, being of his own blood and family, related to him as his cousin. i have innocently robbed her of her lover, and destroyed her prospects in life. innocently, i say--because he told me nothing of his engagement until after i had accepted him. when we next met in england--and when there was danger, no doubt, of the affair coming to my knowledge--he told me the truth. i was naturally indignant. he had his excuse ready; he showed me a letter from the lady herself, releasing him from his engagement. a more noble, a more high-minded letter, i never read in my life. i cried over it--i who have no tears in me for sorrows of my own! if the letter had left him any hope of being forgiven, i would have positively refused to marry him. but the firmness of it--without anger, without a word of reproach, with heartfelt wishes even for his happiness--the firmness of it, i say, left him no hope. he appealed to my compassion; he appealed to his love for me. you know what women are. i too was soft-hearted--i said, very well: yes! in a week more (i tremble as i think of it) we are to be married.' she did really tremble--she was obliged to pause and compose herself, before she could go on. the doctor, waiting for more facts, began to fear that he stood committed to a long story. 'forgive me for reminding you that i have suffering persons waiting to see me,' he said. 'the sooner you can come to the point, the better for my patients and for me.' the strange smile--at once so sad and so cruel--showed itself again on the lady's lips. 'every word i have said is to the point,' she answered. 'you will see it yourself in a moment more.' she resumed her narrative. 'yesterday--you need fear no long story, sir; only yesterday--i was among the visitors at one of your english luncheon parties. a lady, a perfect stranger to me, came in late--after we had left the table, and had retired to the drawing-room. she happened to take a chair near me; and we were presented to each other. i knew her by name, as she knew me. it was the woman whom i had robbed of her lover, the woman who had written the noble letter. now listen! you were impatient with me for not interesting you in what i said just now. i said it to satisfy your mind that i had no enmity of feeling towards the lady, on my side. i admired her, i felt for her--i had no cause to reproach myself. this is very important, as you will presently see. on her side, i have reason to be assured that the circumstances had been truly explained to her, and that she understood i was in no way to blame. now, knowing all these necessary things as you do, explain to me, if you can, why, when i rose and met that woman's eyes looking at me, i turned cold from head to foot, and shuddered, and shivered, and knew what a deadly panic of fear was, for the first time in my life.' the doctor began to feel interested at last. 'was there anything remarkable in the lady's personal appearance?' he asked. 'nothing whatever!' was the vehement reply. 'here is the true description of her:--the ordinary english lady; the clear cold blue eyes, the fine rosy complexion, the inanimately polite manner, the large good-humoured mouth, the too plump cheeks and chin: these, and nothing more.' 'was there anything in her expression, when you first looked at her, that took you by surprise?' 'there was natural curiosity to see the woman who had been preferred to her; and perhaps some astonishment also, not to see a more engaging and more beautiful person; both those feelings restrained within the limits of good breeding, and both not lasting for more than a few moments--so far as i could see. i say, "so far," because the horrible agitation that she communicated to me disturbed my judgment. if i could have got to the door, i would have run out of the room, she frightened me so! i was not even able to stand up--i sank back in my chair; i stared horror-struck at the calm blue eyes that were only looking at me with a gentle surprise. to say they affected me like the eyes of a serpent is to say nothing. i felt her soul in them, looking into mine--looking, if such a thing can be, unconsciously to her own mortal self. i tell you my impression, in all its horror and in all its folly! that woman is destined (without knowing it herself) to be the evil genius of my life. her innocent eyes saw hidden capabilities of wickedness in me that i was not aware of myself, until i felt them stirring under her look. if i commit faults in my life to come--if i am even guilty of crimes--she will bring the retribution, without (as i firmly believe) any conscious exercise of her own will. in one indescribable moment i felt all this--and i suppose my face showed it. the good artless creature was inspired by a sort of gentle alarm for me. "i am afraid the heat of the room is too much for you; will you try my smelling bottle?" i heard her say those kind words; and i remember nothing else--i fainted. when i recovered my senses, the company had all gone; only the lady of the house was with me. for the moment i could say nothing to her; the dreadful impression that i have tried to describe to you came back to me with the coming back of my life. as soon i could speak, i implored her to tell me the whole truth about the woman whom i had supplanted. you see, i had a faint hope that her good character might not really be deserved, that her noble letter was a skilful piece of hypocrisy--in short, that she secretly hated me, and was cunning enough to hide it. no! the lady had been her friend from her girlhood, was as familiar with her as if they had been sisters--knew her positively to be as good, as innocent, as incapable of hating anybody, as the greatest saint that ever lived. my one last hope, that i had only felt an ordinary forewarning of danger in the presence of an ordinary enemy, was a hope destroyed for ever. there was one more effort i could make, and i made it. i went next to the man whom i am to marry. i implored him to release me from my promise. he refused. i declared i would break my engagement. he showed me letters from his sisters, letters from his brothers, and his dear friends--all entreating him to think again before he made me his wife; all repeating reports of me in paris, vienna, and london, which are so many vile lies. "if you refuse to marry me," he said, "you admit that these reports are true--you admit that you are afraid to face society in the character of my wife." what could i answer? there was no contradicting him--he was plainly right: if i persisted in my refusal, the utter destruction of my reputation would be the result. i consented to let the wedding take place as we had arranged it--and left him. the night has passed. i am here, with my fixed conviction--that innocent woman is ordained to have a fatal influence over my life. i am here with my one question to put, to the one man who can answer it. for the last time, sir, what am i--a demon who has seen the avenging angel? or only a poor mad woman, misled by the delusion of a deranged mind?' doctor wybrow rose from his chair, determined to close the interview. he was strongly and painfully impressed by what he had heard. the longer he had listened to her, the more irresistibly the conviction of the woman's wickedness had forced itself on him. he tried vainly to think of her as a person to be pitied--a person with a morbidly sensitive imagination, conscious of the capacities for evil which lie dormant in us all, and striving earnestly to open her heart to the counter-influence of her own better nature; the effort was beyond him. a perverse instinct in him said, as if in words, beware how you believe in her! 'i have already given you my opinion,' he said. 'there is no sign of your intellect being deranged, or being likely to be deranged, that medical science can discover--as i understand it. as for the impressions you have confided to me, i can only say that yours is a case (as i venture to think) for spiritual rather than for medical advice. of one thing be assured: what you have said to me in this room shall not pass out of it. your confession is safe in my keeping.' she heard him, with a certain dogged resignation, to the end. 'is that all?' she asked. 'that is all,' he answered. she put a little paper packet of money on the table. 'thank you, sir. there is your fee.' with those words she rose. her wild black eyes looked upward, with an expression of despair so defiant and so horrible in its silent agony that the doctor turned away his head, unable to endure the sight of it. the bare idea of taking anything from her--not money only, but anything even that she had touched--suddenly revolted him. still without looking at her, he said, 'take it back; i don't want my fee.' she neither heeded nor heard him. still looking upward, she said slowly to herself, 'let the end come. i have done with the struggle: i submit.' she drew her veil over her face, bowed to the doctor, and left the room. he rang the bell, and followed her into the hall. as the servant closed the door on her, a sudden impulse of curiosity--utterly unworthy of him, and at the same time utterly irresistible--sprang up in the doctor's mind. blushing like a boy, he said to the servant, 'follow her home, and find out her name.' for one moment the man looked at his master, doubting if his own ears had not deceived him. doctor wybrow looked back at him in silence. the submissive servant knew what that silence meant--he took his hat and hurried into the street. the doctor went back to the consulting-room. a sudden revulsion of feeling swept over his mind. had the woman left an infection of wickedness in the house, and had he caught it? what devil had possessed him to degrade himself in the eyes of his own servant? he had behaved infamously--he had asked an honest man, a man who had served him faithfully for years, to turn spy! stung by the bare thought of it, he ran out into the hall again, and opened the door. the servant had disappeared; it was too late to call him back. but one refuge from his contempt for himself was now open to him--the refuge of work. he got into his carriage and went his rounds among his patients. if the famous physician could have shaken his own reputation, he would have done it that afternoon. never before had he made himself so little welcome at the bedside. never before had he put off until to-morrow the prescription which ought to have been written, the opinion which ought to have been given, to-day. he went home earlier than usual--unutterably dissatisfied with himself. the servant had returned. dr. wybrow was ashamed to question him. the man reported the result of his errand, without waiting to be asked. 'the lady's name is the countess narona. she lives at--' without waiting to hear where she lived, the doctor acknowledged the all-important discovery of her name by a silent bend of the head, and entered his consulting-room. the fee that he had vainly refused still lay in its little white paper covering on the table. he sealed it up in an envelope; addressed it to the 'poor-box' of the nearest police-court; and, calling the servant in, directed him to take it to the magistrate the next morning. faithful to his duties, the servant waited to ask the customary question, 'do you dine at home to-day, sir?' after a moment's hesitation he said, 'no: i shall dine at the club.' the most easily deteriorated of all the moral qualities is the quality called 'conscience.' in one state of a man's mind, his conscience is the severest judge that can pass sentence on him. in another state, he and his conscience are on the best possible terms with each other in the comfortable capacity of accomplices. when doctor wybrow left his house for the second time, he did not even attempt to conceal from himself that his sole object, in dining at the club, was to hear what the world said of the countess narona. chapter iii there was a time when a man in search of the pleasures of gossip sought the society of ladies. the man knows better now. he goes to the smoking-room of his club. doctor wybrow lit his cigar, and looked round him at his brethren in social conclave assembled. the room was well filled; but the flow of talk was still languid. the doctor innocently applied the stimulant that was wanted. when he inquired if anybody knew the countess narona, he was answered by something like a shout of astonishment. never (the conclave agreed) had such an absurd question been asked before! every human creature, with the slightest claim to a place in society, knew the countess narona. an adventuress with a european reputation of the blackest possible colour--such was the general description of the woman with the deathlike complexion and the glittering eyes. descending to particulars, each member of the club contributed his own little stock of scandal to the memoirs of the countess. it was doubtful whether she was really, what she called herself, a dalmatian lady. it was doubtful whether she had ever been married to the count whose widow she assumed to be. it was doubtful whether the man who accompanied her in her travels (under the name of baron rivar, and in the character of her brother) was her brother at all. report pointed to the baron as a gambler at every 'table' on the continent. report whispered that his so-called sister had narrowly escaped being implicated in a famous trial for poisoning at vienna--that she had been known at milan as a spy in the interests of austria--that her 'apartment' in paris had been denounced to the police as nothing less than a private gambling-house--and that her present appearance in england was the natural result of the discovery. only one member of the assembly in the smoking-room took the part of this much-abused woman, and declared that her character had been most cruelly and most unjustly assailed. but as the man was a lawyer, his interference went for nothing: it was naturally attributed to the spirit of contradiction inherent in his profession. he was asked derisively what he thought of the circumstances under which the countess had become engaged to be married; and he made the characteristic answer, that he thought the circumstances highly creditable to both parties, and that he looked on the lady's future husband as a most enviable man. hearing this, the doctor raised another shout of astonishment by inquiring the name of the gentleman whom the countess was about to marry. his friends in the smoking-room decided unanimously that the celebrated physician must be a second 'rip-van-winkle,' and that he had just awakened from a supernatural sleep of twenty years. it was all very well to say that he was devoted to his profession, and that he had neither time nor inclination to pick up fragments of gossip at dinner-parties and balls. a man who did not know that the countess narona had borrowed money at homburg of no less a person than lord montbarry, and had then deluded him into making her a proposal of marriage, was a man who had probably never heard of lord montbarry himself. the younger members of the club, humouring the joke, sent a waiter for the 'peerage'; and read aloud the memoir of the nobleman in question, for the doctor's benefit--with illustrative morsels of information interpolated by themselves. 'herbert john westwick. first baron montbarry, of montbarry, king's county, ireland. created a peer for distinguished military services in india. born, 1812. forty-eight years old, doctor, at the present time. not married. will be married next week, doctor, to the delightful creature we have been talking about. heir presumptive, his lordship's next brother, stephen robert, married to ella, youngest daughter of the reverend silas marden, rector of runnigate, and has issue, three daughters. younger brothers of his lordship, francis and henry, unmarried. sisters of his lordship, lady barville, married to sir theodore barville, bart.; and anne, widow of the late peter norbury, esq., of norbury cross. bear his lordship's relations well in mind, doctor. three brothers westwick, stephen, francis, and henry; and two sisters, lady barville and mrs. norbury. not one of the five will be present at the marriage; and not one of the five will leave a stone unturned to stop it, if the countess will only give them a chance. add to these hostile members of the family another offended relative not mentioned in the 'peerage,' a young lady--' a sudden outburst of protest in more than one part of the room stopped the coming disclosure, and released the doctor from further persecution. 'don't mention the poor girl's name; it's too bad to make a joke of that part of the business; she has behaved nobly under shameful provocation; there is but one excuse for montbarry--he is either a madman or a fool.' in these terms the protest expressed itself on all sides. speaking confidentially to his next neighbour, the doctor discovered that the lady referred to was already known to him (through the countess's confession) as the lady deserted by lord montbarry. her name was agnes lockwood. she was described as being the superior of the countess in personal attraction, and as being also by some years the younger woman of the two. making all allowance for the follies that men committed every day in their relations with women, montbarry's delusion was still the most monstrous delusion on record. in this expression of opinion every man present agreed--the lawyer even included. not one of them could call to mind the innumerable instances in which the sexual influence has proved irresistible in the persons of women without even the pretension to beauty. the very members of the club whom the countess (in spite of her personal disadvantages) could have most easily fascinated, if she had thought it worth her while, were the members who wondered most loudly at montbarry's choice of a wife. while the topic of the countess's marriage was still the one topic of conversation, a member of the club entered the smoking-room whose appearance instantly produced a dead silence. doctor wybrow's next neighbour whispered to him, 'montbarry's brother--henry westwick!' the new-comer looked round him slowly, with a bitter smile. 'you are all talking of my brother,' he said. 'don't mind me. not one of you can despise him more heartily than i do. go on, gentlemen--go on!' but one man present took the speaker at his word. that man was the lawyer who had already undertaken the defence of the countess. 'i stand alone in my opinion,' he said, 'and i am not ashamed of repeating it in anybody's hearing. i consider the countess narona to be a cruelly-treated woman. why shouldn't she be lord montbarry's wife? who can say she has a mercenary motive in marrying him?' montbarry's brother turned sharply on the speaker. 'i say it!' he answered. the reply might have shaken some men. the lawyer stood on his ground as firmly as ever. 'i believe i am right,' he rejoined, 'in stating that his lordship's income is not more than sufficient to support his station in life; also that it is an income derived almost entirely from landed property in ireland, every acre of which is entailed.' montbarry's brother made a sign, admitting that he had no objection to offer so far. 'if his lordship dies first,' the lawyer proceeded, 'i have been informed that the only provision he can make for his widow consists in a rent-charge on the property of no more than four hundred a year. his retiring pension and allowances, it is well known, die with him. four hundred a year is therefore all that he can leave to the countess, if he leaves her a widow.' 'four hundred a year is not all,' was the reply to this. 'my brother has insured his life for ten thousand pounds; and he has settled the whole of it on the countess, in the event of his death.' this announcement produced a strong sensation. men looked at each other, and repeated the three startling words, 'ten thousand pounds!' driven fairly to the wall, the lawyer made a last effort to defend his position. 'may i ask who made that settlement a condition of the marriage?' he said. 'surely it was not the countess herself?.' henry westwick answered, 'it was the countess's brother'; and added, 'which comes to the same thing.' after that, there was no more to be said--so long, at least, as montbarry's brother was present. the talk flowed into other channels; and the doctor went home. but his morbid curiosity about the countess was not set at rest yet. in his leisure moments he found himself wondering whether lord montbarry's family would succeed in stopping the marriage after all. and more than this, he was conscious of a growing desire to see the infatuated man himself. every day during the brief interval before the wedding, he looked in at the club, on the chance of hearing some news. nothing had happened, so far as the club knew. the countess's position was secure; montbarry's resolution to be her husband was unshaken. they were both roman catholics, and they were to be married at the chapel in spanish place. so much the doctor discovered about them--and no more. on the day of the wedding, after a feeble struggle with himself, he actually sacrificed his patients and their guineas, and slipped away secretly to see the marriage. to the end of his life, he was angry with anybody who reminded him of what he had done on that day! the wedding was strictly private. a close carriage stood at the church door; a few people, mostly of the lower class, and mostly old women, were scattered about the interior of the building. here and there doctor wybrow detected the faces of some of his brethren of the club, attracted by curiosity, like himself. four persons only stood before the altar--the bride and bridegroom and their two witnesses. one of these last was an elderly woman, who might have been the countess's companion or maid; the other was undoubtedly her brother, baron rivar. the bridal party (the bride herself included) wore their ordinary morning costume. lord montbarry, personally viewed, was a middle-aged military man of the ordinary type: nothing in the least remarkable distinguished him either in face or figure. baron rivar, again, in his way was another conventional representative of another well-known type. one sees his finely-pointed moustache, his bold eyes, his crisply-curling hair, and his dashing carriage of the head, repeated hundreds of times over on the boulevards of paris. the only noteworthy point about him was of the negative sort--he was not in the least like his sister. even the officiating priest was only a harmless, humble-looking old man, who went through his duties resignedly, and felt visible rheumatic difficulties every time he bent his knees. the one remarkable person, the countess herself, only raised her veil at the beginning of the ceremony, and presented nothing in her plain dress that was worth a second look. never, on the face of it, was there a less interesting and less romantic marriage than this. from time to time the doctor glanced round at the door or up at the galleries, vaguely anticipating the appearance of some protesting stranger, in possession of some terrible secret, commissioned to forbid the progress of the service. nothing in the shape of an event occurred--nothing extraordinary, nothing dramatic. bound fast together as man and wife, the two disappeared, followed by their witnesses, to sign the registers; and still doctor wybrow waited, and still he cherished the obstinate hope that something worth seeing must certainly happen yet. the interval passed, and the married couple, returning to the church, walked together down the nave to the door. doctor wybrow drew back as they approached. to his confusion and surprise, the countess discovered him. he heard her say to her husband, 'one moment; i see a friend.' lord montbarry bowed and waited. she stepped up to the doctor, took his hand, and wrung it hard. he felt her overpowering black eyes looking at him through her veil. 'one step more, you see, on the way to the end!' she whispered those strange words, and returned to her husband. before the doctor could recover himself and follow her, lord and lady montbarry had stepped into their carriage, and had driven away. outside the church door stood the three or four members of the club who, like doctor wybrow, had watched the ceremony out of curiosity. near them was the bride's brother, waiting alone. he was evidently bent on seeing the man whom his sister had spoken to, in broad daylight. his bold eyes rested on the doctor's face, with a momentary flash of suspicion in them. the cloud suddenly cleared away; the baron smiled with charming courtesy, lifted his hat to his sister's friend, and walked off. the members constituted themselves into a club conclave on the church steps. they began with the baron. 'damned ill-looking rascal!' they went on with montbarry. 'is he going to take that horrid woman with him to ireland?' 'not he! he can't face the tenantry; they know about agnes lockwood.' 'well, but where is he going?' 'to scotland.' 'does she like that?' 'it's only for a fortnight; they come back to london, and go abroad.' 'and they will never return to england, eh?' 'who can tell? did you see how she looked at montbarry, when she had to lift her veil at the beginning of the service? in his place, i should have bolted. did you see her, doctor?' by this time, doctor wybrow had remembered his patients, and had heard enough of the club gossip. he followed the example of baron rivar, and walked off. 'one step more, you see, on the way to the end,' he repeated to himself, on his way home. 'what end?' chapter iv on the day of the marriage agnes lockwood sat alone in the little drawing-room of her london lodgings, burning the letters which had been written to her by montbarry in the bygone time. the countess's maliciously smart description of her, addressed to doctor wybrow, had not even hinted at the charm that most distinguished agnes--the artless expression of goodness and purity which instantly attracted everyone who approached her. she looked by many years younger than she really was. with her fair complexion and her shy manner, it seemed only natural to speak of her as 'a girl,' although she was now really advancing towards thirty years of age. she lived alone with an old nurse devoted to her, on a modest little income which was just enough to support the two. there were none of the ordinary signs of grief in her face, as she slowly tore the letters of her false lover in two, and threw the pieces into the small fire which had been lit to consume them. unhappily for herself, she was one of those women who feel too deeply to find relief in tears. pale and quiet, with cold trembling fingers, she destroyed the letters one by one without daring to read them again. she had torn the last of the series, and was still shrinking from throwing it after the rest into the swiftly destroying flame, when the old nurse came in, and asked if she would see 'master henry,'--meaning that youngest member of the westwick family, who had publicly declared his contempt for his brother in the smoking-room of the club. agnes hesitated. a faint tinge of colour stole over her face. there had been a long past time when henry westwick had owned that he loved her. she had made her confession to him, acknowledging that her heart was given to his eldest brother. he had submitted to his disappointment; and they had met thenceforth as cousins and friends. never before had she associated the idea of him with embarrassing recollections. but now, on the very day when his brother's marriage to another woman had consummated his brother's treason towards her, there was something vaguely repellent in the prospect of seeing him. the old nurse (who remembered them both in their cradles) observed her hesitation; and sympathising of course with the man, put in a timely word for henry. 'he says, he's going away, my dear; and he only wants to shake hands, and say good-bye.' this plain statement of the case had its effect. agnes decided on receiving her cousin. he entered the room so rapidly that he surprised her in the act of throwing the fragments of montbarry's last letter into the fire. she hurriedly spoke first. 'you are leaving london very suddenly, henry. is it business? or pleasure?' instead of answering her, he pointed to the flaming letter, and to some black ashes of burnt paper lying lightly in the lower part of the fireplace. 'are you burning letters?' 'yes.' 'his letters?' 'yes.' he took her hand gently. 'i had no idea i was intruding on you, at a time when you must wish to be alone. forgive me, agnes--i shall see you when i return.' she signed to him, with a faint smile, to take a chair. 'we have known one another since we were children,' she said. 'why should i feel a foolish pride about myself in your presence? why should i have any secrets from you? i sent back all your brother's gifts to me some time ago. i have been advised to do more, to keep nothing that can remind me of him--in short, to burn his letters. i have taken the advice; but i own i shrank a little from destroying the last of the letters. no--not because it was the last, but because it had this in it.' she opened her hand, and showed him a lock of montbarry's hair, tied with a morsel of golden cord. 'well! well! let it go with the rest.' she dropped it into the flame. for a while, she stood with her back to henry, leaning on the mantel-piece, and looking into the fire. he took the chair to which she had pointed, with a strange contradiction of expression in his face: the tears were in his eyes, while the brows above were knit close in an angry frown. he muttered to himself, 'damn him!' she rallied her courage, and looked at him again when she spoke. 'well, henry, and why are you going away?' 'i am out of spirits, agnes, and i want a change.' she paused before she spoke again. his face told her plainly that he was thinking of her when he made that reply. she was grateful to him, but her mind was not with him: her mind was still with the man who had deserted her. she turned round again to the fire. 'is it true,' she asked, after a long silence, 'that they have been married to-day?' he answered ungraciously in the one necessary word:--'yes.' 'did you go to the church?' he resented the question with an expression of indignant surprise. 'go to the church?' he repeated. 'i would as soon go to--' he checked himself there. 'how can you ask?' he added in lower tones. 'i have never spoken to montbarry, i have not even seen him, since he treated you like the scoundrel and the fool that he is.' she looked at him suddenly, without saying a word. he understood her, and begged her pardon. but he was still angry. 'the reckoning comes to some men,' he said, 'even in this world. he will live to rue the day when he married that woman!' agnes took a chair by his side, and looked at him with a gentle surprise. 'is it quite reasonable to be so angry with her, because your brother preferred her to me?' she asked. henry turned on her sharply. 'do you defend the countess, of all the people in the world?' 'why not?' agnes answered. 'i know nothing against her. on the only occasion when we met, she appeared to be a singularly timid, nervous person, looking dreadfully ill; and being indeed so ill that she fainted under the heat of my room. why should we not do her justice? we know that she was innocent of any intention to wrong me; we know that she was not aware of my engagement--' henry lifted his hand impatiently, and stopped her. 'there is such a thing as being too just and too forgiving!' he interposed. 'i can't bear to hear you talk in that patient way, after the scandalously cruel manner in which you have been treated. try to forget them both, agnes. i wish to god i could help you to do it!' agnes laid her hand on his arm. 'you are very good to me, henry; but you don't quite understand me. i was thinking of myself and my trouble in quite a different way, when you came in. i was wondering whether anything which has so entirely filled my heart, and so absorbed all that is best and truest in me, as my feeling for your brother, can really pass away as if it had never existed. i have destroyed the last visible things that remind me of him. in this world i shall see him no more. but is the tie that once bound us, completely broken? am i as entirely parted from the good and evil fortune of his life as if we had never met and never loved? what do you think, henry? i can hardly believe it.' 'if you could bring the retribution on him that he has deserved,' henry westwick answered sternly, 'i might be inclined to agree with you.' as that reply passed his lips, the old nurse appeared again at the door, announcing another visitor. 'i'm sorry to disturb you, my dear. but here is little mrs. ferrari wanting to know when she may say a few words to you.' agnes turned to henry, before she replied. 'you remember emily bidwell, my favourite pupil years ago at the village school, and afterwards my maid? she left me, to marry an italian courier, named ferrari--and i am afraid it has not turned out very well. do you mind my having her in here for a minute or two?' henry rose to take his leave. 'i should be glad to see emily again at any other time,' he said. 'but it is best that i should go now. my mind is disturbed, agnes; i might say things to you, if i stayed here any longer, which--which are better not said now. i shall cross the channel by the mail to-night, and see how a few weeks' change will help me.' he took her hand. 'is there anything in the world that i can do for you?' he asked very earnestly. she thanked him, and tried to release her hand. he held it with a tremulous lingering grasp. 'god bless you, agnes!' he said in faltering tones, with his eyes on the ground. her face flushed again, and the next instant turned paler than ever; she knew his heart as well as he knew it himself--she was too distressed to speak. he lifted her hand to his lips, kissed it fervently, and, without looking at her again, left the room. the nurse hobbled after him to the head of the stairs: she had not forgotten the time when the younger brother had been the unsuccessful rival of the elder for the hand of agnes. 'don't be down-hearted, master henry,' whispered the old woman, with the unscrupulous common sense of persons in the lower rank of life. 'try her again, when you come back!' left alone for a few moments, agnes took a turn in the room, trying to compose herself. she paused before a little water-colour drawing on the wall, which had belonged to her mother: it was her own portrait when she was a child. 'how much happier we should be,' she thought to herself sadly, 'if we never grew up!' the courier's wife was shown in--a little meek melancholy woman, with white eyelashes, and watery eyes, who curtseyed deferentially and was troubled with a small chronic cough. agnes shook hands with her kindly. 'well, emily, what can i do for you?' the courier's wife made rather a strange answer: 'i'm afraid to tell you, miss.' 'is it such a very difficult favour to grant? sit down, and let me hear how you are going on. perhaps the petition will slip out while we are talking. how does your husband behave to you?' emily's light grey eyes looked more watery than ever. she shook her head and sighed resignedly. 'i have no positive complaint to make against him, miss. but i'm afraid he doesn't care about me; and he seems to take no interest in his home--i may almost say he's tired of his home. it might be better for both of us, miss, if he went travelling for a while--not to mention the money, which is beginning to be wanted sadly.' she put her handkerchief to her eyes, and sighed again more resignedly than ever. 'i don't quite understand,' said agnes. 'i thought your husband had an engagement to take some ladies to switzerland and italy?' 'that was his ill-luck, miss. one of the ladies fell ill--and the others wouldn't go without her. they paid him a month's salary as compensation. but they had engaged him for the autumn and winter--and the loss is serious.' 'i am sorry to hear it, emily. let us hope he will soon have another chance.' 'it's not his turn, miss, to be recommended when the next applications come to the couriers' office. you see, there are so many of them out of employment just now. if he could be privately recommended--' she stopped, and left the unfinished sentence to speak for itself. agnes understood her directly. 'you want my recommendation,' she rejoined. 'why couldn't you say so at once?' emily blushed. 'it would be such a chance for my husband,' she answered confusedly. 'a letter, inquiring for a good courier (a six months' engagement, miss!) came to the office this morning. it's another man's turn to be chosen--and the secretary will recommend him. if my husband could only send his testimonials by the same post--with just a word in your name, miss--it might turn the scale, as they say. a private recommendation between gentlefolks goes so far.' she stopped again, and sighed again, and looked down at the carpet, as if she had some private reason for feeling a little ashamed of herself. agnes began to be rather weary of the persistent tone of mystery in which her visitor spoke. 'if you want my interest with any friend of mine,' she said, 'why can't you tell me the name?' the courier's wife began to cry. 'i'm ashamed to tell you, miss.' for the first time, agnes spoke sharply. 'nonsense, emily! tell me the name directly--or drop the subject--whichever you like best.' emily made a last desperate effort. she wrung her handkerchief hard in her lap, and let off the name as if she had been letting off a loaded gun:--'lord montbarry!' agnes rose and looked at her. 'you have disappointed me,' she said very quietly, but with a look which the courier's wife had never seen in her face before. 'knowing what you know, you ought to be aware that it is impossible for me to communicate with lord montbarry. i always supposed you had some delicacy of feeling. i am sorry to find that i have been mistaken.' weak as she was, emily had spirit enough to feel the reproof. she walked in her meek noiseless way to the door. 'i beg your pardon, miss. i am not quite so bad as you think me. but i beg your pardon, all the same.' she opened the door. agnes called her back. there was something in the woman's apology that appealed irresistibly to her just and generous nature. 'come,' she said; 'we must not part in this way. let me not misunderstand you. what is it that you expected me to do?' emily was wise enough to answer this time without any reserve. 'my husband will send his testimonials, miss, to lord montbarry in scotland. i only wanted you to let him say in his letter that his wife has been known to you since she was a child, and that you feel some little interest in his welfare on that account. i don't ask it now, miss. you have made me understand that i was wrong.' had she really been wrong? past remembrances, as well as present troubles, pleaded powerfully with agnes for the courier's wife. 'it seems only a small favour to ask,' she said, speaking under the impulse of kindness which was the strongest impulse in her nature. 'but i am not sure that i ought to allow my name to be mentioned in your husband's letter. let me hear again exactly what he wishes to say.' emily repeated the words--and then offered one of those suggestions, which have a special value of their own to persons unaccustomed to the use of their pens. 'suppose you try, miss, how it looks in writing?' childish as the idea was, agnes tried the experiment. 'if i let you mention me,' she said, 'we must at least decide what you are to say.' she wrote the words in the briefest and plainest form:--'i venture to state that my wife has been known from her childhood to miss agnes lockwood, who feels some little interest in my welfare on that account.' reduced to this one sentence, there was surely nothing in the reference to her name which implied that agnes had permitted it, or that she was even aware of it. after a last struggle with herself, she handed the written paper to emily. 'your husband must copy it exactly, without altering anything,' she stipulated. 'on that condition, i grant your request.' emily was not only thankful--she was really touched. agnes hurried the little woman out of the room. 'don't give me time to repent and take it back again,' she said. emily vanished. 'is the tie that once bound us completely broken? am i as entirely parted from the good and evil fortune of his life as if we had never met and never loved?' agnes looked at the clock on the mantel-piece. not ten minutes since, those serious questions had been on her lips. it almost shocked her to think of the common-place manner in which they had already met with their reply. the mail of that night would appeal once more to montbarry's remembrance of her--in the choice of a servant. two days later, the post brought a few grateful lines from emily. her husband had got the place. ferrari was engaged, for six months certain, as lord montbarry's courier. the second part chapter v after only one week of travelling in scotland, my lord and my lady returned unexpectedly to london. introduced to the mountains and lakes of the highlands, her ladyship positively declined to improve her acquaintance with them. when she was asked for her reason, she answered with a roman brevity, 'i have seen switzerland.' for a week more, the newly-married couple remained in london, in the strictest retirement. on one day in that week the nurse returned in a state of most uncustomary excitement from an errand on which agnes had sent her. passing the door of a fashionable dentist, she had met lord montbarry himself just leaving the house. the good woman's report described him, with malicious pleasure, as looking wretchedly ill. 'his cheeks are getting hollow, my dear, and his beard is turning grey. i hope the dentist hurt him!' knowing how heartily her faithful old servant hated the man who had deserted her, agnes made due allowance for a large infusion of exaggeration in the picture presented to her. the main impression produced on her mind was an impression of nervous uneasiness. if she trusted herself in the streets by daylight while lord montbarry remained in london, how could she be sure that his next chance-meeting might not be a meeting with herself? she waited at home, privately ashamed of her own undignified conduct, for the next two days. on the third day the fashionable intelligence of the newspapers announced the departure of lord and lady montbarry for paris, on their way to italy. mrs. ferrari, calling the same evening, informed agnes that her husband had left her with all reasonable expression of conjugal kindness; his temper being improved by the prospect of going abroad. but one other servant accompanied the travellers--lady montbarry's maid, rather a silent, unsociable woman, so far as emily had heard. her ladyship's brother, baron rivar, was already on the continent. it had been arranged that he was to meet his sister and her husband at rome. one by one the dull weeks succeeded each other in the life of agnes. she faced her position with admirable courage, seeing her friends, keeping herself occupied in her leisure hours with reading and drawing, leaving no means untried of diverting her mind from the melancholy remembrance of the past. but she had loved too faithfully, she had been wounded too deeply, to feel in any adequate degree the influence of the moral remedies which she employed. persons who met with her in the ordinary relations of life, deceived by her outward serenity of manner, agreed that 'miss lockwood seemed to be getting over her disappointment.' but an old friend and school companion who happened to see her during a brief visit to london, was inexpressibly distressed by the change that she detected in agnes. this lady was mrs. westwick, the wife of that brother of lord montbarry who came next to him in age, and who was described in the 'peerage' as presumptive heir to the title. he was then away, looking after his interests in some mining property which he possessed in america. mrs. westwick insisted on taking agnes back with her to her home in ireland. 'come and keep me company while my husband is away. my three little girls will make you their playfellow, and the only stranger you will meet is the governess, whom i answer for your liking beforehand. pack up your things, and i will call for you to-morrow on my way to the train.' in those hearty terms the invitation was given. agnes thankfully accepted it. for three happy months she lived under the roof of her friend. the girls hung round her in tears at her departure; the youngest of them wanted to go back with agnes to london. half in jest, half in earnest, she said to her old friend at parting, 'if your governess leaves you, keep the place open for me.' mrs. westwick laughed. the wiser children took it seriously, and promised to let agnes know. on the very day when miss lockwood returned to london, she was recalled to those associations with the past which she was most anxious to forget. after the first kissings and greetings were over, the old nurse (who had been left in charge at the lodgings) had some startling information to communicate, derived from the courier's wife. 'here has been little mrs. ferrari, my dear, in a dreadful state of mind, inquiring when you would be back. her husband has left lord montbarry, without a word of warning--and nobody knows what has become of him.' agnes looked at her in astonishment. 'are you sure of what you are saying?' she asked. the nurse was quite sure. 'why, lord bless you! the news comes from the couriers' office in golden square--from the secretary, miss agnes, the secretary himself!' hearing this, agnes began to feel alarmed as well as surprised. it was still early in the evening. she at once sent a message to mrs. ferrari, to say that she had returned. in an hour more the courier's wife appeared, in a state of agitation which it was not easy to control. her narrative, when she was at last able to speak connectedly, entirely confirmed the nurse's report of it. after hearing from her husband with tolerable regularity from paris, rome, and venice, emily had twice written to him afterwards--and had received no reply. feeling uneasy, she had gone to the office in golden square, to inquire if he had been heard of there. the post of the morning had brought a letter to the secretary from a courier then at venice. it contained startling news of ferrari. his wife had been allowed to take a copy of it, which she now handed to agnes to read. the writer stated that he had recently arrived in venice. he had previously heard that ferrari was with lord and lady montbarry, at one of the old venetian palaces which they had hired for a term. being a friend of ferrari, he had gone to pay him a visit. ringing at the door that opened on the canal, and failing to make anyone hear him, he had gone round to a side entrance opening on one of the narrow lanes of venice. here, standing at the door (as if she was waiting for him to try that way next), he found a pale woman with magnificent dark eyes, who proved to be no other than lady montbarry herself. she asked, in italian, what he wanted. he answered that he wanted to see the courier ferrari, if it was quite convenient. she at once informed him that ferrari had left the palace, without assigning any reason, and without even leaving an address at which his monthly salary (then due to him) could be paid. amazed at this reply, the courier inquired if any person had offended ferrari, or quarrelled with him. the lady answered, 'to my knowledge, certainly not. i am lady montbarry; and i can positively assure you that ferrari was treated with the greatest kindness in this house. we are as much astonished as you are at his extraordinary disappearance. if you should hear of him, pray let us know, so that we may at least pay him the money which is due.' after one or two more questions (quite readily answered) relating to the date and the time of day at which ferrari had left the palace, the courier took his leave. he at once entered on the necessary investigations--without the slightest result so far as ferrari was concerned. nobody had seen him. nobody appeared to have been taken into his confidence. nobody knew anything (that is to say, anything of the slightest importance) even about persons so distinguished as lord and lady montbarry. it was reported that her ladyship's english maid had left her, before the disappearance of ferrari, to return to her relatives in her own country, and that lady montbarry had taken no steps to supply her place. his lordship was described as being in delicate health. he lived in the strictest retirement--nobody was admitted to him, not even his own countrymen. a stupid old woman was discovered who did the housework at the palace, arriving in the morning and going away again at night. she had never seen the lost courier--she had never even seen lord montbarry, who was then confined to his room. her ladyship, 'a most gracious and adorable mistress,' was in constant attendance on her noble husband. there was no other servant then in the house (so far as the old woman knew) but herself. the meals were sent in from a restaurant. my lord, it was said, disliked strangers. my lord's brother-in-law, the baron, was generally shut up in a remote part of the palace, occupied (the gracious mistress said) with experiments in chemistry. the experiments sometimes made a nasty smell. a doctor had latterly been called in to his lordship--an italian doctor, long resident in venice. inquiries being addressed to this gentleman (a physician of undoubted capacity and respectability), it turned out that he also had never seen ferrari, having been summoned to the palace (as his memorandum book showed) at a date subsequent to the courier's disappearance. the doctor described lord montbarry's malady as bronchitis. so far, there was no reason to feel any anxiety, though the attack was a sharp one. if alarming symptoms should appear, he had arranged with her ladyship to call in another physician. for the rest, it was impossible to speak too highly of my lady; night and day, she was at her lord's bedside. with these particulars began and ended the discoveries made by ferrari's courier-friend. the police were on the look-out for the lost man--and that was the only hope which could be held forth for the present, to ferrari's wife. 'what do you think of it, miss?' the poor woman asked eagerly. 'what would you advise me to do?' agnes was at a loss how to answer her; it was an effort even to listen to what emily was saying. the references in the courier's letter to montbarry--the report of his illness, the melancholy picture of his secluded life--had reopened the old wound. she was not even thinking of the lost ferrari; her mind was at venice, by the sick man's bedside. 'i hardly know what to say,' she answered. 'i have had no experience in serious matters of this kind.' 'do you think it would help you, miss, if you read my husband's letters to me? there are only three of them--they won't take long to read.' agnes compassionately read the letters. they were not written in a very tender tone. 'dear emily,' and 'yours affectionately'--these conventional phrases, were the only phrases of endearment which they contained. in the first letter, lord montbarry was not very favourably spoken of:--'we leave paris to-morrow. i don't much like my lord. he is proud and cold, and, between ourselves, stingy in money matters. i have had to dispute such trifles as a few centimes in the hotel bill; and twice already, some sharp remarks have passed between the newly-married couple, in consequence of her ladyship's freedom in purchasing pretty tempting things at the shops in paris. "i can't afford it; you must keep to your allowance." she has had to hear those words already. for my part, i like her. she has the nice, easy foreign manners--she talks to me as if i was a human being like herself.' the second letter was dated from rome. 'my lord's caprices' (ferrari wrote) 'have kept us perpetually on the move. he is becoming incurably restless. i suspect he is uneasy in his mind. painful recollections, i should say--i find him constantly reading old letters, when her ladyship is not present. we were to have stopped at genoa, but he hurried us on. the same thing at florence. here, at rome, my lady insists on resting. her brother has met us at this place. there has been a quarrel already (the lady's maid tells me) between my lord and the baron. the latter wanted to borrow money of the former. his lordship refused in language which offended baron rivar. my lady pacified them, and made them shake hands.' the third, and last letter, was from venice. 'more of my lord's economy! instead of staying at the hotel, we have hired a damp, mouldy, rambling old palace. my lady insists on having the best suites of rooms wherever we go--and the palace comes cheaper for a two months' term. my lord tried to get it for longer; he says the quiet of venice is good for his nerves. but a foreign speculator has secured the palace, and is going to turn it into an hotel. the baron is still with us, and there have been more disagreements about money matters. i don't like the baron--and i don't find the attractions of my lady grow on me. she was much nicer before the baron joined us. my lord is a punctual paymaster; it's a matter of honour with him; he hates parting with his money, but he does it because he has given his word. i receive my salary regularly at the end of each month--not a franc extra, though i have done many things which are not part of a courier's proper work. fancy the baron trying to borrow money of me! he is an inveterate gambler. i didn't believe it when my lady's maid first told me so--but i have seen enough since to satisfy me that she was right. i have seen other things besides, which--well! which don't increase my respect for my lady and the baron. the maid says she means to give warning to leave. she is a respectable british female, and doesn't take things quite so easily as i do. it is a dull life here. no going into company--no company at home--not a creature sees my lord--not even the consul, or the banker. when he goes out, he goes alone, and generally towards nightfall. indoors, he shuts himself up in his own room with his books, and sees as little of his wife and the baron as possible. i fancy things are coming to a crisis here. if my lord's suspicions are once awakened, the consequences will be terrible. under certain provocations, the noble montbarry is a man who would stick at nothing. however, the pay is good--and i can't afford to talk of leaving the place, like my lady's maid.' agnes handed back the letters--so suggestive of the penalty paid already for his own infatuation by the man who had deserted her!--with feelings of shame and distress, which made her no fit counsellor for the helpless woman who depended on her advice. 'the one thing i can suggest,' she said, after first speaking some kind words of comfort and hope, 'is that we should consult a person of greater experience than ours. suppose i write and ask my lawyer (who is also my friend and trustee) to come and advise us to-morrow after his business hours?' emily eagerly and gratefully accepted the suggestion. an hour was arranged for the meeting on the next day; the correspondence was left under the care of agnes; and the courier's wife took her leave. weary and heartsick, agnes lay down on the sofa, to rest and compose herself. the careful nurse brought in a reviving cup of tea. her quaint gossip about herself and her occupations while agnes had been away, acted as a relief to her mistress's overburdened mind. they were still talking quietly, when they were startled by a loud knock at the house door. hurried footsteps ascended the stairs. the door of the sitting-room was thrown open violently; the courier's wife rushed in like a mad woman. 'he's dead! they've murdered him!' those wild words were all she could say. she dropped on her knees at the foot of the sofa--held out her hand with something clasped in it--and fell back in a swoon. the nurse, signing to agnes to open the window, took the necessary measures to restore the fainting woman. 'what's this?' she exclaimed. 'here's a letter in her hand. see what it is, miss.' the open envelope was addressed (evidently in a feigned hand-writing) to 'mrs. ferrari.' the post-mark was 'venice.' the contents of the envelope were a sheet of foreign note-paper, and a folded enclosure. on the note-paper, one line only was written. it was again in a feigned handwriting, and it contained these words: 'to console you for the loss of your husband' agnes opened the enclosure next. it was a bank of england note for a thousand pounds. chapter vi the next day, the friend and legal adviser of agnes lockwood, mr. troy, called on her by appointment in the evening. mrs. ferrari--still persisting in the conviction of her husband's death--had sufficiently recovered to be present at the consultation. assisted by agnes, she told the lawyer the little that was known relating to ferrari's disappearance, and then produced the correspondence connected with that event. mr. troy read (first) the three letters addressed by ferrari to his wife; (secondly) the letter written by ferrari's courier-friend, describing his visit to the palace and his interview with lady montbarry; and (thirdly) the one line of anonymous writing which had accompanied the extraordinary gift of a thousand pounds to ferrari's wife. well known, at a later period, as the lawyer who acted for lady lydiard, in the case of theft, generally described as the case of 'my lady's money,' mr. troy was not only a man of learning and experience in his profession--he was also a man who had seen something of society at home and abroad. he possessed a keen eye for character, a quaint humour, and a kindly nature which had not been deteriorated even by a lawyer's professional experience of mankind. with all these personal advantages, it is a question, nevertheless, whether he was the fittest adviser whom agnes could have chosen under the circumstances. little mrs. ferrari, with many domestic merits, was an essentially commonplace woman. mr. troy was the last person living who was likely to attract her sympathies--he was the exact opposite of a commonplace man. 'she looks very ill, poor thing!' in these words the lawyer opened the business of the evening, referring to mrs. ferrari as unceremoniously as if she had been out of the room. 'she has suffered a terrible shock,' agnes answered. mr. troy turned to mrs. ferrari, and looked at her again, with the interest due to the victim of a shock. he drummed absently with his fingers on the table. at last he spoke to her. 'my good lady, you don't really believe that your husband is dead?' mrs. ferrari put her handkerchief to her eyes. the word 'dead' was ineffectual to express her feelings. 'murdered!' she said sternly, behind her handkerchief. 'why? and by whom?' mr. troy asked. mrs. ferrari seemed to have some difficulty in answering. 'you have read my husband's letters, sir,' she began. 'i believe he discovered--' she got as far as that, and there she stopped. 'what did he discover?' there are limits to human patience--even the patience of a bereaved wife. this cool question irritated mrs. ferrari into expressing herself plainly at last. 'he discovered lady montbarry and the baron!' she answered, with a burst of hysterical vehemence. 'the baron is no more that vile woman's brother than i am. the wickedness of those two wretches came to my poor dear husband's knowledge. the lady's maid left her place on account of it. if ferrari had gone away too, he would have been alive at this moment. they have killed him. i say they have killed him, to prevent it from getting to lord montbarry's ears.' so, in short sharp sentences, and in louder and louder accents, mrs. ferrari stated her opinion of the case. still keeping his own view in reserve, mr. troy listened with an expression of satirical approval. 'very strongly stated, mrs. ferrari,' he said. 'you build up your sentences well; you clinch your conclusions in a workmanlike manner. if you had been a man, you would have made a good lawyer--you would have taken juries by the scruff of their necks. complete the case, my good lady--complete the case. tell us next who sent you this letter, enclosing the bank-note. the "two wretches" who murdered mr. ferrari would hardly put their hands in their pockets and send you a thousand pounds. who is it--eh? i see the post-mark on the letter is "venice." have you any friend in that interesting city, with a large heart, and a purse to correspond, who has been let into the secret and who wishes to console you anonymously?' it was not easy to reply to this. mrs. ferrari began to feel the first inward approaches of something like hatred towards mr. troy. 'i don't understand you, sir,' she answered. 'i don't think this is a joking matter.' agnes interfered, for the first time. she drew her chair a little nearer to her legal counsellor and friend. 'what is the most probable explanation, in your opinion?' she asked. 'i shall offend mrs. ferrari if i tell you,' mr. troy answered. 'no, sir, you won't!' cried mrs. ferrari, hating mr. troy undisguisedly by this time. the lawyer leaned back in his chair. 'very well,' he said, in his most good-humoured manner. 'let's have it out. observe, madam, i don't dispute your view of the position of affairs at the palace in venice. you have your husband's letters to justify you; and you have also the significant fact that lady montbarry's maid did really leave the house. we will say, then, that lord montbarry has presumably been made the victim of a foul wrong--that mr. ferrari was the first to find it out--and that the guilty persons had reason to fear, not only that he would acquaint lord montbarry with his discovery, but that he would be a principal witness against them if the scandal was made public in a court of law. now mark! admitting all this, i draw a totally different conclusion from the conclusion at which you have arrived. here is your husband left in this miserable household of three, under very awkward circumstances for him. what does he do? but for the bank-note and the written message sent to you with it, i should say that he had wisely withdrawn himself from association with a disgraceful discovery and exposure, by taking secretly to flight. the money modifies this view--unfavourably so far as mr. ferrari is concerned. i still believe he is keeping out of the way. but i now say he is paid for keeping out of the way--and that bank-note there on the table is the price of his absence, sent by the guilty persons to his wife.' mrs. ferrari's watery grey eyes brightened suddenly; mrs. ferrari's dull drab-coloured complexion became enlivened by a glow of brilliant red. 'it's false!' she cried. 'it's a burning shame to speak of my husband in that way!' 'i told you i should offend you!' said mr. troy. agnes interposed once more--in the interests of peace. she took the offended wife's hand; she appealed to the lawyer to reconsider that side of his theory which reflected harshly on ferrari. while she was still speaking, the servant interrupted her by entering the room with a visiting-card. it was the card of henry westwick; and there was an ominous request written on it in pencil. 'i bring bad news. let me see you for a minute downstairs.' agnes immediately left the room. alone with mrs. ferrari, mr. troy permitted his natural kindness of heart to show itself on the surface at last. he tried to make his peace with the courier's wife. 'you have every claim, my good soul, to resent a reflection cast upon your husband,' he began. 'i may even say that i respect you for speaking so warmly in his defence. at the same time, remember, that i am bound, in such a serious matter as this, to tell you what is really in my mind. i can have no intention of offending you, seeing that i am a total stranger to you and to mr. ferrari. a thousand pounds is a large sum of money; and a poor man may excusably be tempted by it to do nothing worse than to keep out of the way for a while. my only interest, acting on your behalf, is to get at the truth. if you will give me time, i see no reason to despair of finding your husband yet.' ferrari's wife listened, without being convinced: her narrow little mind, filled to its extreme capacity by her unfavourable opinion of mr. troy, had no room left for the process of correcting its first impression. 'i am much obliged to you, sir,' was all she said. her eyes were more communicative--her eyes added, in their language, 'you may say what you please; i will never forgive you to my dying day.' mr. troy gave it up. he composedly wheeled his chair around, put his hands in his pockets, and looked out of window. after an interval of silence, the drawing-room door was opened. mr. troy wheeled round again briskly to the table, expecting to see agnes. to his surprise there appeared, in her place, a perfect stranger to him--a gentleman, in the prime of life, with a marked expression of pain and embarrassment on his handsome face. he looked at mr. troy, and bowed gravely. 'i am so unfortunate as to have brought news to miss agnes lockwood which has greatly distressed her,' he said. 'she has retired to her room. i am requested to make her excuses, and to speak to you in her place.' having introduced himself in those terms, he noticed mrs. ferrari, and held out his hand to her kindly. 'it is some years since we last met, emily,' he said. 'i am afraid you have almost forgotten the "master henry" of old times.' emily, in some little confusion, made her acknowledgments, and begged to know if she could be of any use to miss lockwood. 'the old nurse is with her,' henry answered; 'they will be better left together.' he turned once more to mr. troy. 'i ought to tell you,' he said, 'that my name is henry westwick. i am the younger brother of the late lord montbarry.' 'the late lord montbarry!' mr. troy exclaimed. 'my brother died at venice yesterday evening. there is the telegram.' with that startling answer, he handed the paper to mr. troy. the message was in these words: 'lady montbarry, venice. to stephen robert westwick, newbury's hotel, london. it is useless to take the journey. lord montbarry died of bronchitis, at 8.40 this evening. all needful details by post.' 'was this expected, sir?' the lawyer asked. 'i cannot say that it has taken us entirely by surprise,' henry answered. 'my brother stephen (who is now the head of the family) received a telegram three days since, informing him that alarming symptoms had declared themselves, and that a second physician had been called in. he telegraphed back to say that he had left ireland for london, on his way to venice, and to direct that any further message might be sent to his hotel. the reply came in a second telegram. it announced that lord montbarry was in a state of insensibility, and that, in his brief intervals of consciousness, he recognised nobody. my brother was advised to wait in london for later information. the third telegram is now in your hands. that is all i know, up to the present time.' happening to look at the courier's wife, mr. troy was struck by the expression of blank fear which showed itself in the woman's face. 'mrs. ferrari,' he said, 'have you heard what mr. westwick has just told me?' 'every word of it, sir.' 'have you any questions to ask?' 'no, sir.' 'you seem to be alarmed,' the lawyer persisted. 'is it still about your husband?' 'i shall never see my husband again, sir. i have thought so all along, as you know. i feel sure of it now.' 'sure of it, after what you have just heard?' 'yes, sir.' 'can you tell me why?' 'no, sir. it's a feeling i have. i can't tell why.' 'oh, a feeling?' mr. troy repeated, in a tone of compassionate contempt. 'when it comes to feelings, my good soul--!' he left the sentence unfinished, and rose to take his leave of mr. westwick. the truth is, he began to feel puzzled himself, and he did not choose to let mrs. ferrari see it. 'accept the expression of my sympathy, sir,' he said to mr. westwick politely. 'i wish you good evening.' henry turned to mrs. ferrari as the lawyer closed the door. 'i have heard of your trouble, emily, from miss lockwood. is there anything i can do to help you?' 'nothing, sir, thank you. perhaps, i had better go home after what has happened? i will call to-morrow, and see if i can be of any use to miss agnes. i am very sorry for her.' she stole away, with her formal curtsey, her noiseless step, and her obstinate resolution to take the gloomiest view of her husband's case. henry westwick looked round him in the solitude of the little drawing-room. there was nothing to keep him in the house, and yet he lingered in it. it was something to be even near agnes--to see the things belonging to her that were scattered about the room. there, in the corner, was her chair, with her embroidery on the work-table by its side. on the little easel near the window was her last drawing, not quite finished yet. the book she had been reading lay on the sofa, with her tiny pencil-case in it to mark the place at which she had left off. one after another, he looked at the objects that reminded him of the woman whom he loved--took them up tenderly--and laid them down again with a sigh. ah, how far, how unattainably far from him, she was still! 'she will never forget montbarry,' he thought to himself as he took up his hat to go. 'not one of us feels his death as she feels it. miserable, miserable wretch--how she loved him!' in the street, as henry closed the house-door, he was stopped by a passing acquaintance--a wearisome inquisitive man--doubly unwelcome to him, at that moment. 'sad news, westwick, this about your brother. rather an unexpected death, wasn't it? we never heard at the club that montbarry's lungs were weak. what will the insurance offices do?' henry started; he had never thought of his brother's life insurance. what could the offices do but pay? a death by bronchitis, certified by two physicians, was surely the least disputable of all deaths. 'i wish you hadn't put that question into my head!' he broke out irritably. 'ah!' said his friend, 'you think the widow will get the money? so do i! so do i!' chapter vii some days later, the insurance offices (two in number) received the formal announcement of lord montbarry's death, from her ladyship's london solicitors. the sum insured in each office was five thousand pounds--on which one year's premium only had been paid. in the face of such a pecuniary emergency as this, the directors thought it desirable to consider their position. the medical advisers of the two offices, who had recommended the insurance of lord montbarry's life, were called into council over their own reports. the result excited some interest among persons connected with the business of life insurance. without absolutely declining to pay the money, the two offices (acting in concert) decided on sending a commission of inquiry to venice, 'for the purpose of obtaining further information.' mr. troy received the earliest intelligence of what was going on. he wrote at once to communicate his news to agnes; adding, what he considered to be a valuable hint, in these words: 'you are intimately acquainted, i know, with lady barville, the late lord montbarry's eldest sister. the solicitors employed by her husband are also the solicitors to one of the two insurance offices. there may possibly be something in the report of the commission of inquiry touching on ferrari's disappearance. ordinary persons would not be permitted, of course, to see such a document. but a sister of the late lord is so near a relative as to be an exception to general rules. if sir theodore barville puts it on that footing, the lawyers, even if they do not allow his wife to look at the report, will at least answer any discreet questions she may ask referring to it. let me hear what you think of this suggestion, at your earliest convenience.' the reply was received by return of post. agnes declined to avail herself of mr. troy's proposal. 'my interference, innocent as it was,' she wrote, 'has already been productive of such deplorable results, that i cannot and dare not stir any further in the case of ferrari. if i had not consented to let that unfortunate man refer to me by name, the late lord montbarry would never have engaged him, and his wife would have been spared the misery and suspense from which she is suffering now. i would not even look at the report to which you allude if it was placed in my hands--i have heard more than enough already of that hideous life in the palace at venice. if mrs. ferrari chooses to address herself to lady barville (with your assistance), that is of course quite another thing. but, even in this case, i must make it a positive condition that my name shall not be mentioned. forgive me, dear mr. troy! i am very unhappy, and very unreasonable--but i am only a woman, and you must not expect too much from me.' foiled in this direction, the lawyer next advised making the attempt to discover the present address of lady montbarry's english maid. this excellent suggestion had one drawback: it could only be carried out by spending money--and there was no money to spend. mrs. ferrari shrank from the bare idea of making any use of the thousand-pound note. it had been deposited in the safe keeping of a bank. if it was even mentioned in her hearing, she shuddered and referred to it, with melodramatic fervour, as 'my husband's blood-money!' so, under stress of circumstances, the attempt to solve the mystery of ferrari's disappearance was suspended for a while. it was the last month of the year 1860. the commission of inquiry was already at work; having begun its investigations on december 6. on the 10th, the term for which the late lord montbarry had hired the venetian palace, expired. news by telegram reached the insurance offices that lady montbarry had been advised by her lawyers to leave for london with as little delay as possible. baron rivar, it was believed, would accompany her to england, but would not remain in that country, unless his services were absolutely required by her ladyship. the baron, 'well known as an enthusiastic student of chemistry,' had heard of certain recent discoveries in connection with that science in the united states, and was anxious to investigate them personally. these items of news, collected by mr. troy, were duly communicated to mrs. ferrari, whose anxiety about her husband made her a frequent, a too frequent, visitor at the lawyer's office. she attempted to relate what she had heard to her good friend and protectress. agnes steadily refused to listen, and positively forbade any further conversation relating to lord montbarry's wife, now that lord montbarry was no more. 'you have mr. troy to advise you,' she said; 'and you are welcome to what little money i can spare, if money is wanted. all i ask in return is that you will not distress me. i am trying to separate myself from remembrances--' her voice faltered; she paused to control herself--'from remembrances,' she resumed, 'which are sadder than ever since i have heard of lord montbarry's death. help me by your silence to recover my spirits, if i can. let me hear nothing more, until i can rejoice with you that your husband is found.' time advanced to the 13th of the month; and more information of the interesting sort reached mr. troy. the labours of the insurance commission had come to an end--the report had been received from venice on that day. chapter viii on the 14th the directors and their legal advisers met for the reading of the report, with closed doors. these were the terms in which the commissioners related the results of their inquiry: 'private and confidential. 'we have the honour to inform our directors that we arrived in venice on december 6, 1860. on the same day we proceeded to the palace inhabited by lord montbarry at the time of his last illness and death. 'we were received with all possible courtesy by lady montbarry's brother, baron rivar. "my sister was her husband's only attendant throughout his illness," the baron informed us. "she is overwhelmed by grief and fatigue--or she would have been here to receive you personally. what are your wishes, gentlemen? and what can i do for you in her ladyship's place?" 'in accordance with our instructions, we answered that the death and burial of lord montbarry abroad made it desirable to obtain more complete information relating to his illness, and to the circumstances which had attended it, than could be conveyed in writing. we explained that the law provided for the lapse of a certain interval of time before the payment of the sum assured, and we expressed our wish to conduct the inquiry with the most respectful consideration for her ladyship's feelings, and for the convenience of any other members of the family inhabiting the house. 'to this the baron replied, "i am the only member of the family living here, and i and the palace are entirely at your disposal." from first to last we found this gentleman perfectly straightforward, and most amiably willing to assist us. 'with the one exception of her ladyship's room, we went over the whole of the palace the same day. it is an immense place only partially furnished. the first floor and part of the second floor were the portions of it that had been inhabited by lord montbarry and the members of the household. we saw the bedchamber, at one extremity of the palace, in which his lordship died, and the small room communicating with it, which he used as a study. next to this was a large apartment or hall, the doors of which he habitually kept locked, his object being (as we were informed) to pursue his studies uninterruptedly in perfect solitude. on the other side of the large hall were the bedchamber occupied by her ladyship, and the dressing-room in which the maid slept previous to her departure for england. beyond these were the dining and reception rooms, opening into an antechamber, which gave access to the grand staircase of the palace. 'the only inhabited rooms on the second floor were the sitting-room and bedroom occupied by baron rivar, and another room at some distance from it, which had been the bedroom of the courier ferrari. 'the rooms on the third floor and on the basement were completely unfurnished, and in a condition of great neglect. we inquired if there was anything to be seen below the basement--and we were at once informed that there were vaults beneath, which we were at perfect liberty to visit. 'we went down, so as to leave no part of the palace unexplored. the vaults were, it was believed, used as dungeons in the old times--say, some centuries since. air and light were only partially admitted to these dismal places by two long shafts of winding construction, which communicated with the back yard of the palace, and the openings of which, high above the ground, were protected by iron gratings. the stone stairs leading down into the vaults could be closed at will by a heavy trap-door in the back hall, which we found open. the baron himself led the way down the stairs. we remarked that it might be awkward if that trap-door fell down and closed the opening behind us. the baron smiled at the idea. "don't be alarmed, gentlemen," he said; "the door is safe. i had an interest in seeing to it myself, when we first inhabited the palace. my favourite study is the study of experimental chemistry--and my workshop, since we have been in venice, is down here." 'these last words explained a curious smell in the vaults, which we noticed the moment we entered them. we can only describe the smell by saying that it was of a twofold sort--faintly aromatic, as it were, in its first effect, but with some after-odour very sickening in our nostrils. the baron's furnaces and retorts, and other things, were all there to speak for themselves, together with some packages of chemicals, having the name and address of the person who had supplied them plainly visible on their labels. "not a pleasant place for study," baron rivar observed, "but my sister is timid. she has a horror of chemical smells and explosions--and she has banished me to these lower regions, so that my experiments may neither be smelt nor heard." he held out his hands, on which we had noticed that he wore gloves in the house. "accidents will happen sometimes," he said, "no matter how careful a man may be. i burnt my hands severely in trying a new combination the other day, and they are only recovering now." 'we mention these otherwise unimportant incidents, in order to show that our exploration of the palace was not impeded by any attempt at concealment. we were even admitted to her ladyship's own room--on a subsequent occasion, when she went out to take the air. our instructions recommended us to examine his lordship's residence, because the extreme privacy of his life at venice, and the remarkable departure of the only two servants in the house, might have some suspicious connection with the nature of his death. we found nothing to justify suspicion. 'as to his lordship's retired way of life, we have conversed on the subject with the consul and the banker--the only two strangers who held any communication with him. he called once at the bank to obtain money on his letter of credit, and excused himself from accepting an invitation to visit the banker at his private residence, on the ground of delicate health. his lordship wrote to the same effect on sending his card to the consul, to excuse himself from personally returning that gentleman's visit to the palace. we have seen the letter, and we beg to offer the following copy of it. "many years passed in india have injured my constitution. i have ceased to go into society; the one occupation of my life now is the study of oriental literature. the air of italy is better for me than the air of england, or i should never have left home. pray accept the apologies of a student and an invalid. the active part of my life is at an end." the self-seclusion of his lordship seems to us to be explained in these brief lines. we have not, however, on that account spared our inquiries in other directions. nothing to excite a suspicion of anything wrong has come to our knowledge. 'as to the departure of the lady's maid, we have seen the woman's receipt for her wages, in which it is expressly stated that she left lady montbarry's service because she disliked the continent, and wished to get back to her own country. this is not an uncommon result of taking english servants to foreign parts. lady montbarry has informed us that she abstained from engaging another maid in consequence of the extreme dislike which his lordship expressed to having strangers in the house, in the state of his health at that time. 'the disappearance of the courier ferrari is, in itself, unquestionably a suspicious circumstance. neither her ladyship nor the baron can explain it; and no investigation that we could make has thrown the smallest light on this event, or has justified us in associating it, directly or indirectly, with the object of our inquiry. we have even gone the length of examining the portmanteau which ferrari left behind him. it contains nothing but clothes and linen--no money, and not even a scrap of paper in the pockets of the clothes. the portmanteau remains in charge of the police. 'we have also found opportunities of speaking privately to the old woman who attends to the rooms occupied by her ladyship and the baron. she was recommended to fill this situation by the keeper of the restaurant who has supplied the meals to the family throughout the period of their residence at the palace. her character is most favourably spoken of. unfortunately, her limited intelligence makes her of no value as a witness. we were patient and careful in questioning her, and we found her perfectly willing to answer us; but we could elicit nothing which is worth including in the present report. 'on the second day of our inquiries, we had the honour of an interview with lady montbarry. her ladyship looked miserably worn and ill, and seemed to be quite at a loss to understand what we wanted with her. baron rivar, who introduced us, explained the nature of our errand in venice, and took pains to assure her that it was a purely formal duty on which we were engaged. having satisfied her ladyship on this point, he discreetly left the room. 'the questions which we addressed to lady montbarry related mainly, of course, to his lordship's illness. the answers, given with great nervousness of manner, but without the slightest appearance of reserve, informed us of the facts that follow: 'lord montbarry had been out of order for some time past--nervous and irritable. he first complained of having taken cold on november 13 last; he passed a wakeful and feverish night, and remained in bed the next day. her ladyship proposed sending for medical advice. he refused to allow her to do this, saying that he could quite easily be his own doctor in such a trifling matter as a cold. some hot lemonade was made at his request, with a view to producing perspiration. lady montbarry's maid having left her at that time, the courier ferrari (then the only servant in the house) went out to buy the lemons. her ladyship made the drink with her own hands. it was successful in producing perspiration--and lord montbarry had some hours of sleep afterwards. later in the day, having need of ferrari's services, lady montbarry rang for him. the bell was not answered. baron rivar searched for the man, in the palace and out of it, in vain. from that time forth not a trace of ferrari could be discovered. this happened on november 14. 'on the night of the 14th, the feverish symptoms accompanying his lordship's cold returned. they were in part perhaps attributable to the annoyance and alarm caused by ferrari's mysterious disappearance. it had been impossible to conceal the circumstance, as his lordship rang repeatedly for the courier; insisting that the man should relieve lady montbarry and the baron by taking their places during the night at his bedside. 'on the 15th (the day on which the old woman first came to do the housework), his lordship complained of sore throat, and of a feeling of oppression on the chest. on this day, and again on the 16th, her ladyship and the baron entreated him to see a doctor. he still refused. "i don't want strange faces about me; my cold will run its course, in spite of the doctor,"--that was his answer. on the 17th he was so much worse that it was decided to send for medical help whether he liked it or not. baron rivar, after inquiry at the consul's, secured the services of doctor bruno, well known as an eminent physician in venice; with the additional recommendation of having resided in england, and having made himself acquainted with english forms of medical practice. 'thus far our account of his lordship's illness has been derived from statements made by lady montbarry. the narrative will now be most fitly continued in the language of the doctor's own report, herewith subjoined. '"my medical diary informs me that i first saw the english lord montbarry, on november 17. he was suffering from a sharp attack of bronchitis. some precious time had been lost, through his obstinate objection to the presence of a medical man at his bedside. generally speaking, he appeared to be in a delicate state of health. his nervous system was out of order--he was at once timid and contradictory. when i spoke to him in english, he answered in italian; and when i tried him in italian, he went back to english. it mattered little--the malady had already made such progress that he could only speak a few words at a time, and those in a whisper. '"i at once applied the necessary remedies. copies of my prescriptions (with translation into english) accompany the present statement, and are left to speak for themselves. '"for the next three days i was in constant attendance on my patient. he answered to the remedies employed--improving slowly, but decidedly. i could conscientiously assure lady montbarry that no danger was to be apprehended thus far. she was indeed a most devoted wife. i vainly endeavoured to induce her to accept the services of a competent nurse; she would allow nobody to attend on her husband but herself. night and day this estimable woman was at his bedside. in her brief intervals of repose, her brother watched the sick man in her place. this brother was, i must say, very good company, in the intervals when we had time for a little talk. he dabbled in chemistry, down in the horrid under-water vaults of the palace; and he wanted to show me some of his experiments. i have enough of chemistry in writing prescriptions--and i declined. he took it quite good-humouredly. '"i am straying away from my subject. let me return to the sick lord. '"up to the 20th, then, things went well enough. i was quite unprepared for the disastrous change that showed itself, when i paid lord montbarry my morning visit on the 21st. he had relapsed, and seriously relapsed. examining him to discover the cause, i found symptoms of pneumonia--that is to say, in unmedical language, inflammation of the substance of the lungs. he breathed with difficulty, and was only partially able to relieve himself by coughing. i made the strictest inquiries, and was assured that his medicine had been administered as carefully as usual, and that he had not been exposed to any changes of temperature. it was with great reluctance that i added to lady montbarry's distress; but i felt bound, when she suggested a consultation with another physician, to own that i too thought there was really need for it. '"her ladyship instructed me to spare no expense, and to get the best medical opinion in italy. the best opinion was happily within our reach. the first and foremost of italian physicians is torello of padua. i sent a special messenger for the great man. he arrived on the evening of the 21st, and confirmed my opinion that pneumonia had set in, and that our patient's life was in danger. i told him what my treatment of the case had been, and he approved of it in every particular. he made some valuable suggestions, and (at lady montbarry's express request) he consented to defer his return to padua until the following morning. '"we both saw the patient at intervals in the course of the night. the disease, steadily advancing, set our utmost resistance at defiance. in the morning doctor torello took his leave. 'i can be of no further use,' he said to me. 'the man is past all help--and he ought to know it.' '"later in the day i warned my lord, as gently as i could, that his time had come. i am informed that there are serious reasons for my stating what passed between us on this occasion, in detail, and without any reserve. i comply with the request. '"lord montbarry received the intelligence of his approaching death with becoming composure, but with a certain doubt. he signed to me to put my ear to his mouth. he whispered faintly, 'are you sure?' it was no time to deceive him; i said, 'positively sure.' he waited a little, gasping for breath, and then he whispered again, 'feel under my pillow.' i found under his pillow a letter, sealed and stamped, ready for the post. his next words were just audible and no more--'post it yourself.' i answered, of course, that i would do so--and i did post the letter with my own hand. i looked at the address. it was directed to a lady in london. the street i cannot remember. the name i can perfectly recall: it was an italian name--'mrs. ferrari.' '"that night my lord nearly died of asphyxia. i got him through it for the time; and his eyes showed that he understood me when i told him, the next morning, that i had posted the letter. this was his last effort of consciousness. when i saw him again he was sunk in apathy. he lingered in a state of insensibility, supported by stimulants, until the 25th, and died (unconscious to the last) on the evening of that day. '"as to the cause of his death, it seems (if i may be excused for saying so) simply absurd to ask the question. bronchitis, terminating in pneumonia--there is no more doubt that this, and this only, was the malady of which he expired, than that two and two make four. doctor torello's own note of the case is added here to a duplicate of my certificate, in order (as i am informed) to satisfy some english offices in which his lordship's life was insured. the english offices must have been founded by that celebrated saint and doubter, mentioned in the new testament, whose name was thomas!" 'doctor bruno's evidence ends here. 'reverting for a moment to our inquiries addressed to lady montbarry, we have to report that she can give us no information on the subject of the letter which the doctor posted at lord montbarry's request. when his lordship wrote it? what it contained? why he kept it a secret from lady montbarry (and from the baron also); and why he should write at all to the wife of his courier? these are questions to which we find it simply impossible to obtain any replies. it seems even useless to say that the matter is open to suspicion. suspicion implies conjecture of some kind--and the letter under my lord's pillow baffles all conjecture. application to mrs. ferrari may perhaps clear up the mystery. her residence in london will be easily discovered at the italian couriers' office, golden square. 'having arrived at the close of the present report, we have now to draw your attention to the conclusion which is justified by the results of our investigation. 'the plain question before our directors and ourselves appears to be this: has the inquiry revealed any extraordinary circumstances which render the death of lord montbarry open to suspicion? the inquiry has revealed extraordinary circumstances beyond all doubt--such as the disappearance of ferrari, the remarkable absence of the customary establishment of servants in the house, and the mysterious letter which his lordship asked the doctor to post. but where is the proof that any one of these circumstances is associated--suspiciously and directly associated--with the only event which concerns us, the event of lord montbarry's death? in the absence of any such proof, and in the face of the evidence of two eminent physicians, it is impossible to dispute the statement on the certificate that his lordship died a natural death. we are bound, therefore, to report, that there are no valid grounds for refusing the payment of the sum for which the late lord montbarry's life was assured. 'we shall send these lines to you by the post of to-morrow, december 10; leaving time to receive your further instructions (if any), in reply to our telegram of this evening announcing the conclusion of the inquiry.' chapter ix 'now, my good creature, whatever you have to say to me, out with it at once! i don't want to hurry you needlessly; but these are business hours, and i have other people's affairs to attend to besides yours.' addressing ferrari's wife, with his usual blunt good-humour, in these terms, mr. troy registered the lapse of time by a glance at the watch on his desk, and then waited to hear what his client had to say to him. 'it's something more, sir, about the letter with the thousand-pound note,' mrs. ferrari began. 'i have found out who sent it to me.' mr. troy started. 'this is news indeed!' he said. 'who sent you the letter?' 'lord montbarry sent it, sir.' it was not easy to take mr. troy by surprise. but mrs. ferrari threw him completely off his balance. for a while he could only look at her in silent surprise. 'nonsense!' he said, as soon as he had recovered himself. 'there is some mistake--it can't be!' 'there is no mistake,' mrs. ferrari rejoined, in her most positive manner. 'two gentlemen from the insurance offices called on me this morning, to see the letter. they were completely puzzled--especially when they heard of the bank-note inside. but they know who sent the letter. his lordship's doctor in venice posted it at his lordship's request. go to the gentlemen yourself, sir, if you don't believe me. they were polite enough to ask if i could account for lord montbarry's writing to me and sending me the money. i gave them my opinion directly--i said it was like his lordship's kindness.' 'like his lordship's kindness?' mr. troy repeated, in blank amazement. 'yes, sir! lord montbarry knew me, like all the other members of his family, when i was at school on the estate in ireland. if he could have done it, he would have protected my poor dear husband. but he was helpless himself in the hands of my lady and the baron--and the only kind thing he could do was to provide for me in my widowhood, like the true nobleman he was!' 'a very pretty explanation!' said mr. troy. 'what did your visitors from the insurance offices think of it?' 'they asked if i had any proof of my husband's death.' 'and what did you say?' 'i said, "i give you better than proof, gentlemen; i give you my positive opinion."' 'that satisfied them, of course?' 'they didn't say so in words, sir. they looked at each other--and wished me good-morning.' 'well, mrs. ferrari, unless you have some more extraordinary news for me, i think i shall wish you good-morning too. i can take a note of your information (very startling information, i own); and, in the absence of proof, i can do no more.' 'i can provide you with proof, sir--if that is all you want,' said mrs. ferrari, with great dignity. 'i only wish to know, first, whether the law justifies me in doing it. you may have seen in the fashionable intelligence of the newspapers, that lady montbarry has arrived in london, at newbury's hotel. i propose to go and see her.' 'the deuce you do! may i ask for what purpose?' mrs. ferrari answered in a mysterious whisper. 'for the purpose of catching her in a trap! i shan't send in my name--i shall announce myself as a person on business, and the first words i say to her will be these: "i come, my lady, to acknowledge the receipt of the money sent to ferrari's widow." ah! you may well start, mr. troy! it almost takes you off your guard, doesn't it? make your mind easy, sir; i shall find the proof that everybody asks me for in her guilty face. let her only change colour by the shadow of a shade--let her eyes only drop for half an instant--i shall discover her! the one thing i want to know is, does the law permit it?' 'the law permits it,' mr. troy answered gravely; 'but whether her ladyship will permit it, is quite another question. have you really courage enough, mrs. ferrari, to carry out this notable scheme of yours? you have been described to me, by miss lockwood, as rather a nervous, timid sort of person--and, if i may trust my own observation, i should say you justify the description.' 'if you had lived in the country, sir, instead of living in london,' mrs. ferrari replied, 'you would sometimes have seen even a sheep turn on a dog. i am far from saying that i am a bold woman--quite the reverse. but when i stand in that wretch's presence, and think of my murdered husband, the one of us two who is likely to be frightened is not me. i am going there now, sir. you shall hear how it ends. i wish you good-morning.' with those brave words the courier's wife gathered her mantle about her, and walked out of the room. mr. troy smiled--not satirically, but compassionately. 'the little simpleton!' he thought to himself. 'if half of what they say of lady montbarry is true, mrs. ferrari and her trap have but a poor prospect before them. i wonder how it will end?' all mr. troy's experience failed to forewarn him of how it did end. chapter x in the mean time, mrs. ferrari held to her resolution. she went straight from mr. troy's office to newbury's hotel. lady montbarry was at home, and alone. but the authorities of the hotel hesitated to disturb her when they found that the visitor declined to mention her name. her ladyship's new maid happened to cross the hall while the matter was still in debate. she was a frenchwoman, and, on being appealed to, she settled the question in the swift, easy, rational french way. 'madame's appearance was perfectly respectable. madame might have reasons for not mentioning her name which miladi might approve. in any case, there being no orders forbidding the introduction of a strange lady, the matter clearly rested between madame and miladi. would madame, therefore, be good enough to follow miladi's maid up the stairs?' in spite of her resolution, mrs. ferrari's heart beat as if it would burst out of her bosom, when her conductress led her into an ante-room, and knocked at a door opening into a room beyond. but it is remarkable that persons of sensitively-nervous organisation are the very persons who are capable of forcing themselves (apparently by the exercise of a spasmodic effort of will) into the performance of acts of the most audacious courage. a low, grave voice from the inner room said, 'come in.' the maid, opening the door, announced, 'a person to see you, miladi, on business,' and immediately retired. in the one instant while these events passed, timid little mrs. ferrari mastered her own throbbing heart; stepped over the threshold, conscious of her clammy hands, dry lips, and burning head; and stood in the presence of lord montbarry's widow, to all outward appearance as supremely self-possessed as her ladyship herself. it was still early in the afternoon, but the light in the room was dim. the blinds were drawn down. lady montbarry sat with her back to the windows, as if even the subdued daylight were disagreeable to her. she had altered sadly for the worse in her personal appearance, since the memorable day when doctor wybrow had seen her in his consulting-room. her beauty was gone--her face had fallen away to mere skin and bone; the contrast between her ghastly complexion and her steely glittering black eyes was more startling than ever. robed in dismal black, relieved only by the brilliant whiteness of her widow's cap--reclining in a panther-like suppleness of attitude on a little green sofa--she looked at the stranger who had intruded on her, with a moment's languid curiosity, then dropped her eyes again to the hand-screen which she held between her face and the fire. 'i don't know you,' she said. 'what do you want with me?' mrs. ferrari tried to answer. her first burst of courage had already worn itself out. the bold words that she had determined to speak were living words still in her mind, but they died on her lips. there was a moment of silence. lady montbarry looked round again at the speechless stranger. 'are you deaf?' she asked. there was another pause. lady montbarry quietly looked back again at the screen, and put another question. 'do you want money?' 'money!' that one word roused the sinking spirit of the courier's wife. she recovered her courage; she found her voice. 'look at me, my lady, if you please,' she said, with a sudden outbreak of audacity. lady montbarry looked round for the third time. the fatal words passed mrs. ferrari's lips. 'i come, my lady, to acknowledge the receipt of the money sent to ferrari's widow.' lady montbarry's glittering black eyes rested with steady attention on the woman who had addressed her in those terms. not the faintest expression of confusion or alarm, not even a momentary flutter of interest stirred the deadly stillness of her face. she reposed as quietly, she held the screen as composedly, as ever. the test had been tried, and had utterly failed. there was another silence. lady montbarry considered with herself. the smile that came slowly and went away suddenly--the smile at once so sad and so cruel--showed itself on her thin lips. she lifted her screen, and pointed with it to a seat at the farther end of the room. 'be so good as to take that chair,' she said. helpless under her first bewildering sense of failure--not knowing what to say or what to do next--mrs. ferrari mechanically obeyed. lady montbarry, rising on the sofa for the first time, watched her with undisguised scrutiny as she crossed the room--then sank back into a reclining position once more. 'no,' she said to herself, 'the woman walks steadily; she is not intoxicated--the only other possibility is that she may be mad.' she had spoken loud enough to be heard. stung by the insult, mrs. ferrari instantly answered her: 'i am no more drunk or mad than you are!' 'no?' said lady montbarry. 'then you are only insolent? the ignorant english mind (i have observed) is apt to be insolent in the exercise of unrestrained english liberty. this is very noticeable to us foreigners among you people in the streets. of course i can't be insolent to you, in return. i hardly know what to say to you. my maid was imprudent in admitting you so easily to my room. i suppose your respectable appearance misled her. i wonder who you are? you mentioned the name of a courier who left us very strangely. was he married by any chance? are you his wife? and do you know where he is?' mrs. ferrari's indignation burst its way through all restraints. she advanced to the sofa; she feared nothing, in the fervour and rage of her reply. 'i am his widow--and you know it, you wicked woman! ah! it was an evil hour when miss lockwood recommended my husband to be his lordship's courier--!' before she could add another word, lady montbarry sprang from the sofa with the stealthy suddenness of a cat--seized her by both shoulders--and shook her with the strength and frenzy of a madwoman. 'you lie! you lie! you lie!' she dropped her hold at the third repetition of the accusation, and threw up her hands wildly with a gesture of despair. 'oh, jesu maria! is it possible?' she cried. 'can the courier have come to me through that woman?' she turned like lightning on mrs. ferrari, and stopped her as she was escaping from the room. 'stay here, you fool--stay here, and answer me! if you cry out, as sure as the heavens are above you, i'll strangle you with my own hands. sit down again--and fear nothing. wretch! it is i who am frightened--frightened out of my senses. confess that you lied, when you used miss lockwood's name just now! no! i don't believe you on your oath; i will believe nobody but miss lockwood herself. where does she live? tell me that, you noxious stinging little insect--and you may go.' terrified as she was, mrs. ferrari hesitated. lady montbarry lifted her hands threateningly, with the long, lean, yellow-white fingers outspread and crooked at the tips. mrs. ferrari shrank at the sight of them, and gave the address. lady montbarry pointed contemptuously to the door--then changed her mind. 'no! not yet! you will tell miss lockwood what has happened, and she may refuse to see me. i will go there at once, and you shall go with me. as far as the house--not inside of it. sit down again. i am going to ring for my maid. turn your back to the door--your cowardly face is not fit to be seen!' she rang the bell. the maid appeared. 'my cloak and bonnet--instantly!' the maid produced the cloak and bonnet from the bedroom. 'a cab at the door--before i can count ten!' the maid vanished. lady montbarry surveyed herself in the glass, and wheeled round again, with her cat-like suddenness, to mrs. ferrari. 'i look more than half dead already, don't i?' she said with a grim outburst of irony. 'give me your arm.' she took mrs. ferrari's arm, and left the room. 'you have nothing to fear, so long as you obey,' she whispered, on the way downstairs. 'you leave me at miss lockwood's door, and never see me again.' in the hall they were met by the landlady of the hotel. lady montbarry graciously presented her companion. 'my good friend mrs. ferrari; i am so glad to have seen her.' the landlady accompanied them to the door. the cab was waiting. 'get in first, good mrs. ferrari,' said her ladyship; 'and tell the man where to go.' they were driven away. lady montbarry's variable humour changed again. with a low groan of misery, she threw herself back in the cab. lost in her own dark thoughts, as careless of the woman whom she had bent to her iron will as if no such person sat by her side, she preserved a sinister silence, until they reached the house where miss lockwood lodged. in an instant, she roused herself to action. she opened the door of the cab, and closed it again on mrs. ferrari, before the driver could get off his box. 'take that lady a mile farther on her way home!' she said, as she paid the man his fare. the next moment she had knocked at the house-door. 'is miss lockwood at home?' 'yes, ma'am.' she stepped over the threshold--the door closed on her. 'which way, ma'am?' asked the driver of the cab. mrs. ferrari put her hand to her head, and tried to collect her thoughts. could she leave her friend and benefactress helpless at lady montbarry's mercy? she was still vainly endeavouring to decide on the course that she ought to follow--when a gentleman, stopping at miss lockwood's door, happened to look towards the cab-window, and saw her. 'are you going to call on miss agnes too?' he asked. it was henry westwick. mrs. ferrari clasped her hands in gratitude as she recognised him. 'go in, sir!' she cried. 'go in, directly. that dreadful woman is with miss agnes. go and protect her!' 'what woman?' henry asked. the answer literally struck him speechless. with amazement and indignation in his face, he looked at mrs. ferrari as she pronounced the hated name of 'lady montbarry.' 'i'll see to it,' was all he said. he knocked at the house-door; and he too, in his turn, was let in. chapter xi 'lady montbarry, miss.' agnes was writing a letter, when the servant astonished her by announcing the visitor's name. her first impulse was to refuse to see the woman who had intruded on her. but lady montbarry had taken care to follow close on the servant's heels. before agnes could speak, she had entered the room. 'i beg to apologise for my intrusion, miss lockwood. i have a question to ask you, in which i am very much interested. no one can answer me but yourself.' in low hesitating tones, with her glittering black eyes bent modestly on the ground, lady montbarry opened the interview in those words. without answering, agnes pointed to a chair. she could do this, and, for the time, she could do no more. all that she had read of the hidden and sinister life in the palace at venice; all that she had heard of montbarry's melancholy death and burial in a foreign land; all that she knew of the mystery of ferrari's disappearance, rushed into her mind, when the black-robed figure confronted her, standing just inside the door. the strange conduct of lady montbarry added a new perplexity to the doubts and misgivings that troubled her. there stood the adventuress whose character had left its mark on society all over europe--the fury who had terrified mrs. ferrari at the hotel--inconceivably transformed into a timid, shrinking woman! lady montbarry had not once ventured to look at agnes, since she had made her way into the room. advancing to take the chair that had been pointed out to her, she hesitated, put her hand on the rail to support herself, and still remained standing. 'please give me a moment to compose myself,' she said faintly. her head sank on her bosom: she stood before agnes like a conscious culprit before a merciless judge. the silence that followed was, literally, the silence of fear on both sides. in the midst of it, the door was opened once more--and henry westwick appeared. he looked at lady montbarry with a moment's steady attention--bowed to her with formal politeness--and passed on in silence. at the sight of her husband's brother, the sinking spirit of the woman sprang to life again. her drooping figure became erect. her eyes met westwick's look, brightly defiant. she returned his bow with an icy smile of contempt. henry crossed the room to agnes. 'is lady montbarry here by your invitation?' he asked quietly. 'no.' 'do you wish to see her?' 'it is very painful to me to see her.' he turned and looked at his sister-in-law. 'do you hear that?' he asked coldly. 'i hear it,' she answered, more coldly still. 'your visit is, to say the least of it, ill-timed.' 'your interference is, to say the least of it, out of place.' with that retort, lady montbarry approached agnes. the presence of henry westwick seemed at once to relieve and embolden her. 'permit me to ask my question, miss lockwood,' she said, with graceful courtesy. 'it is nothing to embarrass you. when the courier ferrari applied to my late husband for employment, did you--' her resolution failed her, before she could say more. she sank trembling into the nearest chair, and, after a moment's struggle, composed herself again. 'did you permit ferrari,' she resumed, 'to make sure of being chosen for our courier by using your name?' agnes did not reply with her customary directness. trifling as it was, the reference to montbarry, proceeding from that woman of all others, confused and agitated her. 'i have known ferrari's wife for many years,' she began. 'and i take an interest--' lady montbarry abruptly lifted her hands with a gesture of entreaty. 'ah, miss lockwood, don't waste time by talking of his wife! answer my plain question, plainly!' 'let me answer her,' henry whispered. 'i will undertake to speak plainly enough.' agnes refused by a gesture. lady montbarry's interruption had roused her sense of what was due to herself. she resumed her reply in plainer terms. 'when ferrari wrote to the late lord montbarry,' she said, 'he did certainly mention my name.' even now, she had innocently failed to see the object which her visitor had in view. lady montbarry's impatience became ungovernable. she started to her feet, and advanced to agnes. 'was it with your knowledge and permission that ferrari used your name?' she asked. 'the whole soul of my question is in that. for god's sake answer me--yes, or no!' 'yes.' that one word struck lady montbarry as a blow might have struck her. the fierce life that had animated her face the instant before, faded out of it suddenly, and left her like a woman turned to stone. she stood, mechanically confronting agnes, with a stillness so wrapt and perfect that not even the breath she drew was perceptible to the two persons who were looking at her. henry spoke to her roughly. 'rouse yourself,' he said. 'you have received your answer.' she looked round at him. 'i have received my sentence,' she rejoined--and turned slowly to leave the room. to henry's astonishment, agnes stopped her. 'wait a moment, lady montbarry. i have something to ask on my side. you have spoken of ferrari. i wish to speak of him too.' lady montbarry bent her head in silence. her hand trembled as she took out her handkerchief, and passed it over her forehead. agnes detected the trembling, and shrank back a step. 'is the subject painful to you?' she asked timidly. still silent, lady montbarry invited her by a wave of the hand to go on. henry approached, attentively watching his sister-in-law. agnes went on. 'no trace of ferrari has been discovered in england,' she said. 'have you any news of him? and will you tell me (if you have heard anything), in mercy to his wife?' lady montbarry's thin lips suddenly relaxed into their sad and cruel smile. 'why do you ask me about the lost courier?' she said. 'you will know what has become of him, miss lockwood, when the time is ripe for it.' agnes started. 'i don't understand you,' she said. 'how shall i know? will some one tell me?' 'some one will tell you.' henry could keep silence no longer. 'perhaps, your ladyship may be the person?' he interrupted with ironical politeness. she answered him with contemptuous ease. 'you may be right, mr. westwick. one day or another, i may be the person who tells miss lockwood what has become of ferrari, if--' she stopped; with her eyes fixed on agnes. 'if what?' henry asked. 'if miss lockwood forces me to it.' agnes listened in astonishment. 'force you to it?' she repeated. 'how can i do that? do you mean to say my will is stronger than yours?' 'do you mean to say that the candle doesn't burn the moth, when the moth flies into it?' lady montbarry rejoined. 'have you ever heard of such a thing as the fascination of terror? i am drawn to you by a fascination of terror. i have no right to visit you, i have no wish to visit you: you are my enemy. for the first time in my life, against my own will, i submit to my enemy. see! i am waiting because you told me to wait--and the fear of you (i swear it!) creeps through me while i stand here. oh, don't let me excite your curiosity or your pity! follow the example of mr. westwick. be hard and brutal and unforgiving, like him. grant me my release. tell me to go.' the frank and simple nature of agnes could discover but one intelligible meaning in this strange outbreak. 'you are mistaken in thinking me your enemy,' she said. 'the wrong you did me when you gave your hand to lord montbarry was not intentionally done. i forgave you my sufferings in his lifetime. i forgive you even more freely now that he has gone.' henry heard her with mingled emotions of admiration and distress. 'say no more!' he exclaimed. 'you are too good to her; she is not worthy of it.' the interruption passed unheeded by lady montbarry. the simple words in which agnes had replied seemed to have absorbed the whole attention of this strangely-changeable woman. as she listened, her face settled slowly into an expression of hard and tearless sorrow. there was a marked change in her voice when she spoke next. it expressed that last worst resignation which has done with hope. 'you good innocent creature,' she said, 'what does your amiable forgiveness matter? what are your poor little wrongs, in the reckoning for greater wrongs which is demanded of me? i am not trying to frighten you, i am only miserable about myself. do you know what it is to have a firm presentiment of calamity that is coming to you--and yet to hope that your own positive conviction will not prove true? when i first met you, before my marriage, and first felt your influence over me, i had that hope. it was a starveling sort of hope that lived a lingering life in me until to-day. you struck it dead, when you answered my question about ferrari.' 'how have i destroyed your hopes?' agnes asked. 'what connection is there between my permitting ferrari to use my name to lord montbarry, and the strange and dreadful things you are saying to me now?' 'the time is near, miss lockwood, when you will discover that for yourself. in the mean while, you shall know what my fear of you is, in the plainest words i can find. on the day when i took your hero from you and blighted your life--i am firmly persuaded of it!--you were made the instrument of the retribution that my sins of many years had deserved. oh, such things have happened before to-day! one person has, before now, been the means of innocently ripening the growth of evil in another. you have done that already--and you have more to do yet. you have still to bring me to the day of discovery, and to the punishment that is my doom. we shall meet again--here in england, or there in venice where my husband died--and meet for the last time.' in spite of her better sense, in spite of her natural superiority to superstitions of all kinds, agnes was impressed by the terrible earnestness with which those words were spoken. she turned pale as she looked at henry. 'do you understand her?' she asked. 'nothing is easier than to understand her,' he replied contemptuously. 'she knows what has become of ferrari; and she is confusing you in a cloud of nonsense, because she daren't own the truth. let her go!' if a dog had been under one of the chairs, and had barked, lady montbarry could not have proceeded more impenetrably with the last words she had to say to agnes. 'advise your interesting mrs. ferrari to wait a little longer,' she said. 'you will know what has become of her husband, and you will tell her. there will be nothing to alarm you. some trifling event will bring us together the next time--as trifling, i dare say, as the engagement of ferrari. sad nonsense, mr. westwick, is it not? but you make allowances for women; we all talk nonsense. good morning, miss lockwood.' she opened the door--suddenly, as if she was afraid of being called back for the second time--and left them. chapter xii 'do you think she is mad?' agnes asked. 'i think she is simply wicked. false, superstitious, inveterately cruel--but not mad. i believe her main motive in coming here was to enjoy the luxury of frightening you.' 'she has frightened me. i am ashamed to own it--but so it is.' henry looked at her, hesitated for a moment, and seated himself on the sofa by her side. 'i am very anxious about you, agnes,' he said. 'but for the fortunate chance which led me to call here to-day--who knows what that vile woman might not have said or done, if she had found you alone? my dear, you are leading a sadly unprotected solitary life. i don't like to think of it; i want to see it changed--especially after what has happened to-day. no! no! it is useless to tell me that you have your old nurse. she is too old; she is not in your rank of life--there is no sufficient protection in the companionship of such a person for a lady in your position. don't mistake me, agnes! what i say, i say in the sincerity of my devotion to you.' he paused, and took her hand. she made a feeble effort to withdraw it--and yielded. 'will the day never come,' he pleaded, 'when the privilege of protecting you may be mine? when you will be the pride and joy of my life, as long as my life lasts?' he pressed her hand gently. she made no reply. the colour came and went on her face; her eyes were turned away from him. 'have i been so unhappy as to offend you?' he asked. she answered that--she said, almost in a whisper, 'no.' 'have i distressed you?' 'you have made me think of the sad days that are gone.' she said no more; she only tried to withdraw her hand from his for the second time. he still held it; he lifted it to his lips. 'can i never make you think of other days than those--of the happier days to come? or, if you must think of the time that is passed, can you not look back to the time when i first loved you?' she sighed as he put the question. 'spare me, henry,' she answered sadly. 'say no more!' the colour again rose in her cheeks; her hand trembled in his. she looked lovely, with her eyes cast down and her bosom heaving gently. at that moment he would have given everything he had in the world to take her in his arms and kiss her. some mysterious sympathy, passing from his hand to hers, seemed to tell her what was in his mind. she snatched her hand away, and suddenly looked up at him. the tears were in her eyes. she said nothing; she let her eyes speak for her. they warned him--without anger, without unkindness--but still they warned him to press her no further that day. 'only tell me that i am forgiven,' he said, as he rose from the sofa. 'yes,' she answered quietly, 'you are forgiven.' 'i have not lowered myself in your estimation, agnes?' 'oh, no!' 'do you wish me to leave you?' she rose, in her turn, from the sofa, and walked to her writing-table before she replied. the unfinished letter which she had been writing when lady montbarry interrupted her, lay open on the blotting-book. as she looked at the letter, and then looked at henry, the smile that charmed everybody showed itself in her face. 'you must not go just yet,' she said: 'i have something to tell you. i hardly know how to express it. the shortest way perhaps will be to let you find it out for yourself. you have been speaking of my lonely unprotected life here. it is not a very happy life, henry--i own that.' she paused, observing the growing anxiety of his expression as he looked at her, with a shy satisfaction that perplexed him. 'do you know that i have anticipated your idea?' she went on. 'i am going to make a great change in my life--if your brother stephen and his wife will only consent to it.' she opened the desk of the writing-table while she spoke, took a letter out, and handed it to henry. he received it from her mechanically. vague doubts, which he hardly understood himself, kept him silent. it was impossible that the 'change in her life' of which she had spoken could mean that she was about to be married--and yet he was conscious of a perfectly unreasonable reluctance to open the letter. their eyes met; she smiled again. 'look at the address,' she said. 'you ought to know the handwriting--but i dare say you don't.' he looked at the address. it was in the large, irregular, uncertain writing of a child. he opened the letter instantly. 'dear aunt agnes,--our governess is going away. she has had money left to her, and a house of her own. we have had cake and wine to drink her health. you promised to be our governess if we wanted another. we want you. mamma knows nothing about this. please come before mamma can get another governess. your loving lucy, who writes this. clara and blanche have tried to write too. but they are too young to do it. they blot the paper.' 'your eldest niece,' agnes explained, as henry looked at her in amazement. 'the children used to call me aunt when i was staying with their mother in ireland, in the autumn. the three girls were my inseparable companions--they are the most charming children i know. it is quite true that i offered to be their governess, if they ever wanted one, on the day when i left them to return to london. i was writing to propose it to their mother, just before you came.' 'not seriously!' henry exclaimed. agnes placed her unfinished letter in his hand. enough of it had been written to show that she did seriously propose to enter the household of mr. and mrs. stephen westwick as governess to their children! henry's bewilderment was not to be expressed in words. 'they won't believe you are in earnest,' he said. 'why not?' agnes asked quietly. 'you are my brother stephen's cousin; you are his wife's old friend.' 'all the more reason, henry, for trusting me with the charge of their children.' 'but you are their equal; you are not obliged to get your living by teaching. there is something absurd in your entering their service as a governess!' 'what is there absurd in it? the children love me; the mother loves me; the father has shown me innumerable instances of his true friendship and regard. i am the very woman for the place--and, as to my education, i must have completely forgotten it indeed, if i am not fit to teach three children the eldest of whom is only eleven years old. you say i am their equal. are there no other women who serve as governesses, and who are the equals of the persons whom they serve? besides, i don't know that i am their equal. have i not heard that your brother stephen was the next heir to the title? will he not be the new lord? never mind answering me! we won't dispute whether i am right or wrong in turning governess--we will wait the event. i am weary of my lonely useless existence here, and eager to make my life more happy and more useful, in the household of all others in which i should like most to have a place. if you will look again, you will see that i have these personal considerations still to urge before i finish my letter. you don't know your brother and his wife as well as i do, if you doubt their answer. i believe they have courage enough and heart enough to say yes.' henry submitted without being convinced. he was a man who disliked all eccentric departures from custom and routine; and he felt especially suspicious of the change proposed in the life of agnes. with new interests to occupy her mind, she might be less favourably disposed to listen to him, on the next occasion when he urged his suit. the influence of the 'lonely useless existence' of which she complained, was distinctly an influence in his favour. while her heart was empty, her heart was accessible. but with his nieces in full possession of it, the clouds of doubt overshadowed his prospects. he knew the sex well enough to keep these purely selfish perplexities to himself. the waiting policy was especially the policy to pursue with a woman as sensitive as agnes. if he once offended her delicacy he was lost. for the moment he wisely controlled himself and changed the subject. 'my little niece's letter has had an effect,' he said, 'which the child never contemplated in writing it. she has just reminded me of one of the objects that i had in calling on you to-day.' agnes looked at the child's letter. 'how does lucy do that?' she asked. 'lucy's governess is not the only lucky person who has had money left her,' henry answered. 'is your old nurse in the house?' 'you don't mean to say that nurse has got a legacy?' 'she has got a hundred pounds. send for her, agnes, while i show you the letter.' he took a handful of letters from his pocket, and looked through them, while agnes rang the bell. returning to him, she noticed a printed letter among the rest, which lay open on the table. it was a 'prospectus,' and the title of it was 'palace hotel company of venice (limited).' the two words, 'palace' and 'venice,' instantly recalled her mind to the unwelcome visit of lady montbarry. 'what is that?' she asked, pointing to the title. henry suspended his search, and glanced at the prospectus. 'a really promising speculation,' he said. 'large hotels always pay well, if they are well managed. i know the man who is appointed to be manager of this hotel when it is opened to the public; and i have such entire confidence in him that i have become one of the shareholders of the company.' the reply did not appear to satisfy agnes. 'why is the hotel called the "palace hotel"?' she inquired. henry looked at her, and at once penetrated her motive for asking the question. 'yes,' he said, 'it is the palace that montbarry hired at venice; and it has been purchased by the company to be changed into an hotel.' agnes turned away in silence, and took a chair at the farther end of the room. henry had disappointed her. his income as a younger son stood in need, as she well knew, of all the additions that he could make to it by successful speculation. but she was unreasonable enough, nevertheless, to disapprove of his attempting to make money already out of the house in which his brother had died. incapable of understanding this purely sentimental view of a plain matter of business, henry returned to his papers, in some perplexity at the sudden change in the manner of agnes towards him. just as he found the letter of which he was in search, the nurse made her appearance. he glanced at agnes, expecting that she would speak first. she never even looked up when the nurse came in. it was left to henry to tell the old woman why the bell had summoned her to the drawing-room. 'well, nurse,' he said, 'you have had a windfall of luck. you have had a legacy left you of a hundred pounds.' the nurse showed no outward signs of exultation. she waited a little to get the announcement of the legacy well settled in her mind--and then she said quietly, 'master henry, who gives me that money, if you please?' 'my late brother, lord montbarry, gives it to you.' (agnes instantly looked up, interested in the matter for the first time. henry went on.) 'his will leaves legacies to the surviving old servants of the family. there is a letter from his lawyers, authorising you to apply to them for the money.' in every class of society, gratitude is the rarest of all human virtues. in the nurse's class it is extremely rare. her opinion of the man who had deceived and deserted her mistress remained the same opinion still, perfectly undisturbed by the passing circumstance of the legacy. 'i wonder who reminded my lord of the old servants?' she said. 'he would never have heart enough to remember them himself!' agnes suddenly interposed. nature, always abhorring monotony, institutes reserves of temper as elements in the composition of the gentlest women living. even agnes could, on rare occasions, be angry. the nurse's view of montbarry's character seemed to have provoked her beyond endurance. 'if you have any sense of shame in you,' she broke out, 'you ought to be ashamed of what you have just said! your ingratitude disgusts me. i leave you to speak with her, henry--you won't mind it!' with this significant intimation that he too had dropped out of his customary place in her good opinion, she left the room. the nurse received the smart reproof administered to her with every appearance of feeling rather amused by it than not. when the door had closed, this female philosopher winked at henry. 'there's a power of obstinacy in young women,' she remarked. 'miss agnes wouldn't give my lord up as a bad one, even when he jilted her. and now she's sweet on him after he's dead. say a word against him, and she fires up as you see. all obstinacy! it will wear out with time. stick to her, master henry--stick to her!' 'she doesn't seem to have offended you,' said henry. 'she?' the nurse repeated in amazement--'she offend me? i like her in her tantrums; it reminds me of her when she was a baby. lord bless you! when i go to bid her good-night, she'll give me a big kiss, poor dear--and say, nurse, i didn't mean it! about this money, master henry? if i was younger i should spend it in dress and jewellery. but i'm too old for that. what shall i do with my legacy when i have got it?' 'put it out at interest,' henry suggested. 'get so much a year for it, you know.' 'how much shall i get?' the nurse asked. 'if you put your hundred pounds into the funds, you will get between three and four pounds a year.' the nurse shook her head. 'three or four pounds a year? that won't do! i want more than that. look here, master henry. i don't care about this bit of money--i never did like the man who has left it to me, though he was your brother. if i lost it all to-morrow, i shouldn't break my heart; i'm well enough off, as it is, for the rest of my days. they say you're a speculator. put me in for a good thing, there's a dear! neck-or-nothing--and that for the funds!' she snapped her fingers to express her contempt for security of investment at three per cent. henry produced the prospectus of the venetian hotel company. 'you're a funny old woman,' he said. 'there, you dashing speculator--there is neck-or-nothing for you! you must keep it a secret from miss agnes, mind. i'm not at all sure that she would approve of my helping you to this investment.' the nurse took out her spectacles. 'six per cent., guaranteed,' she read; 'and the directors have every reason to believe that ten per cent., or more, will be ultimately realised to the shareholders by the hotel.' 'put me into that, master henry! and, wherever you go, for heaven's sake recommend the hotel to your friends!' so the nurse, following henry's mercenary example, had her pecuniary interest, too, in the house in which lord montbarry had died. three days passed before henry was able to visit agnes again. in that time, the little cloud between them had entirely passed away. agnes received him with even more than her customary kindness. she was in better spirits than usual. her letter to mrs. stephen westwick had been answered by return of post; and her proposal had been joyfully accepted, with one modification. she was to visit the westwicks for a month--and, if she really liked teaching the children, she was then to be governess, aunt, and cousin, all in one--and was only to go away in an event which her friends in ireland persisted in contemplating, the event of her marriage. 'you see i was right,' she said to henry. he was still incredulous. 'are you really going?' he asked. 'i am going next week.' 'when shall i see you again?' 'you know you are always welcome at your brother's house. you can see me when you like.' she held out her hand. 'pardon me for leaving you--i am beginning to pack up already.' henry tried to kiss her at parting. she drew back directly. 'why not? i am your cousin,' he said. 'i don't like it,' she answered. henry looked at her, and submitted. her refusal to grant him his privilege as a cousin was a good sign--it was indirectly an act of encouragement to him in the character of her lover. on the first day in the new week, agnes left london on her way to ireland. as the event proved, this was not destined to be the end of her journey. the way to ireland was only the first stage on a roundabout road--the road that led to the palace at venice. the third part chapter xiii in the spring of the year 1861, agnes was established at the country-seat of her two friends--now promoted (on the death of the first lord, without offspring) to be the new lord and lady montbarry. the old nurse was not separated from her mistress. a place, suited to her time of life, had been found for her in the pleasant irish household. she was perfectly happy in her new sphere; and she spent her first half-year's dividend from the venice hotel company, with characteristic prodigality, in presents for the children. early in the year, also, the directors of the life insurance offices submitted to circumstances, and paid the ten thousand pounds. immediately afterwards, the widow of the first lord montbarry (otherwise, the dowager lady montbarry) left england, with baron rivar, for the united states. the baron's object was announced, in the scientific columns of the newspapers, to be investigation into the present state of experimental chemistry in the great american republic. his sister informed inquiring friends that she accompanied him, in the hope of finding consolation in change of scene after the bereavement that had fallen on her. hearing this news from henry westwick (then paying a visit at his brother's house), agnes was conscious of a certain sense of relief. 'with the atlantic between us,' she said, 'surely i have done with that terrible woman now!' barely a week passed after those words had been spoken, before an event happened which reminded agnes of 'the terrible woman' once more. on that day, henry's engagements had obliged him to return to london. he had ventured, on the morning of his departure, to press his suit once more on agnes; and the children, as he had anticipated, proved to be innocent obstacles in the way of his success. on the other hand, he had privately secured a firm ally in his sister-in-law. 'have a little patience,' the new lady montbarry had said, 'and leave me to turn the influence of the children in the right direction. if they can persuade her to listen to you--they shall!' the two ladies had accompanied henry, and some other guests who went away at the same time, to the railway station, and had just driven back to the house, when the servant announced that 'a person of the name of rolland was waiting to see her ladyship.' 'is it a woman?' 'yes, my lady.' young lady montbarry turned to agnes. 'this is the very person,' she said, 'whom your lawyer thought likely to help him, when he was trying to trace the lost courier.' 'you don't mean the english maid who was with lady montbarry at venice?' 'my dear! don't speak of montbarry's horrid widow by the name which is my name now. stephen and i have arranged to call her by her foreign title, before she was married. i am "lady montbarry," and she is "the countess." in that way there will be no confusion.--yes, mrs. rolland was in my service before she became the countess's maid. she was a perfectly trustworthy person, with one defect that obliged me to send her away--a sullen temper which led to perpetual complaints of her in the servants' hall. would you like to see her?' agnes accepted the proposal, in the faint hope of getting some information for the courier's wife. the complete defeat of every attempt to trace the lost man had been accepted as final by mrs. ferrari. she had deliberately arrayed herself in widow's mourning; and was earning her livelihood in an employment which the unwearied kindness of agnes had procured for her in london. the last chance of penetrating the mystery of ferrari's disappearance seemed to rest now on what ferrari's former fellow-servant might be able to tell. with highly-wrought expectations, agnes followed her friend into the room in which mrs. rolland was waiting. a tall bony woman, in the autumn of life, with sunken eyes and iron-grey hair, rose stiffly from her chair, and saluted the ladies with stern submission as they opened the door. a person of unblemished character, evidently--but not without visible drawbacks. big bushy eyebrows, an awfully deep and solemn voice, a harsh unbending manner, a complete absence in her figure of the undulating lines characteristic of the sex, presented virtue in this excellent person under its least alluring aspect. strangers, on a first introduction to her, were accustomed to wonder why she was not a man. 'are you pretty well, mrs. rolland?' 'i am as well as i can expect to be, my lady, at my time of life.' 'is there anything i can do for you?' 'your ladyship can do me a great favour, if you will please speak to my character while i was in your service. i am offered a place, to wait on an invalid lady who has lately come to live in this neighbourhood.' 'ah, yes--i have heard of her. a mrs. carbury, with a very pretty niece i am told. but, mrs. rolland, you left my service some time ago. mrs. carbury will surely expect you to refer to the last mistress by whom you were employed.' a flash of virtuous indignation irradiated mrs. rolland's sunken eyes. she coughed before she answered, as if her 'last mistress' stuck in her throat. 'i have explained to mrs. carbury, my lady, that the person i last served--i really cannot give her her title in your ladyship's presence!--has left england for america. mrs. carbury knows that i quitted the person of my own free will, and knows why, and approves of my conduct so far. a word from your ladyship will be amply sufficient to get me the situation.' 'very well, mrs. rolland, i have no objection to be your reference, under the circumstances. mrs. carbury will find me at home to-morrow until two o'clock.' 'mrs. carbury is not well enough to leave the house, my lady. her niece, miss haldane, will call and make the inquiries, if your ladyship has no objection.' 'i have not the least objection. the pretty niece carries her own welcome with her. wait a minute, mrs. rolland. this lady is miss lockwood--my husband's cousin, and my friend. she is anxious to speak to you about the courier who was in the late lord montbarry's service at venice.' mrs. rolland's bushy eyebrows frowned in stern disapproval of the new topic of conversation. 'i regret to hear it, my lady,' was all she said. 'perhaps you have not been informed of what happened after you left venice?' agnes ventured to add. 'ferrari left the palace secretly; and he has never been heard of since.' mrs. rolland mysteriously closed her eyes--as if to exclude some vision of the lost courier which was of a nature to disturb a respectable woman. 'nothing that mr. ferrari could do would surprise me,' she replied in her deepest bass tones. 'you speak rather harshly of him,' said agnes. mrs. rolland suddenly opened her eyes again. 'i speak harshly of nobody without reason,' she said. 'mr. ferrari behaved to me, miss lockwood, as no man living has ever behaved--before or since.' 'what did he do?' mrs. rolland answered, with a stony stare of horror:-'he took liberties with me.' young lady montbarry suddenly turned aside, and put her handkerchief over her mouth in convulsions of suppressed laughter. mrs. rolland went on, with a grim enjoyment of the bewilderment which her reply had produced in agnes: 'and when i insisted on an apology, miss, he had the audacity to say that the life at the palace was dull, and he didn't know how else to amuse himself!' 'i am afraid i have hardly made myself understood,' said agnes. 'i am not speaking to you out of any interest in ferrari. are you aware that he is married?' 'i pity his wife,' said mrs. rolland. 'she is naturally in great grief about him,' agnes proceeded. 'she ought to thank god she is rid of him,' mrs. rolland interposed. agnes still persisted. 'i have known mrs. ferrari from her childhood, and i am sincerely anxious to help her in this matter. did you notice anything, while you were at venice, that would account for her husband's extraordinary disappearance? on what sort of terms, for instance, did he live with his master and mistress?' 'on terms of familiarity with his mistress,' said mrs. rolland, 'which were simply sickening to a respectable english servant. she used to encourage him to talk to her about all his affairs--how he got on with his wife, and how pressed he was for money, and such like--just as if they were equals. contemptible--that's what i call it.' 'and his master?' agnes continued. 'how did ferrari get on with lord montbarry?' 'my lord used to live shut up with his studies and his sorrows,' mrs. rolland answered, with a hard solemnity expressive of respect for his lordship's memory. 'mr. ferrari got his money when it was due; and he cared for nothing else. "if i could afford it, i would leave the place too; but i can't afford it." those were the last words he said to me, on the morning when i left the palace. i made no reply. after what had happened (on that other occasion) i was naturally not on speaking terms with mr. ferrari.' 'can you really tell me nothing which will throw any light on this matter?' 'nothing,' said mrs. rolland, with an undisguised relish of the disappointment that she was inflicting. 'there was another member of the family at venice,' agnes resumed, determined to sift the question to the bottom while she had the chance. 'there was baron rivar.' mrs. rolland lifted her large hands, covered with rusty black gloves, in mute protest against the introduction of baron rivar as a subject of inquiry. 'are you aware, miss,' she began, 'that i left my place in consequence of what i observed--?' agnes stopped her there. 'i only wanted to ask,' she explained, 'if anything was said or done by baron rivar which might account for ferrari's strange conduct.' 'nothing that i know of,' said mrs. rolland. 'the baron and mr. ferrari (if i may use such an expression) were "birds of a feather," so far as i could see--i mean, one was as unprincipled as the other. i am a just woman; and i will give you an example. only the day before i left, i heard the baron say (through the open door of his room while i was passing along the corridor), "ferrari, i want a thousand pounds. what would you do for a thousand pounds?" and i heard mr. ferrari answer, "anything, sir, as long as i was not found out." and then they both burst out laughing. i heard no more than that. judge for yourself, miss.' agnes reflected for a moment. a thousand pounds was the sum that had been sent to mrs. ferrari in the anonymous letter. was that enclosure in any way connected, as a result, with the conversation between the baron and ferrari? it was useless to press any more inquiries on mrs. rolland. she could give no further information which was of the slightest importance to the object in view. there was no alternative but to grant her dismissal. one more effort had been made to find a trace of the lost man, and once again the effort had failed. they were a family party at the dinner-table that day. the only guest left in the house was a nephew of the new lord montbarry--the eldest son of his sister, lady barville. lady montbarry could not resist telling the story of the first (and last) attack made on the virtue of mrs. rolland, with a comically-exact imitation of mrs. rolland's deep and dismal voice. being asked by her husband what was the object which had brought that formidable person to the house, she naturally mentioned the expected visit of miss haldane. arthur barville, unusually silent and pre-occupied so far, suddenly struck into the conversation with a burst of enthusiasm. 'miss haldane is the most charming girl in all ireland!' he said. 'i caught sight of her yesterday, over the wall of her garden, as i was riding by. what time is she coming to-morrow? before two? i'll look into the drawing-room by accident--i am dying to be introduced to her!' agnes was amused by his enthusiasm. 'are you in love with miss haldane already?' she asked. arthur answered gravely, 'it's no joking matter. i have been all day at the garden wall, waiting to see her again! it depends on miss haldane to make me the happiest or the wretchedest man living.' 'you foolish boy! how can you talk such nonsense?' he was talking nonsense undoubtedly. but, if agnes had only known it, he was doing something more than that. he was innocently leading her another stage nearer on the way to venice. chapter xiv as the summer months advanced, the transformation of the venetian palace into the modern hotel proceeded rapidly towards completion. the outside of the building, with its fine palladian front looking on the canal, was wisely left unaltered. inside, as a matter of necessity, the rooms were almost rebuilt--so far at least as the size and the arrangement of them were concerned. the vast saloons were partitioned off into 'apartments' containing three or four rooms each. the broad corridors in the upper regions afforded spare space enough for rows of little bedchambers, devoted to servants and to travellers with limited means. nothing was spared but the solid floors and the finely-carved ceilings. these last, in excellent preservation as to workmanship, merely required cleaning, and regilding here and there, to add greatly to the beauty and importance of the best rooms in the hotel. the only exception to the complete re-organization of the interior was at one extremity of the edifice, on the first and second floors. here there happened, in each case, to be rooms of such comparatively moderate size, and so attractively decorated, that the architect suggested leaving them as they were. it was afterwards discovered that these were no other than the apartments formerly occupied by lord montbarry (on the first floor), and by baron rivar (on the second). the room in which montbarry had died was still fitted up as a bedroom, and was now distinguished as number fourteen. the room above it, in which the baron had slept, took its place on the hotel-register as number thirty-eight. with the ornaments on the walls and ceilings cleaned and brightened up, and with the heavy old-fashioned beds, chairs, and tables replaced by bright, pretty, and luxurious modern furniture, these two promised to be at once the most attractive and the most comfortable bedchambers in the hotel. as for the once-desolate and disused ground floor of the building, it was now transformed, by means of splendid dining-rooms, reception-rooms, billiard-rooms, and smoking-rooms, into a palace by itself. even the dungeon-like vaults beneath, now lighted and ventilated on the most approved modern plan, had been turned as if by magic into kitchens, servants' offices, ice-rooms, and wine cellars, worthy of the splendour of the grandest hotel in italy, in the now bygone period of seventeen years since. passing from the lapse of the summer months at venice, to the lapse of the summer months in ireland, it is next to be recorded that mrs. rolland obtained the situation of attendant on the invalid mrs. carbury; and that the fair miss haldane, like a female caesar, came, saw, and conquered, on her first day's visit to the new lord montbarry's house. the ladies were as loud in her praises as arthur barville himself. lord montbarry declared that she was the only perfectly pretty woman he had ever seen, who was really unconscious of her own attractions. the old nurse said she looked as if she had just stepped out of a picture, and wanted nothing but a gilt frame round her to make her complete. miss haldane, on her side, returned from her first visit to the montbarrys charmed with her new acquaintances. later on the same day, arthur called with an offering of fruit and flowers for mrs. carbury, and with instructions to ask if she was well enough to receive lord and lady montbarry and miss lockwood on the morrow. in a week's time, the two households were on the friendliest terms. mrs. carbury, confined to the sofa by a spinal malady, had been hitherto dependent on her niece for one of the few pleasures she could enjoy, the pleasure of having the best new novels read to her as they came out. discovering this, arthur volunteered to relieve miss haldane, at intervals, in the office of reader. he was clever at mechanical contrivances of all sorts, and he introduced improvements in mrs. carbury's couch, and in the means of conveying her from the bedchamber to the drawing-room, which alleviated the poor lady's sufferings and brightened her gloomy life. with these claims on the gratitude of the aunt, aided by the personal advantages which he unquestionably possessed, arthur advanced rapidly in the favour of the charming niece. she was, it is needless to say, perfectly well aware that he was in love with her, while he was himself modestly reticent on the subject--so far as words went. but she was not equally quick in penetrating the nature of her own feelings towards arthur. watching the two young people with keen powers of observation, necessarily concentrated on them by the complete seclusion of her life, the invalid lady discovered signs of roused sensibility in miss haldane, when arthur was present, which had never yet shown themselves in her social relations with other admirers eager to pay their addresses to her. having drawn her own conclusions in private, mrs. carbury took the first favourable opportunity (in arthur's interests) of putting them to the test. 'i don't know what i shall do,' she said one day, 'when arthur goes away.' miss haldane looked up quickly from her work. 'surely he is not going to leave us!' she exclaimed. 'my dear! he has already stayed at his uncle's house a month longer than he intended. his father and mother naturally expect to see him at home again.' miss haldane met this difficulty with a suggestion, which could only have proceeded from a judgment already disturbed by the ravages of the tender passion. 'why can't his father and mother go and see him at lord montbarry's?' she asked. 'sir theodore's place is only thirty miles away, and lady barville is lord montbarry's sister. they needn't stand on ceremony.' 'they may have other engagements,' mrs. carbury remarked. 'my dear aunt, we don't know that! suppose you ask arthur?' 'suppose you ask him?' miss haldane bent her head again over her work. suddenly as it was done, her aunt had seen her face--and her face betrayed her. when arthur came the next day, mrs. carbury said a word to him in private, while her niece was in the garden. the last new novel lay neglected on the table. arthur followed miss haldane into the garden. the next day he wrote home, enclosing in his letter a photograph of miss haldane. before the end of the week, sir theodore and lady barville arrived at lord montbarry's, and formed their own judgment of the fidelity of the portrait. they had themselves married early in life--and, strange to say, they did not object on principle to the early marriages of other people. the question of age being thus disposed of, the course of true love had no other obstacles to encounter. miss haldane was an only child, and was possessed of an ample fortune. arthur's career at the university had been creditable, but certainly not brilliant enough to present his withdrawal in the light of a disaster. as sir theodore's eldest son, his position was already made for him. he was two-and-twenty years of age; and the young lady was eighteen. there was really no producible reason for keeping the lovers waiting, and no excuse for deferring the wedding-day beyond the first week in september. in the interval, while the bride and bridegroom would be necessarily absent on the inevitable tour abroad, a sister of mrs. carbury volunteered to stay with her during the temporary separation from her niece. on the conclusion of the honeymoon, the young couple were to return to ireland, and were to establish themselves in mrs. carbury's spacious and comfortable house. these arrangements were decided upon early in the month of august. about the same date, the last alterations in the old palace at venice were completed. the rooms were dried by steam; the cellars were stocked; the manager collected round him his army of skilled servants; and the new hotel was advertised all over europe to open in october. chapter xv (miss agnes lockwood to mrs. ferrari) 'i promised to give you some account, dear emily, of the marriage of mr. arthur barville and miss haldane. it took place ten days since. but i have had so many things to look after in the absence of the master and mistress of this house, that i am only able to write to you to-day. 'the invitations to the wedding were limited to members of the families on either side, in consideration of the ill health of miss haldane's aunt. on the side of the montbarry family, there were present, besides lord and lady montbarry, sir theodore and lady barville; mrs. norbury (whom you may remember as his lordship's second sister); and mr. francis westwick, and mr. henry westwick. the three children and i attended the ceremony as bridesmaids. we were joined by two young ladies, cousins of the bride and very agreeable girls. our dresses were white, trimmed with green in honour of ireland; and we each had a handsome gold bracelet given to us as a present from the bridegroom. if you add to the persons whom i have already mentioned, the elder members of mrs. carbury's family, and the old servants in both houses--privileged to drink the healths of the married pair at the lower end of the room--you will have the list of the company at the wedding-breakfast complete. 'the weather was perfect, and the ceremony (with music) was beautifully performed. as for the bride, no words can describe how lovely she looked, or how well she went through it all. we were very merry at the breakfast, and the speeches went off on the whole quite well enough. the last speech, before the party broke up, was made by mr. henry westwick, and was the best of all. he offered a happy suggestion, at the end, which has produced a very unexpected change in my life here. 'as well as i remember, he concluded in these words:--"on one point, we are all agreed--we are sorry that the parting hour is near, and we should be glad to meet again. why should we not meet again? this is the autumn time of the year; we are most of us leaving home for the holidays. what do you say (if you have no engagements that will prevent it) to joining our young married friends before the close of their tour, and renewing the social success of this delightful breakfast by another festival in honour of the honeymoon? the bride and bridegroom are going to germany and the tyrol, on their way to italy. i propose that we allow them a month to themselves, and that we arrange to meet them afterwards in the north of italy--say at venice." 'this proposal was received with great applause, which was changed into shouts of laughter by no less a person than my dear old nurse. the moment mr. westwick pronounced the word "venice," she started up among the servants at the lower end of the room, and called out at the top of her voice, "go to our hotel, ladies and gentlemen! we get six per cent. on our money already; and if you will only crowd the place and call for the best of everything, it will be ten per cent. in our pockets in no time. ask master henry!" 'appealed to in this irresistible manner, mr. westwick had no choice but to explain that he was concerned as a shareholder in a new hotel company at venice, and that he had invested a small sum of money for the nurse (not very considerately, as i think) in the speculation. hearing this, the company, by way of humouring the joke, drank a new toast:--success to the nurse's hotel, and a speedy rise in the dividend! 'when the conversation returned in due time to the more serious question of the proposed meeting at venice, difficulties began to present themselves, caused of course by invitations for the autumn which many of the guests had already accepted. only two members of mrs. carbury's family were at liberty to keep the proposed appointment. on our side we were more at leisure to do as we pleased. mr. henry westwick decided to go to venice in advance of the rest, to test the accommodation of the new hotel on the opening day. mrs. norbury and mr. francis westwick volunteered to follow him; and, after some persuasion, lord and lady montbarry consented to a species of compromise. his lordship could not conveniently spare time enough for the journey to venice, but he and lady montbarry arranged to accompany mrs. norbury and mr. francis westwick as far on their way to italy as paris. five days since, they took their departure to meet their travelling companions in london; leaving me here in charge of the three dear children. they begged hard, of course, to be taken with papa and mamma. but it was thought better not to interrupt the progress of their education, and not to expose them (especially the two younger girls) to the fatigues of travelling. 'i have had a charming letter from the bride, this morning, dated cologne. you cannot think how artlessly and prettily she assures me of her happiness. some people, as they say in ireland, are born to good luck--and i think arthur barville is one of them. 'when you next write, i hope to hear that you are in better health and spirits, and that you continue to like your employment. believe me, sincerely your friend,--a. l.' agnes had just closed and directed her letter, when the eldest of her three pupils entered the room with the startling announcement that lord montbarry's travelling-servant had arrived from paris! alarmed by the idea that some misfortune had happened, she ran out to meet the man in the hall. her face told him how seriously he had frightened her, before she could speak. 'there's nothing wrong, miss,' he hastened to say. 'my lord and my lady are enjoying themselves at paris. they only want you and the young ladies to be with them.' saying these amazing words, he handed to agnes a letter from lady montbarry. 'dearest agnes,' (she read), 'i am so charmed with the delightful change in my life--it is six years, remember, since i last travelled on the continent--that i have exerted all my fascinations to persuade lord montbarry to go on to venice. and, what is more to the purpose, i have actually succeeded! he has just gone to his room to write the necessary letters of excuse in time for the post to england. may you have as good a husband, my dear, when your time comes! in the mean while, the one thing wanting now to make my happiness complete, is to have you and the darling children with us. montbarry is just as miserable without them as i am--though he doesn't confess it so freely. you will have no difficulties to trouble you. louis will deliver these hurried lines, and will take care of you on the journey to paris. kiss the children for me a thousand times--and never mind their education for the present! pack up instantly, my dear, and i will be fonder of you than ever. your affectionate friend, adela montbarry.' agnes folded up the letter; and, feeling the need of composing herself, took refuge for a few minutes in her own room. her first natural sensations of surprise and excitement at the prospect of going to venice were succeeded by impressions of a less agreeable kind. with the recovery of her customary composure came the unwelcome remembrance of the parting words spoken to her by montbarry's widow:--'we shall meet again--here in england, or there in venice where my husband died--and meet for the last time.' it was an odd coincidence, to say the least of it, that the march of events should be unexpectedly taking agnes to venice, after those words had been spoken! was the woman of the mysterious warnings and the wild black eyes still thousands of miles away in america? or was the march of events taking her unexpectedly, too, on the journey to venice? agnes started out of her chair, ashamed of even the momentary concession to superstition which was implied by the mere presence of such questions as these in her mind. she rang the bell, and sent for her little pupils, and announced their approaching departure to the household. the noisy delight of the children, the inspiriting effort of packing up in a hurry, roused all her energies. she dismissed her own absurd misgivings from consideration, with the contempt that they deserved. she worked as only women can work, when their hearts are in what they do. the travellers reached dublin that day, in time for the boat to england. two days later, they were with lord and lady montbarry at paris. the fourth part chapter xvi it was only the twentieth of september, when agnes and the children reached paris. mrs. norbury and her brother francis had then already started on their journey to italy--at least three weeks before the date at which the new hotel was to open for the reception of travellers. the person answerable for this premature departure was francis westwick. like his younger brother henry, he had increased his pecuniary resources by his own enterprise and ingenuity; with this difference, that his speculations were connected with the arts. he had made money, in the first instance, by a weekly newspaper; and he had then invested his profits in a london theatre. this latter enterprise, admirably conducted, had been rewarded by the public with steady and liberal encouragement. pondering over a new form of theatrical attraction for the coming winter season, francis had determined to revive the languid public taste for the ballet by means of an entertainment of his own invention, combining dramatic interest with dancing. he was now, accordingly, in search of the best dancer (possessed of the indispensable personal attractions) who was to be found in the theatres of the continent. hearing from his foreign correspondents of two women who had made successful first appearances, one at milan and one at florence, he had arranged to visit those cities, and to judge of the merits of the dancers for himself, before he joined the bride and bridegroom. his widowed sister, having friends at florence whom she was anxious to see, readily accompanied him. the montbarrys remained at paris, until it was time to present themselves at the family meeting in venice. henry found them still in the french capital, when he arrived from london on his way to the opening of the new hotel. against lady montbarry's advice, he took the opportunity of renewing his addresses to agnes. he could hardly have chosen a more unpropitious time for pleading his cause with her. the gaieties of paris (quite incomprehensibly to herself as well as to everyone about her) had a depressing effect on her spirits. she had no illness to complain of; she shared willingly in the ever-varying succession of amusements offered to strangers by the ingenuity of the liveliest people in the world--but nothing roused her: she remained persistently dull and weary through it all. in this frame of mind and body, she was in no humour to receive henry's ill-timed addresses with favour, or even with patience: she plainly and positively refused to listen to him. 'why do you remind me of what i have suffered?' she asked petulantly. 'don't you see that it has left its mark on me for life?' 'i thought i knew something of women by this time,' henry said, appealing privately to lady montbarry for consolation. 'but agnes completely puzzles me. it is a year since montbarry's death; and she remains as devoted to his memory as if he had died faithful to her--she still feels the loss of him, as none of us feel it!' 'she is the truest woman that ever breathed the breath of life,' lady montbarry answered. 'remember that, and you will understand her. can such a woman as agnes give her love or refuse it, according to circumstances? because the man was unworthy of her, was he less the man of her choice? the truest and best friend to him (little as he deserved it) in his lifetime, she naturally remains the truest and best friend to his memory now. if you really love her, wait; and trust to your two best friends--to time and to me. there is my advice; let your own experience decide whether it is not the best advice that i can offer. resume your journey to venice to-morrow; and when you take leave of agnes, speak to her as cordially as if nothing had happened.' henry wisely followed this advice. thoroughly understanding him, agnes made the leave-taking friendly and pleasant on her side. when he stopped at the door for a last look at her, she hurriedly turned her head so that her face was hidden from him. was that a good sign? lady montbarry, accompanying henry down the stairs, said, 'yes, decidedly! write when you get to venice. we shall wait here to receive letters from arthur and his wife, and we shall time our departure for italy accordingly.' a week passed, and no letter came from henry. some days later, a telegram was received from him. it was despatched from milan, instead of from venice; and it brought this strange message:--'i have left the hotel. will return on the arrival of arthur and his wife. address, meanwhile, albergo reale, milan.' preferring venice before all other cities of europe, and having arranged to remain there until the family meeting took place, what unexpected event had led henry to alter his plans? and why did he state the bare fact, without adding a word of explanation? let the narrative follow him--and find the answer to those questions at venice. chapter xvii the palace hotel, appealing for encouragement mainly to english and american travellers, celebrated the opening of its doors, as a matter of course, by the giving of a grand banquet, and the delivery of a long succession of speeches. delayed on his journey, henry westwick only reached venice in time to join the guests over their coffee and cigars. observing the splendour of the reception rooms, and taking note especially of the artful mixture of comfort and luxury in the bedchambers, he began to share the old nurse's view of the future, and to contemplate seriously the coming dividend of ten per cent. the hotel was beginning well, at all events. so much interest in the enterprise had been aroused, at home and abroad, by profuse advertising, that the whole accommodation of the building had been secured by travellers of all nations for the opening night. henry only obtained one of the small rooms on the upper floor, by a lucky accident--the absence of the gentleman who had written to engage it. he was quite satisfied, and was on his way to bed, when another accident altered his prospects for the night, and moved him into another and a better room. ascending on his way to the higher regions as far as the first floor of the hotel, henry's attention was attracted by an angry voice protesting, in a strong new england accent, against one of the greatest hardships that can be inflicted on a citizen of the united states--the hardship of sending him to bed without gas in his room. the americans are not only the most hospitable people to be found on the face of the earth--they are (under certain conditions) the most patient and good-tempered people as well. but they are human; and the limit of american endurance is found in the obsolete institution of a bedroom candle. the american traveller, in the present case, declined to believe that his bedroom was in a complete finished state without a gas-burner. the manager pointed to the fine antique decorations (renewed and regilt) on the walls and the ceiling, and explained that the emanations of burning gas-light would certainly spoil them in the course of a few months. to this the traveller replied that it was possible, but that he did not understand decorations. a bedroom with gas in it was what he was used to, was what he wanted, and was what he was determined to have. the compliant manager volunteered to ask some other gentleman, housed on the inferior upper storey (which was lit throughout with gas), to change rooms. hearing this, and being quite willing to exchange a small bedchamber for a large one, henry volunteered to be the other gentleman. the excellent american shook hands with him on the spot. 'you are a cultured person, sir,' he said; 'and you will no doubt understand the decorations.' henry looked at the number of the room on the door as he opened it. the number was fourteen. tired and sleepy, he naturally anticipated a good night's rest. in the thoroughly healthy state of his nervous system, he slept as well in a bed abroad as in a bed at home. without the slightest assignable reason, however, his just expectations were disappointed. the luxurious bed, the well-ventilated room, the delicious tranquillity of venice by night, all were in favour of his sleeping well. he never slept at all. an indescribable sense of depression and discomfort kept him waking through darkness and daylight alike. he went down to the coffee-room as soon as the hotel was astir, and ordered some breakfast. another unaccountable change in himself appeared with the appearance of the meal. he was absolutely without appetite. an excellent omelette, and cutlets cooked to perfection, he sent away untasted--he, whose appetite never failed him, whose digestion was still equal to any demands on it! the day was bright and fine. he sent for a gondola, and was rowed to the lido. out on the airy lagoon, he felt like a new man. he had not left the hotel ten minutes before he was fast asleep in the gondola. waking, on reaching the landing-place, he crossed the lido, and enjoyed a morning's swim in the adriatic. there was only a poor restaurant on the island, in those days; but his appetite was now ready for anything; he ate whatever was offered to him, like a famished man. he could hardly believe, when he reflected on it, that he had sent away untasted his excellent breakfast at the hotel. returning to venice, he spent the rest of the day in the picture-galleries and the churches. towards six o'clock his gondola took him back, with another fine appetite, to meet some travelling acquaintances with whom he had engaged to dine at the table d'hote. the dinner was deservedly rewarded with the highest approval by every guest in the hotel but one. to henry's astonishment, the appetite with which he had entered the house mysteriously and completely left him when he sat down to table. he could drink some wine, but he could literally eat nothing. 'what in the world is the matter with you?' his travelling acquaintances asked. he could honestly answer, 'i know no more than you do.' when night came, he gave his comfortable and beautiful bedroom another trial. the result of the second experiment was a repetition of the result of the first. again he felt the all-pervading sense of depression and discomfort. again he passed a sleepless night. and once more, when he tried to eat his breakfast, his appetite completely failed him! this personal experience of the new hotel was too extraordinary to be passed over in silence. henry mentioned it to his friends in the public room, in the hearing of the manager. the manager, naturally zealous in defence of the hotel, was a little hurt at the implied reflection cast on number fourteen. he invited the travellers present to judge for themselves whether mr. westwick's bedroom was to blame for mr. westwick's sleepless nights; and he especially appealed to a grey-headed gentleman, a guest at the breakfast-table of an english traveller, to take the lead in the investigation. 'this is doctor bruno, our first physician in venice,' he explained. 'i appeal to him to say if there are any unhealthy influences in mr. westwick's room.' introduced to number fourteen, the doctor looked round him with a certain appearance of interest which was noticed by everyone present. 'the last time i was in this room,' he said, 'was on a melancholy occasion. it was before the palace was changed into an hotel. i was in professional attendance on an english nobleman who died here.' one of the persons present inquired the name of the nobleman. doctor bruno answered (without the slightest suspicion that he was speaking before a brother of the dead man), 'lord montbarry.' henry quietly left the room, without saying a word to anybody. he was not, in any sense of the term, a superstitious man. but he felt, nevertheless, an insurmountable reluctance to remaining in the hotel. he decided on leaving venice. to ask for another room would be, as he could plainly see, an offence in the eyes of the manager. to remove to another hotel, would be to openly abandon an establishment in the success of which he had a pecuniary interest. leaving a note for arthur barville, on his arrival in venice, in which he merely mentioned that he had gone to look at the italian lakes, and that a line addressed to his hotel at milan would bring him back again, he took the afternoon train to padua--and dined with his usual appetite, and slept as well as ever that night. the next day, a gentleman and his wife (perfect strangers to the montbarry family), returning to england by way of venice, arrived at the hotel and occupied number fourteen. still mindful of the slur that had been cast on one of his best bedchambers, the manager took occasion to ask the travellers the next morning how they liked their room. they left him to judge for himself how well they were satisfied, by remaining a day longer in venice than they had originally planned to do, solely for the purpose of enjoying the excellent accommodation offered to them by the new hotel. 'we have met with nothing like it in italy,' they said; 'you may rely on our recommending you to all our friends.' on the day when number fourteen was again vacant, an english lady travelling alone with her maid arrived at the hotel, saw the room, and at once engaged it. the lady was mrs. norbury. she had left francis westwick at milan, occupied in negotiating for the appearance at his theatre of the new dancer at the scala. not having heard to the contrary, mrs. norbury supposed that arthur barville and his wife had already arrived at venice. she was more interested in meeting the young married couple than in awaiting the result of the hard bargaining which delayed the engagement of the new dancer; and she volunteered to make her brother's apologies, if his theatrical business caused him to be late in keeping his appointment at the honeymoon festival. mrs. norbury's experience of number fourteen differed entirely from her brother henry's experience of the room. falling asleep as readily as usual, her repose was disturbed by a succession of frightful dreams; the central figure in every one of them being the figure of her dead brother, the first lord montbarry. she saw him starving in a loathsome prison; she saw him pursued by assassins, and dying under their knives; she saw him drowning in immeasurable depths of dark water; she saw him in a bed on fire, burning to death in the flames; she saw him tempted by a shadowy creature to drink, and dying of the poisonous draught. the reiterated horror of these dreams had such an effect on her that she rose with the dawn of day, afraid to trust herself again in bed. in the old times, she had been noted in the family as the one member of it who lived on affectionate terms with montbarry. his other sister and his brothers were constantly quarrelling with him. even his mother owned that her eldest son was of all her children the child whom she least liked. sensible and resolute woman as she was, mrs. norbury shuddered with terror as she sat at the window of her room, watching the sunrise, and thinking of her dreams. she made the first excuse that occurred to her, when her maid came in at the usual hour, and noticed how ill she looked. the woman was of so superstitious a temperament that it would have been in the last degree indiscreet to trust her with the truth. mrs. norbury merely remarked that she had not found the bed quite to her liking, on account of the large size of it. she was accustomed at home, as her maid knew, to sleep in a small bed. informed of this objection later in the day, the manager regretted that he could only offer to the lady the choice of one other bedchamber, numbered thirty-eight, and situated immediately over the bedchamber which she desired to leave. mrs. norbury accepted the proposed change of quarters. she was now about to pass her second night in the room occupied in the old days of the palace by baron rivar. once more, she fell asleep as usual. and, once more, the frightful dreams of the first night terrified her, following each other in the same succession. this time her nerves, already shaken, were not equal to the renewed torture of terror inflicted on them. she threw on her dressing-gown, and rushed out of her room in the middle of the night. the porter, alarmed by the banging of the door, met her hurrying headlong down the stairs, in search of the first human being she could find to keep her company. considerably surprised at this last new manifestation of the famous 'english eccentricity,' the man looked at the hotel register, and led the lady upstairs again to the room occupied by her maid. the maid was not asleep, and, more wonderful still, was not even undressed. she received her mistress quietly. when they were alone, and when mrs. norbury had, as a matter of necessity, taken her attendant into her confidence, the woman made a very strange reply. 'i have been asking about the hotel, at the servants' supper to-night,' she said. 'the valet of one of the gentlemen staying here has heard that the late lord montbarry was the last person who lived in the palace, before it was made into an hotel. the room he died in, ma'am, was the room you slept in last night. your room tonight is the room just above it. i said nothing for fear of frightening you. for my own part, i have passed the night as you see, keeping my light on, and reading my bible. in my opinion, no member of your family can hope to be happy or comfortable in this house.' 'what do you mean?' 'please to let me explain myself, ma'am. when mr. henry westwick was here (i have this from the valet, too) he occupied the room his brother died in (without knowing it), like you. for two nights he never closed his eyes. without any reason for it (the valet heard him tell the gentlemen in the coffee-room) he could not sleep; he felt so low and so wretched in himself. and what is more, when daytime came, he couldn't even eat while he was under this roof. you may laugh at me, ma'am--but even a servant may draw her own conclusions. it's my conclusion that something happened to my lord, which we none of us know about, when he died in this house. his ghost walks in torment until he can tell it--and the living persons related to him are the persons who feel he is near them. those persons may yet see him in the time to come. don't, pray don't stay any longer in this dreadful place! i wouldn't stay another night here myself--no, not for anything that could be offered me!' mrs. norbury at once set her servant's mind at ease on this last point. 'i don't think about it as you do,' she said gravely. 'but i should like to speak to my brother of what has happened. we will go back to milan.' some hours necessarily elapsed before they could leave the hotel, by the first train in the forenoon. in that interval, mrs. norbury's maid found an opportunity of confidentially informing the valet of what had passed between her mistress and herself. the valet had other friends to whom he related the circumstances in his turn. in due course of time, the narrative, passing from mouth to mouth, reached the ears of the manager. he instantly saw that the credit of the hotel was in danger, unless something was done to retrieve the character of the room numbered fourteen. english travellers, well acquainted with the peerage of their native country, informed him that henry westwick and mrs. norbury were by no means the only members of the montbarry family. curiosity might bring more of them to the hotel, after hearing what had happened. the manager's ingenuity easily hit on the obvious means of misleading them, in this case. the numbers of all the rooms were enamelled in blue, on white china plates, screwed to the doors. he ordered a new plate to be prepared, bearing the number, '13 a'; and he kept the room empty, after its tenant for the time being had gone away, until the plate was ready. he then re-numbered the room; placing the removed number fourteen on the door of his own room (on the second floor), which, not being to let, had not previously been numbered at all. by this device, number fourteen disappeared at once and for ever from the books of the hotel, as the number of a bedroom to let. having warned the servants to beware of gossiping with travellers, on the subject of the changed numbers, under penalty of being dismissed, the manager composed his mind with the reflection that he had done his duty to his employers. 'now,' he thought to himself, with an excusable sense of triumph, 'let the whole family come here if they like! the hotel is a match for them.' chapter xviii before the end of the week, the manager found himself in relations with 'the family' once more. a telegram from milan announced that mr. francis westwick would arrive in venice on the next day; and would be obliged if number fourteen, on the first floor, could be reserved for him, in the event of its being vacant at the time. the manager paused to consider, before he issued his directions. the re-numbered room had been last let to a french gentleman. it would be occupied on the day of mr. francis westwick's arrival, but it would be empty again on the day after. would it be well to reserve the room for the special occupation of mr. francis? and when he had passed the night unsuspiciously and comfortably in 'no. 13 a,' to ask him in the presence of witnesses how he liked his bedchamber? in this case, if the reputation of the room happened to be called in question again, the answer would vindicate it, on the evidence of a member of the very family which had first given number fourteen a bad name. after a little reflection, the manager decided on trying the experiment, and directed that '13 a' should be reserved accordingly. on the next day, francis westwick arrived in excellent spirits. he had signed agreements with the most popular dancer in italy; he had transferred the charge of mrs. norbury to his brother henry, who had joined him in milan; and he was now at full liberty to amuse himself by testing in every possible way the extraordinary influence exercised over his relatives by the new hotel. when his brother and sister first told him what their experience had been, he instantly declared that he would go to venice in the interest of his theatre. the circumstances related to him contained invaluable hints for a ghost-drama. the title occurred to him in the railway: 'the haunted hotel.' post that in red letters six feet high, on a black ground, all over london--and trust the excitable public to crowd into the theatre! received with the politest attention by the manager, francis met with a disappointment on entering the hotel. 'some mistake, sir. no such room on the first floor as number fourteen. the room bearing that number is on the second floor, and has been occupied by me, from the day when the hotel opened. perhaps you meant number 13 a, on the first floor? it will be at your service to-morrow--a charming room. in the mean time, we will do the best we can for you, to-night.' a man who is the successful manager of a theatre is probably the last man in the civilized universe who is capable of being impressed with favourable opinions of his fellow-creatures. francis privately set the manager down as a humbug, and the story about the numbering of the rooms as a lie. on the day of his arrival, he dined by himself in the restaurant, before the hour of the table d'hote, for the express purpose of questioning the waiter, without being overheard by anybody. the answer led him to the conclusion that '13 a' occupied the situation in the hotel which had been described by his brother and sister as the situation of '14.' he asked next for the visitors' list; and found that the french gentleman who then occupied '13 a,' was the proprietor of a theatre in paris, personally well known to him. was the gentleman then in the hotel? he had gone out, but would certainly return for the table d'hote. when the public dinner was over, francis entered the room, and was welcomed by his parisian colleague, literally, with open arms. 'come and have a cigar in my room,' said the friendly frenchman. 'i want to hear whether you have really engaged that woman at milan or not.' in this easy way, francis found his opportunity of comparing the interior of the room with the description which he had heard of it at milan. arriving at the door, the frenchman bethought himself of his travelling companion. 'my scene-painter is here with me,' he said, 'on the look-out for materials. an excellent fellow, who will take it as a kindness if we ask him to join us. i'll tell the porter to send him up when he comes in.' he handed the key of his room to francis. 'i will be back in a minute. it's at the end of the corridor--13 a.' francis entered the room alone. there were the decorations on the walls and the ceiling, exactly as they had been described to him! he had just time to perceive this at a glance, before his attention was diverted to himself and his own sensations, by a grotesquely disagreeable occurrence which took him completely by surprise. he became conscious of a mysteriously offensive odour in the room, entirely new in his experience of revolting smells. it was composed (if such a thing could be) of two mingling exhalations, which were separately-discoverable exhalations nevertheless. this strange blending of odours consisted of something faintly and unpleasantly aromatic, mixed with another underlying smell, so unutterably sickening that he threw open the window, and put his head out into the fresh air, unable to endure the horribly infected atmosphere for a moment longer. the french proprietor joined his english friend, with his cigar already lit. he started back in dismay at a sight terrible to his countrymen in general--the sight of an open window. 'you english people are perfectly mad on the subject of fresh air!' he exclaimed. 'we shall catch our deaths of cold.' francis turned, and looked at him in astonishment. 'are you really not aware of the smell there is in the room?' he asked. 'smell!' repeated his brother-manager. 'i smell my own good cigar. try one yourself. and for heaven's sake shut the window!' francis declined the cigar by a sign. 'forgive me,' he said. 'i will leave you to close the window. i feel faint and giddy--i had better go out.' he put his handkerchief over his nose and mouth, and crossed the room to the door. the frenchman followed the movements of francis, in such a state of bewilderment that he actually forgot to seize the opportunity of shutting out the fresh air. 'is it so nasty as that?' he asked, with a broad stare of amazement. 'horrible!' francis muttered behind his handkerchief. 'i never smelt anything like it in my life!' there was a knock at the door. the scene-painter appeared. his employer instantly asked him if he smelt anything. 'i smell your cigar. delicious! give me one directly!' 'wait a minute. besides my cigar, do you smell anything else--vile, abominable, overpowering, indescribable, never-never-never-smelt before?' the scene-painter appeared to be puzzled by the vehement energy of the language addressed to him. 'the room is as fresh and sweet as a room can be,' he answered. as he spoke, he looked back with astonishment at francis westwick, standing outside in the corridor, and eyeing the interior of the bedchamber with an expression of undisguised disgust. the parisian director approached his english colleague, and looked at him with grave and anxious scrutiny. 'you see, my friend, here are two of us, with as good noses as yours, who smell nothing. if you want evidence from more noses, look there!' he pointed to two little english girls, at play in the corridor. 'the door of my room is wide open--and you know how fast a smell can travel. now listen, while i appeal to these innocent noses, in the language of their own dismal island. my little loves, do you sniff a nasty smell here--ha?' the children burst out laughing, and answered emphatically, 'no.' 'my good westwick,' the frenchman resumed, in his own language, 'the conclusion is surely plain? there is something wrong, very wrong, with your own nose. i recommend you to see a medical man.' having given that advice, he returned to his room, and shut out the horrid fresh air with a loud exclamation of relief. francis left the hotel, by the lanes that led to the square of st. mark. the night-breeze soon revived him. he was able to light a cigar, and to think quietly over what had happened. chapter xix avoiding the crowd under the colonnades, francis walked slowly up and down the noble open space of the square, bathed in the light of the rising moon. without being aware of it himself, he was a thorough materialist. the strange effect produced on him by the room--following on the other strange effects produced on the other relatives of his dead brother--exercised no perplexing influence over the mind of this sensible man. 'perhaps,' he reflected, 'my temperament is more imaginative than i supposed it to be--and this is a trick played on me by my own fancy? or, perhaps, my friend is right; something is physically amiss with me? i don't feel ill, certainly. but that is no safe criterion sometimes. i am not going to sleep in that abominable room to-night--i can well wait till to-morrow to decide whether i shall speak to a doctor or not. in the mean time, the hotel doesn't seem likely to supply me with the subject of a piece. a terrible smell from an invisible ghost is a perfectly new idea. but it has one drawback. if i realise it on the stage, i shall drive the audience out of the theatre.' as his strong common sense arrived at this facetious conclusion, he became aware of a lady, dressed entirely in black, who was observing him with marked attention. 'am i right in supposing you to be mr. francis westwick?' the lady asked, at the moment when he looked at her. 'that is my name, madam. may i inquire to whom i have the honour of speaking?' 'we have only met once,' she answered a little evasively, 'when your late brother introduced me to the members of his family. i wonder if you have quite forgotten my big black eyes and my hideous complexion?' she lifted her veil as she spoke, and turned so that the moonlight rested on her face. francis recognised at a glance the woman of all others whom he most cordially disliked--the widow of his dead brother, the first lord montbarry. he frowned as he looked at her. his experience on the stage, gathered at innumerable rehearsals with actresses who had sorely tried his temper, had accustomed him to speak roughly to women who were distasteful to him. 'i remember you,' he said. 'i thought you were in america!' she took no notice of his ungracious tone and manner; she simply stopped him when he lifted his hat, and turned to leave her. 'let me walk with you for a few minutes,' she quietly replied. 'i have something to say to you.' he showed her his cigar. 'i am smoking,' he said. 'i don't mind smoking.' after that, there was nothing to be done (short of downright brutality) but to yield. he did it with the worst possible grace. 'well?' he resumed. 'what do you want of me?' 'you shall hear directly, mr. westwick. let me first tell you what my position is. i am alone in the world. to the loss of my husband has now been added another bereavement, the loss of my companion in america, my brother--baron rivar.' the reputation of the baron, and the doubt which scandal had thrown on his assumed relationship to the countess, were well known to francis. 'shot in a gambling-saloon?' he asked brutally. 'the question is a perfectly natural one on your part,' she said, with the impenetrably ironical manner which she could assume on certain occasions. 'as a native of horse-racing england, you belong to a nation of gamblers. my brother died no extraordinary death, mr. westwick. he sank, with many other unfortunate people, under a fever prevalent in a western city which we happened to visit. the calamity of his loss made the united states unendurable to me. i left by the first steamer that sailed from new york--a french vessel which brought me to havre. i continued my lonely journey to the south of france. and then i went on to venice.' 'what does all this matter to me?' francis thought to himself. she paused, evidently expecting him to say something. 'so you have come to venice?' he said carelessly. 'why?' 'because i couldn't help it,' she answered. francis looked at her with cynical curiosity. 'that sounds odd,' he remarked. 'why couldn't you help it?' 'women are accustomed to act on impulse,' she explained. 'suppose we say that an impulse has directed my journey? and yet, this is the last place in the world that i wish to find myself in. associations that i detest are connected with it in my mind. if i had a will of my own, i would never see it again. i hate venice. as you see, however, i am here. when did you meet with such an unreasonable woman before? never, i am sure!' she stopped, eyed him for a moment, and suddenly altered her tone. 'when is miss agnes lockwood expected to be in venice?' she asked. it was not easy to throw francis off his balance, but that extraordinary question did it. 'how the devil did you know that miss lockwood was coming to venice?' he exclaimed. she laughed--a bitter mocking laugh. 'say, i guessed it!' something in her tone, or perhaps something in the audacious defiance of her eyes as they rested on him, roused the quick temper that was in francis westwick. 'lady montbarry--!' he began. 'stop there!' she interposed. 'your brother stephen's wife calls herself lady montbarry now. i share my title with no woman. call me by my name before i committed the fatal mistake of marrying your brother. address me, if you please, as countess narona.' 'countess narona,' francis resumed, 'if your object in claiming my acquaintance is to mystify me, you have come to the wrong man. speak plainly, or permit me to wish you good evening.' 'if your object is to keep miss lockwood's arrival in venice a secret,' she retorted, 'speak plainly, mr. westwick, on your side, and say so.' her intention was evidently to irritate him; and she succeeded. 'nonsense!' he broke out petulantly. 'my brother's travelling arrangements are secrets to nobody. he brings miss lockwood here, with lady montbarry and the children. as you seem so well informed, perhaps you know why she is coming to venice?' the countess had suddenly become grave and thoughtful. she made no reply. the two strangely associated companions, having reached one extremity of the square, were now standing before the church of st. mark. the moonlight was bright enough to show the architecture of the grand cathedral in its wonderful variety of detail. even the pigeons of st. mark were visible, in dark closely packed rows, roosting in the archways of the great entrance doors. 'i never saw the old church look so beautiful by moonlight,' the countess said quietly; speaking, not to francis, but to herself. 'good-bye, st. mark's by moonlight! i shall not see you again.' she turned away from the church, and saw francis listening to her with wondering looks. 'no,' she resumed, placidly picking up the lost thread of the conversation, 'i don't know why miss lockwood is coming here, i only know that we are to meet in venice.' 'by previous appointment?' 'by destiny,' she answered, with her head on her breast, and her eyes on the ground. francis burst out laughing. 'or, if you like it better,' she instantly resumed, 'by what fools call chance.' francis answered easily, out of the depths of his strong common sense. 'chance seems to be taking a queer way of bringing the meeting about,' he said. 'we have all arranged to meet at the palace hotel. how is it that your name is not on the visitors' list? destiny ought to have brought you to the palace hotel too.' she abruptly pulled down her veil. 'destiny may do that yet!' she said. 'the palace hotel?' she repeated, speaking once more to herself. 'the old hell, transformed into the new purgatory. the place itself! jesu maria! the place itself!' she paused and laid her hand on her companion's arm. 'perhaps miss lockwood is not going there with the rest of you?' she burst out with sudden eagerness. 'are you positively sure she will be at the hotel?' 'positively! haven't i told you that miss lockwood travels with lord and lady montbarry? and don't you know that she is a member of the family? you will have to move, countess, to our hotel.' she was perfectly impenetrable to the bantering tone in which he spoke. 'yes,' she said faintly, 'i shall have to move to your hotel.' her hand was still on his arm--he could feel her shivering from head to foot while she spoke. heartily as he disliked and distrusted her, the common instinct of humanity obliged him to ask if she felt cold. 'yes,' she said. 'cold and faint.' 'cold and faint, countess, on such a night as this?' 'the night has nothing to do with it, mr. westwick. how do you suppose the criminal feels on the scaffold, while the hangman is putting the rope around his neck? cold and faint, too, i should think. excuse my grim fancy. you see, destiny has got the rope round my neck--and i feel it.' she looked about her. they were at that moment close to the famous cafe known as 'florian's.' 'take me in there,' she said; 'i must have something to revive me. you had better not hesitate. you are interested in reviving me. i have not said what i wanted to say to you yet. it's business, and it's connected with your theatre.' wondering inwardly what she could possibly want with his theatre, francis reluctantly yielded to the necessities of the situation, and took her into the cafe. he found a quiet corner in which they could take their places without attracting notice. 'what will you have?' he inquired resignedly. she gave her own orders to the waiter, without troubling him to speak for her. 'maraschino. and a pot of tea.' the waiter stared; francis stared. the tea was a novelty (in connection with maraschino) to both of them. careless whether she surprised them or not, she instructed the waiter, when her directions had been complied with, to pour a large wine-glass-full of the liqueur into a tumbler, and to fill it up from the teapot. 'i can't do it for myself,' she remarked, 'my hand trembles so.' she drank the strange mixture eagerly, hot as it was. 'maraschino punch--will you taste some of it?' she said. 'i inherit the discovery of this drink. when your english queen caroline was on the continent, my mother was attached to her court. that much injured royal person invented, in her happier hours, maraschino punch. fondly attached to her gracious mistress, my mother shared her tastes. and i, in my turn, learnt from my mother. now, mr. westwick, suppose i tell you what my business is. you are manager of a theatre. do you want a new play?' 'i always want a new play--provided it's a good one.' 'and you pay, if it's a good one?' 'i pay liberally--in my own interests.' 'if i write the play, will you read it?' francis hesitated. 'what has put writing a play into your head?' he asked. 'mere accident,' she answered. 'i had once occasion to tell my late brother of a visit which i paid to miss lockwood, when i was last in england. he took no interest at what happened at the interview, but something struck him in my way of relating it. he said, "you describe what passed between you and the lady with the point and contrast of good stage dialogue. you have the dramatic instinct--try if you can write a play. you might make money." that put it into my head.' those last words seemed to startle francis. 'surely you don't want money!' he exclaimed. 'i always want money. my tastes are expensive. i have nothing but my poor little four hundred a year--and the wreck that is left of the other money: about two hundred pounds in circular notes--no more.' francis knew that she was referring to the ten thousand pounds paid by the insurance offices. 'all those thousands gone already!' he exclaimed. she blew a little puff of air over her fingers. 'gone like that!' she answered coolly. 'baron rivar?' she looked at him with a flash of anger in her hard black eyes. 'my affairs are my own secret, mr. westwick. i have made you a proposal--and you have not answered me yet. don't say no, without thinking first. remember what a life mine has been. i have seen more of the world than most people, playwrights included. i have had strange adventures; i have heard remarkable stories; i have observed; i have remembered. are there no materials, here in my head, for writing a play--if the opportunity is granted to me?' she waited a moment, and suddenly repeated her strange question about agnes. 'when is miss lockwood expected to be in venice?' 'what has that to do with your new play, countess?' the countess appeared to feel some difficulty in giving that question its fit reply. she mixed another tumbler full of maraschino punch, and drank one good half of it before she spoke again. 'it has everything to do with my new play,' was all she said. 'answer me.' francis answered her. 'miss lockwood may be here in a week. or, for all i know to the contrary, sooner than that.' 'very well. if i am a living woman and a free woman in a week's time--or if i am in possession of my senses in a week's time (don't interrupt me; i know what i am talking about)--i shall have a sketch or outline of my play ready, as a specimen of what i can do. once again, will you read it?' 'i will certainly read it. but, countess, i don't understand--' she held up her hand for silence, and finished the second tumbler of maraschino punch. 'i am a living enigma--and you want to know the right reading of me,' she said. 'here is the reading, as your english phrase goes, in a nutshell. there is a foolish idea in the minds of many persons that the natives of the warm climates are imaginative people. there never was a greater mistake. you will find no such unimaginative people anywhere as you find in italy, spain, greece, and the other southern countries. to anything fanciful, to anything spiritual, their minds are deaf and blind by nature. now and then, in the course of centuries, a great genius springs up among them; and he is the exception which proves the rule. now see! i, though i am no genius--i am, in my little way (as i suppose), an exception too. to my sorrow, i have some of that imagination which is so common among the english and the germans--so rare among the italians, the spaniards, and the rest of them! and what is the result? i think it has become a disease in me. i am filled with presentiments which make this wicked life of mine one long terror to me. it doesn't matter, just now, what they are. enough that they absolutely govern me--they drive me over land and sea at their own horrible will; they are in me, and torturing me, at this moment! why don't i resist them? ha! but i do resist them. i am trying (with the help of the good punch) to resist them now. at intervals i cultivate the difficult virtue of common sense. sometimes, sound sense makes a hopeful woman of me. at one time, i had the hope that what seemed reality to me was only mad delusion, after all--i even asked the question of an english doctor! at other times, other sensible doubts of myself beset me. never mind dwelling on them now--it always ends in the old terrors and superstitions taking possession of me again. in a week's time, i shall know whether destiny does indeed decide my future for me, or whether i decide it for myself. in the last case, my resolution is to absorb this self-tormenting fancy of mine in the occupation that i have told you of already. do you understand me a little better now? and, our business being settled, dear mr. westwick, shall we get out of this hot room into the nice cool air again?' they rose to leave the cafe. francis privately concluded that the maraschino punch offered the only discoverable explanation of what the countess had said to him. chapter xx 'shall i see you again?' she asked, as she held out her hand to take leave. 'it is quite understood between us, i suppose, about the play?' francis recalled his extraordinary experience of that evening in the re-numbered room. 'my stay in venice is uncertain,' he replied. 'if you have anything more to say about this dramatic venture of yours, it may be as well to say it now. have you decided on a subject already? i know the public taste in england better than you do--i might save you some waste of time and trouble, if you have not chosen your subject wisely.' 'i don't care what subject i write about, so long as i write,' she answered carelessly. 'if you have got a subject in your head, give it to me. i answer for the characters and the dialogue.' 'you answer for the characters and the dialogue,' francis repeated. 'that's a bold way of speaking for a beginner! i wonder if i should shake your sublime confidence in yourself, if i suggested the most ticklish subject to handle which is known to the stage? what do you say, countess, to entering the lists with shakespeare, and trying a drama with a ghost in it? a true story, mind! founded on events in this very city in which you and i are interested.' she caught him by the arm, and drew him away from the crowded colonnade into the solitary middle space of the square. 'now tell me!' she said eagerly. 'here, where nobody is near us. how am i interested in it? how? how?' still holding his arm, she shook him in her impatience to hear the coming disclosure. for a moment he hesitated. thus far, amused by her ignorant belief in herself, he had merely spoken in jest. now, for the first time, impressed by her irresistible earnestness, he began to consider what he was about from a more serious point of view. with her knowledge of all that had passed in the old palace, before its transformation into an hotel, it was surely possible that she might suggest some explanation of what had happened to his brother, and sister, and himself. or, failing to do this, she might accidentally reveal some event in her own experience which, acting as a hint to a competent dramatist, might prove to be the making of a play. the prosperity of his theatre was his one serious object in life. 'i may be on the trace of another "corsican brothers,"' he thought. 'a new piece of that sort would be ten thousand pounds in my pocket, at least.' with these motives (worthy of the single-hearted devotion to dramatic business which made francis a successful manager) he related, without further hesitation, what his own experience had been, and what the experience of his relatives had been, in the haunted hotel. he even described the outbreak of superstitious terror which had escaped mrs. norbury's ignorant maid. 'sad stuff, if you look at it reasonably,' he remarked. 'but there is something dramatic in the notion of the ghostly influence making itself felt by the relations in succession, as they one after another enter the fatal room--until the one chosen relative comes who will see the unearthly creature, and know the terrible truth. material for a play, countess--first-rate material for a play!' there he paused. she neither moved nor spoke. he stooped and looked closer at her. what impression had he produced? it was an impression which his utmost ingenuity had failed to anticipate. she stood by his side--just as she had stood before agnes when her question about ferrari was plainly answered at last--like a woman turned to stone. her eyes were vacant and rigid; all the life in her face had faded out of it. francis took her by the hand. her hand was as cold as the pavement that they were standing on. he asked her if she was ill. not a muscle in her moved. he might as well have spoken to the dead. 'surely,' he said, 'you are not foolish enough to take what i have been telling you seriously?' her lips moved slowly. as it seemed, she was making an effort to speak to him. 'louder,' he said. 'i can't hear you.' she struggled to recover possession of herself. a faint light began to soften the dull cold stare of her eyes. in a moment more she spoke so that he could hear her. 'i never thought of the other world,' she murmured, in low dull tones, like a woman talking in her sleep. her mind had gone back to the day of her last memorable interview with agnes; she was slowly recalling the confession that had escaped her, the warning words which she had spoken at that past time. necessarily incapable of understanding this, francis looked at her in perplexity. she went on in the same dull vacant tone, steadily following out her own train of thought, with her heedless eyes on his face, and her wandering mind far away from him. 'i said some trifling event would bring us together the next time. i was wrong. no trifling event will bring us together. i said i might be the person who told her what had become of ferrari, if she forced me to it. shall i feel some other influence than hers? will he force me to it? when she sees him, shall i see him too?' her head sank a little; her heavy eyelids dropped slowly; she heaved a long low weary sigh. francis put her arm in his, and made an attempt to rouse her. 'come, countess, you are weary and over-wrought. we have had enough talking to-night. let me see you safe back to your hotel. is it far from here?' she started when he moved, and obliged her to move with him, as if he had suddenly awakened her out of a deep sleep. 'not far,' she said faintly. 'the old hotel on the quay. my mind's in a strange state; i have forgotten the name.' 'danieli's?' 'yes!' he led her on slowly. she accompanied him in silence as far as the end of the piazzetta. there, when the full view of the moonlit lagoon revealed itself, she stopped him as he turned towards the riva degli schiavoni. 'i have something to ask you. i want to wait and think.' she recovered her lost idea, after a long pause. 'are you going to sleep in the room to-night?' she asked. he told her that another traveller was in possession of the room that night. 'but the manager has reserved it for me to-morrow,' he added, 'if i wish to have it.' 'no,' she said. 'you must give it up.' 'to whom?' 'to me!' he started. 'after what i have told you, do you really wish to sleep in that room to-morrow night?' 'i must sleep in it.' 'are you not afraid?' 'i am horribly afraid.' 'so i should have thought, after what i have observed in you to-night. why should you take the room? you are not obliged to occupy it, unless you like.' 'i was not obliged to go to venice, when i left america,' she answered. 'and yet i came here. i must take the room, and keep the room, until--' she broke off at those words. 'never mind the rest,' she said. 'it doesn't interest you.' it was useless to dispute with her. francis changed the subject. 'we can do nothing to-night,' he said. 'i will call on you to-morrow morning, and hear what you think of it then.' they moved on again to the hotel. as they approached the door, francis asked if she was staying in venice under her own name. she shook her head. 'as your brother's widow, i am known here. as countess narona, i am known here. i want to be unknown, this time, to strangers in venice; i am travelling under a common english name.' she hesitated, and stood still. 'what has come to me?' she muttered to herself. 'some things i remember; and some i forget. i forgot danieli's--and now i forget my english name.' she drew him hurriedly into the hall of the hotel, on the wall of which hung a list of visitors' names. running her finger slowly down the list, she pointed to the english name that she had assumed:--'mrs. james.' 'remember that when you call to-morrow,' she said. 'my head is heavy. good night.' francis went back to his own hotel, wondering what the events of the next day would bring forth. a new turn in his affairs had taken place in his absence. as he crossed the hall, he was requested by one of the servants to walk into the private office. the manager was waiting there with a gravely pre-occupied manner, as if he had something serious to say. he regretted to hear that mr. francis westwick had, like other members of the family, discovered serious sources of discomfort in the new hotel. he had been informed in strict confidence of mr. westwick's extraordinary objection to the atmosphere of the bedroom upstairs. without presuming to discuss the matter, he must beg to be excused from reserving the room for mr. westwick after what had happened. francis answered sharply, a little ruffled by the tone in which the manager had spoken to him. 'i might, very possibly, have declined to sleep in the room, if you had reserved it,' he said. 'do you wish me to leave the hotel?' the manager saw the error that he had committed, and hastened to repair it. 'certainly not, sir! we will do our best to make you comfortable while you stay with us. i beg your pardon, if i have said anything to offend you. the reputation of an establishment like this is a matter of very serious importance. may i hope that you will do us the great favour to say nothing about what has happened upstairs? the two french gentlemen have kindly promised to keep it a secret.' this apology left francis no polite alternative but to grant the manager's request. 'there is an end to the countess's wild scheme,' he thought to himself, as he retired for the night. 'so much the better for the countess!' he rose late the next morning. inquiring for his parisian friends, he was informed that both the french gentlemen had left for milan. as he crossed the hall, on his way to the restaurant, he noticed the head porter chalking the numbers of the rooms on some articles of luggage which were waiting to go upstairs. one trunk attracted his attention by the extraordinary number of old travelling labels left on it. the porter was marking it at the moment--and the number was, '13 a.' francis instantly looked at the card fastened on the lid. it bore the common english name, 'mrs. james'! he at once inquired about the lady. she had arrived early that morning, and she was then in the reading room. looking into the room, he discovered a lady in it alone. advancing a little nearer, he found himself face to face with the countess. she was seated in a dark corner, with her head down and her arms crossed over her bosom. 'yes,' she said, in a tone of weary impatience, before francis could speak to her. 'i thought it best not to wait for you--i determined to get here before anybody else could take the room.' 'have you taken it for long?' francis asked. 'you told me miss lockwood would be here in a week's time. i have taken it for a week.' 'what has miss lockwood to do with it?' 'she has everything to do with it--she must sleep in the room. i shall give the room up to her when she comes here.' francis began to understand the superstitious purpose that she had in view. 'are you (an educated woman) really of the same opinion as my sister's maid!' he exclaimed. 'assuming your absurd superstition to be a serious thing, you are taking the wrong means to prove it true. if i and my brother and sister have seen nothing, how should agnes lockwood discover what was not revealed to us? she is only distantly related to the montbarrys--she is only our cousin.' 'she was nearer to the heart of the montbarry who is dead than any of you,' the countess answered sternly. 'to the last day of his life, my miserable husband repented his desertion of her. she will see what none of you have seen--she shall have the room.' francis listened, utterly at a loss to account for the motives that animated her. 'i don't see what interest you have in trying this extraordinary experiment,' he said. 'it is my interest not to try it! it is my interest to fly from venice, and never set eyes on agnes lockwood or any of your family again!' 'what prevents you from doing that?' she started to her feet and looked at him wildly. 'i know no more what prevents me than you do!' she burst out. 'some will that is stronger than mine drives me on to my destruction, in spite of my own self!' she suddenly sat down again, and waved her hand for him to go. 'leave me,' she said. 'leave me to my thoughts.' francis left her, firmly persuaded by this time that she was out of her senses. for the rest of the day, he saw nothing of her. the night, so far as he knew, passed quietly. the next morning he breakfasted early, determining to wait in the restaurant for the appearance of the countess. she came in and ordered her breakfast quietly, looking dull and worn and self-absorbed, as she had looked when he last saw her. he hastened to her table, and asked if anything had happened in the night. 'nothing,' she answered. 'you have rested as well as usual?' 'quite as well as usual. have you had any letters this morning? have you heard when she is coming?' 'i have had no letters. are you really going to stay here? has your experience of last night not altered the opinion which you expressed to me yesterday?' 'not in the least.' the momentary gleam of animation which had crossed her face when she questioned him about agnes, died out of it again when he answered her. she looked, she spoke, she ate her breakfast, with a vacant resignation, like a woman who had done with hopes, done with interests, done with everything but the mechanical movements and instincts of life. francis went out, on the customary travellers' pilgrimage to the shrines of titian and tintoret. after some hours of absence, he found a letter waiting for him when he got back to the hotel. it was written by his brother henry, and it recommended him to return to milan immediately. the proprietor of a french theatre, recently arrived from venice, was trying to induce the famous dancer whom francis had engaged to break faith with him and accept a higher salary. having made this startling announcement, henry proceeded to inform his brother that lord and lady montbarry, with agnes and the children, would arrive in venice in three days more. 'they know nothing of our adventures at the hotel,' henry wrote; 'and they have telegraphed to the manager for the accommodation that they want. there would be something absurdly superstitious in our giving them a warning which would frighten the ladies and children out of the best hotel in venice. we shall be a strong party this time--too strong a party for ghosts! i shall meet the travellers on their arrival, of course, and try my luck again at what you call the haunted hotel. arthur barville and his wife have already got as far on their way as trent; and two of the lady's relations have arranged to accompany them on the journey to venice.' naturally indignant at the conduct of his parisian colleague, francis made his preparations for returning to milan by the train of that day. on his way out, he asked the manager if his brother's telegram had been received. the telegram had arrived, and, to the surprise of francis, the rooms were already reserved. 'i thought you would refuse to let any more of the family into the house,' he said satirically. the manager answered (with the due dash of respect) in the same tone. 'number 13 a is safe, sir, in the occupation of a stranger. i am the servant of the company; and i dare not turn money out of the hotel.' hearing this, francis said good-bye--and said nothing more. he was ashamed to acknowledge it to himself, but he felt an irresistible curiosity to know what would happen when agnes arrived at the hotel. besides, 'mrs. james' had reposed a confidence in him. he got into his gondola, respecting the confidence of 'mrs. james.' towards evening on the third day, lord montbarry and his travelling companions arrived, punctual to their appointment. 'mrs. james,' sitting at the window of her room watching for them, saw the new lord land from the gondola first. he handed his wife to the steps. the three children were next committed to his care. last of all, agnes appeared in the little black doorway of the gondola cabin, and, taking lord montbarry's hand, passed in her turn to the steps. she wore no veil. as she ascended to the door of the hotel, the countess (eyeing her through an opera-glass) noticed that she paused to look at the outside of the building, and that her face was very pale. chapter xxi lord and lady montbarry were received by the housekeeper; the manager being absent for a day or two on business connected with the affairs of the hotel. the rooms reserved for the travellers on the first floor were three in number; consisting of two bedrooms opening into each other, and communicating on the left with a drawing-room. complete so far, the arrangements proved to be less satisfactory in reference to the third bedroom required for agnes and for the eldest daughter of lord montbarry, who usually slept with her on their travels. the bed-chamber on the right of the drawing-room was already occupied by an english widow lady. other bedchambers at the other end of the corridor were also let in every case. there was accordingly no alternative but to place at the disposal of agnes a comfortable room on the second floor. lady montbarry vainly complained of this separation of one of the members of her travelling party from the rest. the housekeeper politely hinted that it was impossible for her to ask other travellers to give up their rooms. she could only express her regret, and assure miss lockwood that her bed-chamber on the second floor was one of the best rooms in that part of the hotel. on the retirement of the housekeeper, lady montbarry noticed that agnes had seated herself apart, feeling apparently no interest in the question of the bedrooms. was she ill? no; she felt a little unnerved by the railway journey, and that was all. hearing this, lord montbarry proposed that she should go out with him, and try the experiment of half an hour's walk in the cool evening air. agnes gladly accepted the suggestion. they directed their steps towards the square of st. mark, so as to enjoy the breeze blowing over the lagoon. it was the first visit of agnes to venice. the fascination of the wonderful city of the waters exerted its full influence over her sensitive nature. the proposed half-hour of the walk had passed away, and was fast expanding to half an hour more, before lord montbarry could persuade his companion to remember that dinner was waiting for them. as they returned, passing under the colonnade, neither of them noticed a lady in deep mourning, loitering in the open space of the square. she started as she recognised agnes walking with the new lord montbarry--hesitated for a moment--and then followed them, at a discreet distance, back to the hotel. lady montbarry received agnes in high spirits--with news of an event which had happened in her absence. she had not left the hotel more than ten minutes, before a little note in pencil was brought to lady montbarry by the housekeeper. the writer proved to be no less a person than the widow lady who occupied the room on the other side of the drawing-room, which her ladyship had vainly hoped to secure for agnes. writing under the name of mrs. james, the polite widow explained that she had heard from the housekeeper of the disappointment experienced by lady montbarry in the matter of the rooms. mrs. james was quite alone; and as long as her bed-chamber was airy and comfortable, it mattered nothing to her whether she slept on the first or the second floor of the house. she had accordingly much pleasure in proposing to change rooms with miss lockwood. her luggage had already been removed, and miss lockwood had only to take possession of the room (number 13 a), which was now entirely at her disposal. 'i immediately proposed to see mrs. james,' lady montbarry continued, 'and to thank her personally for her extreme kindness. but i was informed that she had gone out, without leaving word at what hour she might be expected to return. i have written a little note of thanks, saying that we hope to have the pleasure of personally expressing our sense of mrs. james's courtesy to-morrow. in the mean time, agnes, i have ordered your boxes to be removed downstairs. go!--and judge for yourself, my dear, if that good lady has not given up to you the prettiest room in the house!' with those words, lady montbarry left miss lockwood to make a hasty toilet for dinner. the new room at once produced a favourable impression on agnes. the large window, opening into a balcony, commanded an admirable view of the canal. the decorations on the walls and ceiling were skilfully copied from the exquisitely graceful designs of raphael in the vatican. the massive wardrobe possessed compartments of unusual size, in which double the number of dresses that agnes possessed might have been conveniently hung at full length. in the inner corner of the room, near the head of the bedstead, there was a recess which had been turned into a little dressing-room, and which opened by a second door on the interior staircase of the hotel, commonly used by the servants. noticing these aspects of the room at a glance, agnes made the necessary change in her dress, as quickly as possible. on her way back to the drawing-room she was addressed by a chambermaid in the corridor who asked for her key. 'i will put your room tidy for the night, miss,' the woman said, 'and i will then bring the key back to you in the drawing-room.' while the chambermaid was at her work, a solitary lady, loitering about the corridor of the second storey, was watching her over the bannisters. after a while, the maid appeared, with her pail in her hand, leaving the room by way of the dressing-room and the back stairs. as she passed out of sight, the lady on the second floor (no other, it is needless to add, than the countess herself) ran swiftly down the stairs, entered the bed-chamber by the principal door, and hid herself in the empty side compartment of the wardrobe. the chambermaid returned, completed her work, locked the door of the dressing-room on the inner side, locked the principal entrance-door on leaving the room, and returned the key to agnes in the drawing-room. the travellers were just sitting down to their late dinner, when one of the children noticed that agnes was not wearing her watch. had she left it in her bed-chamber in the hurry of changing her dress? she rose from the table at once in search of her watch; lady montbarry advising her, as she went out, to see to the security of her bed-chamber, in the event of there being thieves in the house. agnes found her watch, forgotten on the toilet table, as she had anticipated. before leaving the room again she acted on lady montbarry's advice, and tried the key in the lock of the dressing-room door. it was properly secured. she left the bed-chamber, locking the main door behind her. immediately on her departure, the countess, oppressed by the confined air in the wardrobe, ventured on stepping out of her hiding place into the empty room. entering the dressing-room, she listened at the door, until the silence outside informed her that the corridor was empty. upon this, she unlocked the door, and, passing out, closed it again softly; leaving it to all appearance (when viewed on the inner side) as carefully secured as agnes had seen it when she tried the key in the lock with her own hand. while the montbarrys were still at dinner, henry westwick joined them, arriving from milan. when he entered the room, and again when he advanced to shake hands with her, agnes was conscious of a latent feeling which secretly reciprocated henry's unconcealed pleasure on meeting her again. for a moment only, she returned his look; and in that moment her own observation told her that she had silently encouraged him to hope. she saw it in the sudden glow of happiness which overspread his face; and she confusedly took refuge in the usual conventional inquiries relating to the relatives whom he had left at milan. taking his place at the table, henry gave a most amusing account of the position of his brother francis between the mercenary opera-dancer on one side, and the unscrupulous manager of the french theatre on the other. matters had proceeded to such extremities, that the law had been called on to interfere, and had decided the dispute in favour of francis. on winning the victory the english manager had at once left milan, recalled to london by the affairs of his theatre. he was accompanied on the journey back, as he had been accompanied on the journey out, by his sister. resolved, after passing two nights of terror in the venetian hotel, never to enter it again, mrs. norbury asked to be excused from appearing at the family festival, on the ground of ill-health. at her age, travelling fatigued her, and she was glad to take advantage of her brother's escort to return to england. while the talk at the dinner-table flowed easily onward, the evening-time advanced to night--and it became necessary to think of sending the children to bed. as agnes rose to leave the room, accompanied by the eldest girl, she observed with surprise that henry's manner suddenly changed. he looked serious and pre-occupied; and when his niece wished him good night, he abruptly said to her, 'marian, i want to know what part of the hotel you sleep in?' marian, puzzled by the question, answered that she was going to sleep, as usual, with 'aunt agnes.' not satisfied with that reply, henry next inquired whether the bedroom was near the rooms occupied by the other members of the travelling party. answering for the child, and wondering what henry's object could possibly be, agnes mentioned the polite sacrifice made to her convenience by mrs. james. 'thanks to that lady's kindness,' she said, 'marian and i are only on the other side of the drawing-room.' henry made no remark; he looked incomprehensibly discontented as he opened the door for agnes and her companion to pass out. after wishing them good night, he waited in the corridor until he saw them enter the fatal corner-room--and then he called abruptly to his brother, 'come out, stephen, and let us smoke!' as soon as the two brothers were at liberty to speak together privately, henry explained the motive which had led to his strange inquiries about the bedrooms. francis had informed him of the meeting with the countess at venice, and of all that had followed it; and henry now carefully repeated the narrative to his brother in all its details. 'i am not satisfied,' he added, 'about that woman's purpose in giving up her room. without alarming the ladies by telling them what i have just told you, can you not warn agnes to be careful in securing her door?' lord montbarry replied, that the warning had been already given by his wife, and that agnes might be trusted to take good care of herself and her little bed-fellow. for the rest, he looked upon the story of the countess and her superstitions as a piece of theatrical exaggeration, amusing enough in itself, but unworthy of a moment's serious attention. while the gentlemen were absent from the hotel, the room which had been already associated with so many startling circumstances, became the scene of another strange event in which lady montbarry's eldest child was concerned. little marian had been got ready for bed as usual, and had (so far) taken hardly any notice of the new room. as she knelt down to say her prayers, she happened to look up at that part of the ceiling above her which was just over the head of the bed. the next instant she alarmed agnes, by starting to her feet with a cry of terror, and pointing to a small brown spot on one of the white panelled spaces of the carved ceiling. 'it's a spot of blood!' the child exclaimed. 'take me away! i won't sleep here!' seeing plainly that it would be useless to reason with her while she was in the room, agnes hurriedly wrapped marian in a dressing-gown, and carried her back to her mother in the drawing-room. here, the ladies did their best to soothe and reassure the trembling girl. the effort proved to be useless; the impression that had been produced on the young and sensitive mind was not to be removed by persuasion. marian could give no explanation of the panic of terror that had seized her. she was quite unable to say why the spot on the ceiling looked like the colour of a spot of blood. she only knew that she should die of terror if she saw it again. under these circumstances, but one alternative was left. it was arranged that the child should pass the night in the room occupied by her two younger sisters and the nurse. in half an hour more, marian was peacefully asleep with her arm around her sister's neck. lady montbarry went back with agnes to her room to see the spot on the ceiling which had so strangely frightened the child. it was so small as to be only just perceptible, and it had in all probability been caused by the carelessness of a workman, or by a dripping from water accidentally spilt on the floor of the room above. 'i really cannot understand why marian should place such a shocking interpretation on such a trifling thing,' lady montbarry remarked. 'i suspect the nurse is in some way answerable for what has happened,' agnes suggested. 'she may quite possibly have been telling marian some tragic nursery story which has left its mischievous impression behind it. persons in her position are sadly ignorant of the danger of exciting a child's imagination. you had better caution the nurse to-morrow.' lady montbarry looked round the room with admiration. 'is it not prettily decorated?' she said. 'i suppose, agnes, you don't mind sleeping here by yourself.?' agnes laughed. 'i feel so tired,' she replied, 'that i was thinking of bidding you good-night, instead of going back to the drawing-room.' lady montbarry turned towards the door. 'i see your jewel-case on the table,' she resumed. 'don't forget to lock the other door there, in the dressing-room.' 'i have already seen to it, and tried the key myself,' said agnes. 'can i be of any use to you before i go to bed?' 'no, my dear, thank you; i feel sleepy enough to follow your example. good night, agnes--and pleasant dreams on your first night in venice.' chapter xxii having closed and secured the door on lady montbarry's departure, agnes put on her dressing-gown, and, turning to her open boxes, began the business of unpacking. in the hurry of making her toilet for dinner, she had taken the first dress that lay uppermost in the trunk, and had thrown her travelling costume on the bed. she now opened the doors of the wardrobe for the first time, and began to hang her dresses on the hooks in the large compartment on one side. after a few minutes only of this occupation, she grew weary of it, and decided on leaving the trunks as they were, until the next morning. the oppressive south wind, which had blown throughout the day, still prevailed at night. the atmosphere of the room felt close; agnes threw a shawl over her head and shoulders, and, opening the window, stepped into the balcony to look at the view. the night was heavy and overcast: nothing could be distinctly seen. the canal beneath the window looked like a black gulf; the opposite houses were barely visible as a row of shadows, dimly relieved against the starless and moonless sky. at long intervals, the warning cry of a belated gondolier was just audible, as he turned the corner of a distant canal, and called to invisible boats which might be approaching him in the darkness. now and then, the nearer dip of an oar in the water told of the viewless passage of other gondolas bringing guests back to the hotel. excepting these rare sounds, the mysterious night-silence of venice was literally the silence of the grave. leaning on the parapet of the balcony, agnes looked vacantly into the black void beneath. her thoughts reverted to the miserable man who had broken his pledged faith to her, and who had died in that house. some change seemed to have come over her since her arrival in venice; some new influence appeared to be at work. for the first time in her experience of herself, compassion and regret were not the only emotions aroused in her by the remembrance of the dead montbarry. a keen sense of the wrong that she had suffered, never yet felt by that gentle and forgiving nature, was felt by it now. she found herself thinking of the bygone days of her humiliation almost as harshly as henry westwick had thought of them--she who had rebuked him the last time he had spoken slightingly of his brother in her presence! a sudden fear and doubt of herself, startled her physically as well as morally. she turned from the shadowy abyss of the dark water as if the mystery and the gloom of it had been answerable for the emotions which had taken her by surprise. abruptly closing the window, she threw aside her shawl, and lit the candles on the mantelpiece, impelled by a sudden craving for light in the solitude of her room. the cheering brightness round her, contrasting with the black gloom outside, restored her spirits. she felt herself enjoying the light like a child! would it be well (she asked herself) to get ready for bed? no! the sense of drowsy fatigue that she had felt half an hour since was gone. she returned to the dull employment of unpacking her boxes. after a few minutes only, the occupation became irksome to her once more. she sat down by the table, and took up a guide-book. 'suppose i inform myself,' she thought, 'on the subject of venice?' her attention wandered from the book, before she had turned the first page of it. the image of henry westwick was the presiding image in her memory now. recalling the minutest incidents and details of the evening, she could think of nothing which presented him under other than a favourable and interesting aspect. she smiled to herself softly, her colour rose by fine gradations, as she felt the full luxury of dwelling on the perfect truth and modesty of his devotion to her. was the depression of spirits from which she had suffered so persistently on her travels attributable, by any chance, to their long separation from each other--embittered perhaps by her own vain regret when she remembered her harsh reception of him in paris? suddenly conscious of this bold question, and of the self-abandonment which it implied, she returned mechanically to her book, distrusting the unrestrained liberty of her own thoughts. what lurking temptations to forbidden tenderness find their hiding-places in a woman's dressing-gown, when she is alone in her room at night! with her heart in the tomb of the dead montbarry, could agnes even think of another man, and think of love? how shameful! how unworthy of her! for the second time, she tried to interest herself in the guide-book--and once more she tried in vain. throwing the book aside, she turned desperately to the one resource that was left, to her luggage--resolved to fatigue herself without mercy, until she was weary enough and sleepy enough to find a safe refuge in bed. for some little time, she persisted in the monotonous occupation of transferring her clothes from her trunk to the wardrobe. the large clock in the hall, striking mid-night, reminded her that it was getting late. she sat down for a moment in an arm-chair by the bedside, to rest. the silence in the house now caught her attention, and held it--held it disagreeably. was everybody in bed and asleep but herself? surely it was time for her to follow the general example? with a certain irritable nervous haste, she rose again and undressed herself. 'i have lost two hours of rest,' she thought, frowning at the reflection of herself in the glass, as she arranged her hair for the night. 'i shall be good for nothing to-morrow!' she lit the night-light, and extinguished the candles--with one exception, which she removed to a little table, placed on the side of the bed opposite to the side occupied by the arm-chair. having put her travelling-box of matches and the guide-book near the candle, in case she might be sleepless and might want to read, she blew out the light, and laid her head on the pillow. the curtains of the bed were looped back to let the air pass freely over her. lying on her left side, with her face turned away from the table, she could see the arm-chair by the dim night-light. it had a chintz covering--representing large bunches of roses scattered over a pale green ground. she tried to weary herself into drowsiness by counting over and over again the bunches of roses that were visible from her point of view. twice her attention was distracted from the counting, by sounds outside--by the clock chiming the half-hour past twelve; and then again, by the fall of a pair of boots on the upper floor, thrown out to be cleaned, with that barbarous disregard of the comfort of others which is observable in humanity when it inhabits an hotel. in the silence that followed these passing disturbances, agnes went on counting the roses on the arm-chair, more and more slowly. before long, she confused herself in the figures--tried to begin counting again--thought she would wait a little first--felt her eyelids drooping, and her head reclining lower and lower on the pillow--sighed faintly--and sank into sleep. how long that first sleep lasted, she never knew. she could only remember, in the after-time, that she woke instantly. every faculty and perception in her passed the boundary line between insensibility and consciousness, so to speak, at a leap. without knowing why, she sat up suddenly in the bed, listening for she knew not what. her head was in a whirl; her heart beat furiously, without any assignable cause. but one trivial event had happened during the interval while she had been asleep. the night-light had gone out; and the room, as a matter of course, was in total darkness. she felt for the match-box, and paused after finding it. a vague sense of confusion was still in her mind. she was in no hurry to light the match. the pause in the darkness was, for the moment, agreeable to her. in the quieter flow of her thoughts during this interval, she could ask herself the natural question:--what cause had awakened her so suddenly, and had so strangely shaken her nerves? had it been the influence of a dream? she had not dreamed at all--or, to speak more correctly, she had no waking remembrance of having dreamed. the mystery was beyond her fathoming: the darkness began to oppress her. she struck the match on the box, and lit her candle. as the welcome light diffused itself over the room, she turned from the table and looked towards the other side of the bed. in the moment when she turned, the chill of a sudden terror gripped her round the heart, as with the clasp of an icy hand. she was not alone in her room! there--in the chair at the bedside--there, suddenly revealed under the flow of light from the candle, was the figure of a woman, reclining. her head lay back over the chair. her face, turned up to the ceiling, had the eyes closed, as if she was wrapped in a deep sleep. the shock of the discovery held agnes speechless and helpless. her first conscious action, when she was in some degree mistress of herself again, was to lean over the bed, and to look closer at the woman who had so incomprehensibly stolen into her room in the dead of night. one glance was enough: she started back with a cry of amazement. the person in the chair was no other than the widow of the dead montbarry--the woman who had warned her that they were to meet again, and that the place might be venice! her courage returned to her, stung into action by the natural sense of indignation which the presence of the countess provoked. 'wake up!' she called out. 'how dare you come here? how did you get in? leave the room--or i will call for help!' she raised her voice at the last words. it produced no effect. leaning farther over the bed, she boldly took the countess by the shoulder and shook her. not even this effort succeeded in rousing the sleeping woman. she still lay back in the chair, possessed by a torpor like the torpor of death--insensible to sound, insensible to touch. was she really sleeping? or had she fainted? agnes looked closer at her. she had not fainted. her breathing was audible, rising and falling in deep heavy gasps. at intervals she ground her teeth savagely. beads of perspiration stood thickly on her forehead. her clenched hands rose and fell slowly from time to time on her lap. was she in the agony of a dream? or was she spiritually conscious of something hidden in the room? the doubt involved in that last question was unendurable. agnes determined to rouse the servants who kept watch in the hotel at night. the bell-handle was fixed to the wall, on the side of the bed by which the table stood. she raised herself from the crouching position which she had assumed in looking close at the countess; and, turning towards the other side of the bed, stretched out her hand to the bell. at the same instant, she stopped and looked upward. her hand fell helplessly at her side. she shuddered, and sank back on the pillow. what had she seen? she had seen another intruder in her room. midway between her face and the ceiling, there hovered a human head--severed at the neck, like a head struck from the body by the guillotine. nothing visible, nothing audible, had given her any intelligible warning of its appearance. silently and suddenly, the head had taken its place above her. no supernatural change had passed over the room, or was perceptible in it now. the dumbly-tortured figure in the chair; the broad window opposite the foot of the bed, with the black night beyond it; the candle burning on the table--these, and all other objects in the room, remained unaltered. one object more, unutterably horrid, had been added to the rest. that was the only change--no more, no less. by the yellow candlelight she saw the head distinctly, hovering in mid-air above her. she looked at it steadfastly, spell-bound by the terror that held her. the flesh of the face was gone. the shrivelled skin was darkened in hue, like the skin of an egyptian mummy--except at the neck. there it was of a lighter colour; there it showed spots and splashes of the hue of that brown spot on the ceiling, which the child's fanciful terror had distorted into the likeness of a spot of blood. thin remains of a discoloured moustache and whiskers, hanging over the upper lip, and over the hollows where the cheeks had once been, made the head just recognisable as the head of a man. over all the features death and time had done their obliterating work. the eyelids were closed. the hair on the skull, discoloured like the hair on the face, had been burnt away in places. the bluish lips, parted in a fixed grin, showed the double row of teeth. by slow degrees, the hovering head (perfectly still when she first saw it) began to descend towards agnes as she lay beneath. by slow degrees, that strange doubly-blended odour, which the commissioners had discovered in the vaults of the old palace--which had sickened francis westwick in the bed-chamber of the new hotel--spread its fetid exhalations over the room. downward and downward the hideous apparition made its slow progress, until it stopped close over agnes--stopped, and turned slowly, so that the face of it confronted the upturned face of the woman in the chair. there was a pause. then, a supernatural movement disturbed the rigid repose of the dead face. the closed eyelids opened slowly. the eyes revealed themselves, bright with the glassy film of death--and fixed their dreadful look on the woman in the chair. agnes saw that look; saw the eyelids of the living woman open slowly like the eyelids of the dead; saw her rise, as if in obedience to some silent command--and saw no more. her next conscious impression was of the sunlight pouring in at the window; of the friendly presence of lady montbarry at the bedside; and of the children's wondering faces peeping in at the door. chapter xxiii '...you have some influence over agnes. try what you can do, henry, to make her take a sensible view of the matter. there is really nothing to make a fuss about. my wife's maid knocked at her door early in the morning, with the customary cup of tea. getting no answer, she went round to the dressing-room--found the door on that side unlocked--and discovered agnes on the bed in a fainting fit. with my wife's help, they brought her to herself again; and she told the extraordinary story which i have just repeated to you. you must have seen for yourself that she has been over-fatigued, poor thing, by our long railway journeys: her nerves are out of order--and she is just the person to be easily terrified by a dream. she obstinately refuses, however, to accept this rational view. don't suppose that i have been severe with her! all that a man can do to humour her i have done. i have written to the countess (in her assumed name) offering to restore the room to her. she writes back, positively declining to return to it. i have accordingly arranged (so as not to have the thing known in the hotel) to occupy the room for one or two nights, and to leave agnes to recover her spirits under my wife's care. is there anything more that i can do? whatever questions agnes has asked of me i have answered to the best of my ability; she knows all that you told me about francis and the countess last night. but try as i may i can't quiet her mind. i have given up the attempt in despair, and left her in the drawing-room. go, like a good fellow, and try what you can do to compose her.' in those words, lord montbarry stated the case to his brother from the rational point of view. henry made no remark, he went straight to the drawing-room. he found agnes walking rapidly backwards and forwards, flushed and excited. 'if you come here to say what your brother has been saying to me,' she broke out, before he could speak, 'spare yourself the trouble. i don't want common sense--i want a true friend who will believe in me.' 'i am that friend, agnes,' henry answered quietly, 'and you know it.' 'you really believe that i am not deluded by a dream?' i know that you are not deluded--in one particular, at least.' 'in what particular?' 'in what you have said of the countess. it is perfectly true--' agnes stopped him there. 'why do i only hear this morning that the countess and mrs. james are one and the same person?' she asked distrustfully. 'why was i not told of it last night?' 'you forget that you had accepted the exchange of rooms before i reached venice,' henry replied. 'i felt strongly tempted to tell you, even then--but your sleeping arrangements for the night were all made; i should only have inconvenienced and alarmed you. i waited till the morning, after hearing from my brother that you had yourself seen to your security from any intrusion. how that intrusion was accomplished it is impossible to say. i can only declare that the countess's presence by your bedside last night was no dream of yours. on her own authority i can testify that it was a reality.' 'on her own authority?' agnes repeated eagerly. 'have you seen her this morning?' 'i have seen her not ten minutes since.' 'what was she doing?' 'she was busily engaged in writing. i could not even get her to look at me until i thought of mentioning your name.' 'she remembered me, of course?' 'she remembered you with some difficulty. finding that she wouldn't answer me on any other terms, i questioned her as if i had come direct from you. then she spoke. she not only admitted that she had the same superstitious motive for placing you in that room which she had acknowledged to francis--she even owned that she had been by your bedside, watching through the night, "to see what you saw," as she expressed it. hearing this, i tried to persuade her to tell me how she got into the room. unluckily, her manuscript on the table caught her eye; she returned to her writing. "the baron wants money," she said; "i must get on with my play." what she saw or dreamed while she was in your room last night, it is at present impossible to discover. but judging by my brother's account of her, as well as by what i remember of her myself, some recent influence has been at work which has produced a marked change in this wretched woman for the worse. her mind (since last night, perhaps) is partially deranged. one proof of it is that she spoke to me of the baron as if he were still a living man. when francis saw her, she declared that the baron was dead, which is the truth. the united states consul at milan showed us the announcement of the death in an american newspaper. so far as i can see, such sense as she still possesses seems to be entirely absorbed in one absurd idea--the idea of writing a play for francis to bring out at his theatre. he admits that he encouraged her to hope she might get money in this way. i think he did wrong. don't you agree with me?' without heeding the question, agnes rose abruptly from her chair. 'do me one more kindness, henry,' she said. 'take me to the countess at once.' henry hesitated. 'are you composed enough to see her, after the shock that you have suffered?' he asked. she trembled, the flush on her face died away, and left it deadly pale. but she held to her resolution. 'you have heard of what i saw last night?' she said faintly. 'don't speak of it!' henry interposed. 'don't uselessly agitate yourself.' 'i must speak! my mind is full of horrid questions about it. i know i can't identify it--and yet i ask myself over and over again, in whose likeness did it appear? was it in the likeness of ferrari? or was it--?' she stopped, shuddering. 'the countess knows, i must see the countess!' she resumed vehemently. 'whether my courage fails me or not, i must make the attempt. take me to her before i have time to feel afraid of it!' henry looked at her anxiously. 'if you are really sure of your own resolution,' he said, 'i agree with you--the sooner you see her the better. you remember how strangely she talked of your influence over her, when she forced her way into your room in london?' 'i remember it perfectly. why do you ask?' 'for this reason. in the present state of her mind, i doubt if she will be much longer capable of realizing her wild idea of you as the avenging angel who is to bring her to a reckoning for her evil deeds. it may be well to try what your influence can do while she is still capable of feeling it.' he waited to hear what agnes would say. she took his arm and led him in silence to the door. they ascended to the second floor, and, after knocking, entered the countess's room. she was still busily engaged in writing. when she looked up from the paper, and saw agnes, a vacant expression of doubt was the only expression in her wild black eyes. after a few moments, the lost remembrances and associations appeared to return slowly to her mind. the pen dropped from her hand. haggard and trembling, she looked closer at agnes, and recognised her at last. 'has the time come already?' she said in low awe-struck tones. 'give me a little longer respite, i haven't done my writing yet!' she dropped on her knees, and held out her clasped hands entreatingly. agnes was far from having recovered, after the shock that she had suffered in the night: her nerves were far from being equal to the strain that was now laid on them. she was so startled by the change in the countess, that she was at a loss what to say or to do next. henry was obliged to speak to her. 'put your questions while you have the chance,' he said, lowering his voice. 'see! the vacant look is coming over her face again.' agnes tried to rally her courage. 'you were in my room last night--' she began. before she could add a word more, the countess lifted her hands, and wrung them above her head with a low moan of horror. agnes shrank back, and turned as if to leave the room. henry stopped her, and whispered to her to try again. she obeyed him after an effort. 'i slept last night in the room that you gave up to me,' she resumed. 'i saw--' the countess suddenly rose to her feet. 'no more of that,' she cried. 'oh, jesu maria! do you think i want to be told what you saw? do you think i don't know what it means for you and for me? decide for yourself, miss. examine your own mind. are you well assured that the day of reckoning has come at last? are you ready to follow me back, through the crimes of the past, to the secrets of the dead?' she returned again to the writing-table, without waiting to be answered. her eyes flashed; she looked like her old self once more as she spoke. it was only for a moment. the old ardour and impetuosity were nearly worn out. her head sank; she sighed heavily as she unlocked a desk which stood on the table. opening a drawer in the desk, she took out a leaf of vellum, covered with faded writing. some ragged ends of silken thread were still attached to the leaf, as if it had been torn out of a book. 'can you read italian?' she asked, handing the leaf to agnes. agnes answered silently by an inclination of her head. 'the leaf,' the countess proceeded, 'once belonged to a book in the old library of the palace, while this building was still a palace. by whom it was torn out you have no need to know. for what purpose it was torn out you may discover for yourself, if you will. read it first--at the fifth line from the top of the page.' agnes felt the serious necessity of composing herself. 'give me a chair,' she said to henry; 'and i will do my best.' he placed himself behind her chair so that he could look over her shoulder and help her to understand the writing on the leaf. rendered into english, it ran as follows:-i have now completed my literary survey of the first floor of the palace. at the desire of my noble and gracious patron, the lord of this glorious edifice, i next ascend to the second floor, and continue my catalogue or description of the pictures, decorations, and other treasures of art therein contained. let me begin with the corner room at the western extremity of the palace, called the room of the caryatides, from the statues which support the mantel-piece. this work is of comparatively recent execution: it dates from the eighteenth century only, and reveals the corrupt taste of the period in every part of it. still, there is a certain interest which attaches to the mantel-piece: it conceals a cleverly constructed hiding-place, between the floor of the room and the ceiling of the room beneath, which was made during the last evil days of the inquisition in venice, and which is reported to have saved an ancestor of my gracious lord pursued by that terrible tribunal. the machinery of this curious place of concealment has been kept in good order by the present lord, as a species of curiosity. he condescended to show me the method of working it. approaching the two caryatides, rest your hand on the forehead (midway between the eyebrows) of the figure which is on your left as you stand opposite to the fireplace, then press the head inwards as if you were pushing it against the wall behind. by doing this, you set in motion the hidden machinery in the wall which turns the hearthstone on a pivot, and discloses the hollow place below. there is room enough in it for a man to lie easily at full length. the method of closing the cavity again is equally simple. place both your hands on the temples of the figures; pull as if you were pulling it towards you--and the hearthstone will revolve into its proper position again. 'you need read no farther,' said the countess. 'be careful to remember what you have read.' she put back the page of vellum in her writing-desk, locked it, and led the way to the door. 'come!' she said; 'and see what the mocking frenchman called "the beginning of the end."' agnes was barely able to rise from her chair; she trembled from head to foot. henry gave her his arm to support her. 'fear nothing,' he whispered; 'i shall be with you.' the countess proceeded along the westward corridor, and stopped at the door numbered thirty-eight. this was the room which had been inhabited by baron rivar in the old days of the palace: it was situated immediately over the bedchamber in which agnes had passed the night. for the last two days the room had been empty. the absence of luggage in it, when they opened the door, showed that it had not yet been let. 'you see?' said the countess, pointing to the carved figure at the fire-place; 'and you know what to do. have i deserved that you should temper justice with mercy?' she went on in lower tones. 'give me a few hours more to myself. the baron wants money--i must get on with my play.' she smiled vacantly, and imitated the action of writing with her right hand as she pronounced the last words. the effort of concentrating her weakened mind on other and less familiar topics than the constant want of money in the baron's lifetime, and the vague prospect of gain from the still unfinished play, had evidently exhausted her poor reserves of strength. when her request had been granted, she addressed no expressions of gratitude to agnes; she only said, 'feel no fear, miss, of my attempting to escape you. where you are, there i must be till the end comes.' her eyes wandered round the room with a last weary and stupefied look. she returned to her writing with slow and feeble steps, like the steps of an old woman. chapter xxiv henry and agnes were left alone in the room of the caryatides. the person who had written the description of the palace--probably a poor author or artist--had correctly pointed out the defects of the mantel-piece. bad taste, exhibiting itself on the most costly and splendid scale, was visible in every part of the work. it was nevertheless greatly admired by ignorant travellers of all classes; partly on account of its imposing size, and partly on account of the number of variously-coloured marbles which the sculptor had contrived to introduce into his design. photographs of the mantel-piece were exhibited in the public rooms, and found a ready sale among english and american visitors to the hotel. henry led agnes to the figure on the left, as they stood facing the empty fire-place. 'shall i try the experiment,' he asked, 'or will you?' she abruptly drew her arm away from him, and turned back to the door. 'i can't even look at it,' she said. 'that merciless marble face frightens me!' henry put his hand on the forehead of the figure. 'what is there to alarm you, my dear, in this conventionally classical face?' he asked jestingly. before he could press the head inwards, agnes hurriedly opened the door. 'wait till i am out of the room!' she cried. 'the bare idea of what you may find there horrifies me!' she looked back into the room as she crossed the threshold. 'i won't leave you altogether,' she said, 'i will wait outside.' she closed the door. left by himself, henry lifted his hand once more to the marble forehead of the figure. for the second time, he was checked on the point of setting the machinery of the hiding-place in motion. on this occasion, the interruption came from an outbreak of friendly voices in the corridor. a woman's voice exclaimed, 'dearest agnes, how glad i am to see you again!' a man's voice followed, offering to introduce some friend to 'miss lockwood.' a third voice (which henry recognised as the voice of the manager of the hotel) became audible next, directing the housekeeper to show the ladies and gentlemen the vacant apartments at the other end of the corridor. 'if more accommodation is wanted,' the manager went on, 'i have a charming room to let here.' he opened the door as he spoke, and found himself face to face with henry westwick. 'this is indeed an agreeable surprise, sir!' said the manager cheerfully. 'you are admiring our famous chimney-piece, i see. may i ask, mr. westwick, how you find yourself in the hotel, this time? have the supernatural influences affected your appetite again?' 'the supernatural influences have spared me, this time,' henry answered. 'perhaps you may yet find that they have affected some other member of the family.' he spoke gravely, resenting the familiar tone in which the manager had referred to his previous visit to the hotel. 'have you just returned?' he asked, by way of changing the topic. 'just this minute, sir. i had the honour of travelling in the same train with friends of yours who have arrived at the hotel--mr. and mrs. arthur barville, and their travelling companions. miss lockwood is with them, looking at the rooms. they will be here before long, if they find it convenient to have an extra room at their disposal.' this announcement decided henry on exploring the hiding-place, before the interruption occurred. it had crossed his mind, when agnes left him, that he ought perhaps to have a witness, in the not very probable event of some alarming discovery taking place. the too-familiar manager, suspecting nothing, was there at his disposal. he turned again to the caryan figure, maliciously resolving to make the manager his witness. 'i am delighted to hear that our friends have arrived at last,' he said. 'before i shake hands with them, let me ask you a question about this queer work of art here. i see photographs of it downstairs. are they for sale?' 'certainly, mr. westwick!' 'do you think the chimney-piece is as solid as it looks?' henry proceeded. 'when you came in, i was just wondering whether this figure here had not accidentally got loosened from the wall behind it.' he laid his hand on the marble forehead, for the third time. 'to my eye, it looks a little out of the perpendicular. i almost fancied i could jog the head just now, when i touched it.' he pressed the head inwards as he said those words. a sound of jarring iron was instantly audible behind the wall. the solid hearthstone in front of the fire-place turned slowly at the feet of the two men, and disclosed a dark cavity below. at the same moment, the strange and sickening combination of odours, hitherto associated with the vaults of the old palace and with the bed-chamber beneath, now floated up from the open recess, and filled the room. the manager started back. 'good god, mr. westwick!' he exclaimed, 'what does this mean?' remembering, not only what his brother francis had felt in the room beneath, but what the experience of agnes had been on the previous night, henry was determined to be on his guard. 'i am as much surprised as you are,' was his only reply. 'wait for me one moment, sir,' said the manager. 'i must stop the ladies and gentlemen outside from coming in.' he hurried away--not forgetting to close the door after him. henry opened the window, and waited there breathing the purer air. vague apprehensions of the next discovery to come, filled his mind for the first time. he was doubly resolved, now, not to stir a step in the investigation without a witness. the manager returned with a wax taper in his hand, which he lighted as soon as he entered the room. 'we need fear no interruption now,' he said. 'be so kind, mr. westwick, as to hold the light. it is my business to find out what this extraordinary discovery means.' henry held the taper. looking into the cavity, by the dim and flickering light, they both detected a dark object at the bottom of it. 'i think i can reach the thing,' the manager remarked, 'if i lie down, and put my hand into the hole.' he knelt on the floor--and hesitated. 'might i ask you, sir, to give me my gloves?' he said. 'they are in my hat, on the chair behind you.' henry gave him the gloves. 'i don't know what i may be going to take hold of,' the manager explained, smiling rather uneasily as he put on his right glove. he stretched himself at full length on the floor, and passed his right arm into the cavity. 'i can't say exactly what i have got hold of,' he said. 'but i have got it.' half raising himself, he drew his hand out. the next instant, he started to his feet with a shriek of terror. a human head dropped from his nerveless grasp on the floor, and rolled to henry's feet. it was the hideous head that agnes had seen hovering above her, in the vision of the night! the two men looked at each other, both struck speechless by the same emotion of horror. the manager was the first to control himself. 'see to the door, for god's sake!' he said. 'some of the people outside may have heard me.' henry moved mechanically to the door. even when he had his hand on the key, ready to turn it in the lock in case of necessity, he still looked back at the appalling object on the floor. there was no possibility of identifying those decayed and distorted features with any living creature whom he had seen--and, yet, he was conscious of feeling a vague and awful doubt which shook him to the soul. the questions which had tortured the mind of agnes, were now his questions too. he asked himself, 'in whose likeness might i have recognised it before the decay set in? the likeness of ferrari? or the likeness of--?' he paused trembling, as agnes had paused trembling before him. agnes! the name, of all women's names the dearest to him, was a terror to him now! what was he to say to her? what might be the consequence if he trusted her with the terrible truth? no footsteps approached the door; no voices were audible outside. the travellers were still occupied in the rooms at the eastern end of the corridor. in the brief interval that had passed, the manager had sufficiently recovered himself to be able to think once more of the first and foremost interests of his life--the interests of the hotel. he approached henry anxiously. 'if this frightful discovery becomes known,' he said, 'the closing of the hotel and the ruin of the company will be the inevitable results. i feel sure that i can trust your discretion, sir, so far?' 'you can certainly trust me,' henry answered. 'but surely discretion has its limits,' he added, 'after such a discovery as we have made?' the manager understood that the duty which they owed to the community, as honest and law-abiding men, was the duty to which henry now referred. 'i will at once find the means,' he said, 'of conveying the remains privately out of the house, and i will myself place them in the care of the police authorities. will you leave the room with me? or do you not object to keep watch here, and help me when i return?' while he was speaking, the voices of the travellers made themselves heard again at the end of the corridor. henry instantly consented to wait in the room. he shrank from facing the inevitable meeting with agnes if he showed himself in the corridor at that moment. the manager hastened his departure, in the hope of escaping notice. he was discovered by his guests before he could reach the head of the stairs. henry heard the voices plainly as he turned the key. while the terrible drama of discovery was in progress on one side of the door, trivial questions about the amusements of venice, and facetious discussions on the relative merits of french and italian cookery, were proceeding on the other. little by little, the sound of the talking grew fainter. the visitors, having arranged their plans of amusement for the day, were on their way out of the hotel. in a minute or two, there was silence once more. henry turned to the window, thinking to relieve his mind by looking at the bright view over the canal. he soon grew wearied of the familiar scene. the morbid fascination which seems to be exercised by all horrible sights, drew him back again to the ghastly object on the floor. dream or reality, how had agnes survived the sight of it? as the question passed through his mind, he noticed for the first time something lying on the floor near the head. looking closer, he perceived a thin little plate of gold, with three false teeth attached to it, which had apparently dropped out (loosened by the shock) when the manager let the head fall on the floor. the importance of this discovery, and the necessity of not too readily communicating it to others, instantly struck henry. here surely was a chance--if any chance remained--of identifying the shocking relic of humanity which lay before him, the dumb witness of a crime! acting on this idea, he took possession of the teeth, purposing to use them as a last means of inquiry when other attempts at investigation had been tried and had failed. he went back again to the window: the solitude of the room began to weigh on his spirits. as he looked out again at the view, there was a soft knock at the door. he hastened to open it--and checked himself in the act. a doubt occurred to him. was it the manager who had knocked? he called out, 'who is there?' the voice of agnes answered him. 'have you anything to tell me, henry?' he was hardly able to reply. 'not just now,' he said, confusedly. 'forgive me if i don't open the door. i will speak to you a little later.' the sweet voice made itself heard again, pleading with him piteously. 'don't leave me alone, henry! i can't go back to the happy people downstairs.' how could he resist that appeal? he heard her sigh--he heard the rustling of her dress as she moved away in despair. the very thing that he had shrunk from doing but a few minutes since was the thing that he did now! he joined agnes in the corridor. she turned as she heard him, and pointed, trembling, in the direction of the closed room. 'is it so terrible as that?' she asked faintly. he put his arm round her to support her. a thought came to him as he looked at her, waiting in doubt and fear for his reply. 'you shall know what i have discovered,' he said, 'if you will first put on your hat and cloak, and come out with me.' she was naturally surprised. 'can you tell me your object in going out?' she asked. he owned what his object was unreservedly. 'i want, before all things,' he said, 'to satisfy your mind and mine, on the subject of montbarry's death. i am going to take you to the doctor who attended him in his illness, and to the consul who followed him to the grave.' her eyes rested on henry gratefully. 'oh, how well you understand me!' she said. the manager joined them at the same moment, on his way up the stairs. henry gave him the key of the room, and then called to the servants in the hall to have a gondola ready at the steps. 'are you leaving the hotel?' the manager asked. 'in search of evidence,' henry whispered, pointing to the key. 'if the authorities want me, i shall be back in an hour.' chapter xxv the day had advanced to evening. lord montbarry and the bridal party had gone to the opera. agnes alone, pleading the excuse of fatigue, remained at the hotel. having kept up appearances by accompanying his friends to the theatre, henry westwick slipped away after the first act, and joined agnes in the drawing-room. 'have you thought of what i said to you earlier in the day?' he asked, taking a chair at her side. 'do you agree with me that the one dreadful doubt which oppressed us both is at least set at rest?' agnes shook her head sadly. 'i wish i could agree with you, henry--i wish i could honestly say that my mind is at ease.' the answer would have discouraged most men. henry's patience (where agnes was concerned) was equal to any demands on it. 'if you will only look back at the events of the day,' he said, 'you must surely admit that we have not been completely baffled. remember how dr. bruno disposed of our doubts:--"after thirty years of medical practice, do you think i am likely to mistake the symptoms of death by bronchitis?" if ever there was an unanswerable question, there it is! was the consul's testimony doubtful in any part of it? he called at the palace to offer his services, after hearing of lord montbarry's death; he arrived at the time when the coffin was in the house; he himself saw the corpse placed in it, and the lid screwed down. the evidence of the priest is equally beyond dispute. he remained in the room with the coffin, reciting the prayers for the dead, until the funeral left the palace. bear all these statements in mind, agnes; and how can you deny that the question of montbarry's death and burial is a question set at rest? we have really but one doubt left: we have still to ask ourselves whether the remains which i discovered are the remains of the lost courier, or not. there is the case, as i understand it. have i stated it fairly?' agnes could not deny that he had stated it fairly. "then what prevents you from experiencing the same sense of relief that i feel?' henry asked. 'what i saw last night prevents me,' agnes answered. 'when we spoke of this subject, after our inquiries were over, you reproached me with taking what you called the superstitious view. i don't quite admit that--but i do acknowledge that i should find the superstitious view intelligible if i heard it expressed by some other person. remembering what your brother and i once were to each other in the bygone time, i can understand the apparition making itself visible to me, to claim the mercy of christian burial, and the vengeance due to a crime. i can even perceive some faint possibility of truth in the explanation which you described as the mesmeric theory--that what i saw might be the result of magnetic influence communicated to me, as i lay between the remains of the murdered husband above me and the guilty wife suffering the tortures of remorse at my bedside. but what i do not understand is, that i should have passed through that dreadful ordeal; having no previous knowledge of the murdered man in his lifetime, or only knowing him (if you suppose that i saw the apparition of ferrari) through the interest which i took in his wife. i can't dispute your reasoning, henry. but i feel in my heart of hearts that you are deceived. nothing will shake my belief that we are still as far from having discovered the dreadful truth as ever.' henry made no further attempt to dispute with her. she had impressed him with a certain reluctant respect for her own opinion, in spite of himself. 'have you thought of any better way of arriving at the truth?' he asked. 'who is to help us? no doubt there is the countess, who has the clue to the mystery in her own hands. but, in the present state of her mind, is her testimony to be trusted--even if she were willing to speak? judging by my own experience, i should say decidedly not.' 'you don't mean that you have seen her again?' agnes eagerly interposed. 'yes. i disturbed her once more over her endless writing; and i insisted on her speaking out plainly.' 'then you told her what you found when you opened the hiding-place?' 'of course i did!' henry replied. 'i said that i held her responsible for the discovery, though i had not mentioned her connection with it to the authorities as yet. she went on with her writing as if i had spoken in an unknown tongue! i was equally obstinate, on my side. i told her plainly that the head had been placed under the care of the police, and that the manager and i had signed our declarations and given our evidence. she paid not the slightest heed to me. by way of tempting her to speak, i added that the whole investigation was to be kept a secret, and that she might depend on my discretion. for the moment i thought i had succeeded. she looked up from her writing with a passing flash of curiosity, and said, "what are they going to do with it?"--meaning, i suppose, the head. i answered that it was to be privately buried, after photographs of it had first been taken. i even went the length of communicating the opinion of the surgeon consulted, that some chemical means of arresting decomposition had been used and had only partially succeeded--and i asked her point-blank if the surgeon was right? the trap was not a bad one--but it completely failed. she said in the coolest manner, "now you are here, i should like to consult you about my play; i am at a loss for some new incidents." mind! there was nothing satirical in this. she was really eager to read her wonderful work to me--evidently supposing that i took a special interest in such things, because my brother is the manager of a theatre! i left her, making the first excuse that occurred to me. so far as i am concerned, i can do nothing with her. but it is possible that your influence may succeed with her again, as it has succeeded already. will you make the attempt, to satisfy your own mind? she is still upstairs; and i am quite ready to accompany you.' agnes shuddered at the bare suggestion of another interview with the countess. 'i can't! i daren't!' she exclaimed. 'after what has happened in that horrible room, she is more repellent to me than ever. don't ask me to do it, henry! feel my hand--you have turned me as cold as death only with talking of it!' she was not exaggerating the terror that possessed her. henry hastened to change the subject. 'let us talk of something more interesting,' he said. 'i have a question to ask you about yourself. am i right in believing that the sooner you get away from venice the happier you will be?' 'right?' she repeated excitedly. 'you are more than right! no words can say how i long to be away from this horrible place. but you know how i am situated--you heard what lord montbarry said at dinner-time?' 'suppose he has altered his plans, since dinner-time?' henry suggested. agnes looked surprised. 'i thought he had received letters from england which obliged him to leave venice to-morrow,' she said. 'quite true,' henry admitted. 'he had arranged to start for england to-morrow, and to leave you and lady montbarry and the children to enjoy your holiday in venice, under my care. circumstances have occurred, however, which have forced him to alter his plans. he must take you all back with him to-morrow because i am not able to assume the charge of you. i am obliged to give up my holiday in italy, and return to england too.' agnes looked at him in some little perplexity: she was not quite sure whether she understood him or not. 'are you really obliged to go back?' she asked. henry smiled as he answered her. 'keep the secret,' he said, 'or montbarry will never forgive me!' she read the rest in his face. 'oh!' she exclaimed, blushing brightly, 'you have not given up your pleasant holiday in italy on my account?' 'i shall go back with you to england, agnes. that will be holiday enough for me.' she took his hand in an irrepressible outburst of gratitude. 'how good you are to me!' she murmured tenderly. 'what should i have done in the troubles that have come to me, without your sympathy? i can't tell you, henry, how i feel your kindness.' she tried impulsively to lift his hand to her lips. he gently stopped her. 'agnes,' he said, 'are you beginning to understand how truly i love you?' that simple question found its own way to her heart. she owned the whole truth, without saying a word. she looked at him--and then looked away again. he drew her nearer to him. 'my own darling!' he whispered--and kissed her. softly and tremulously, the sweet lips lingered, and touched his lips in return. then her head drooped. she put her arms round his neck, and hid her face on his bosom. they spoke no more. the charmed silence had lasted but a little while, when it was mercilessly broken by a knock at the door. agnes started to her feet. she placed herself at the piano; the instrument being opposite to the door, it was impossible, when she seated herself on the music-stool, for any person entering the room to see her face. henry called out irritably, 'come in.' the door was not opened. the person on the other side of it asked a strange question. 'is mr. henry westwick alone?' agnes instantly recognised the voice of the countess. she hurried to a second door, which communicated with one of the bedrooms. 'don't let her come near me!' she whispered nervously. 'good night, henry! good night!' if henry could, by an effort of will, have transported the countess to the uttermost ends of the earth, he would have made the effort without remorse. as it was, he only repeated, more irritably than ever, 'come in!' she entered the room slowly with her everlasting manuscript in her hand. her step was unsteady; a dark flush appeared on her face, in place of its customary pallor; her eyes were bloodshot and widely dilated. in approaching henry, she showed a strange incapability of calculating her distances--she struck against the table near which he happened to be sitting. when she spoke, her articulation was confused, and her pronunciation of some of the longer words was hardly intelligible. most men would have suspected her of being under the influence of some intoxicating liquor. henry took a truer view--he said, as he placed a chair for her, 'countess, i am afraid you have been working too hard: you look as if you wanted rest.' she put her hand to her head. 'my invention has gone,' she said. 'i can't write my fourth act. it's all a blank--all a blank!' henry advised her to wait till the next day. 'go to bed,' he suggested; 'and try to sleep.' she waved her hand impatiently. 'i must finish the play,' she answered. 'i only want a hint from you. you must know something about plays. your brother has got a theatre. you must often have heard him talk about fourth and fifth acts--you must have seen rehearsals, and all the rest of it.' she abruptly thrust the manuscript into henry's hand. 'i can't read it to you,' she said; 'i feel giddy when i look at my own writing. just run your eye over it, there's a good fellow--and give me a hint.' henry glanced at the manuscript. he happened to look at the list of the persons of the drama. as he read the list he started and turned abruptly to the countess, intending to ask her for some explanation. the words were suspended on his lips. it was but too plainly useless to speak to her. her head lay back on the rail of the chair. she seemed to be half asleep already. the flush on her face had deepened: she looked like a woman who was in danger of having a fit. he rang the bell, and directed the man who answered it to send one of the chambermaids upstairs. his voice seemed to partially rouse the countess; she opened her eyes in a slow drowsy way. 'have you read it?' she asked. it was necessary as a mere act of humanity to humour her. 'i will read it willingly,' said henry, 'if you will go upstairs to bed. you shall hear what i think of it to-morrow morning. our heads will be clearer, we shall be better able to make the fourth act in the morning.' the chambermaid came in while he was speaking. 'i am afraid the lady is ill,' henry whispered. 'take her up to her room.' the woman looked at the countess and whispered back, 'shall we send for a doctor, sir?' henry advised taking her upstairs first, and then asking the manager's opinion. there was great difficulty in persuading her to rise, and accept the support of the chambermaid's arm. it was only by reiterated promises to read the play that night, and to make the fourth act in the morning, that henry prevailed on the countess to return to her room. left to himself, he began to feel a certain languid curiosity in relation to the manuscript. he looked over the pages, reading a line here and a line there. suddenly he changed colour as he read--and looked up from the manuscript like a man bewildered. 'good god! what does this mean?' he said to himself. his eyes turned nervously to the door by which agnes had left him. she might return to the drawing-room, she might want to see what the countess had written. he looked back again at the passage which had startled him--considered with himself for a moment--and, snatching up the unfinished play, suddenly and softly left the room. chapter xxvi entering his own room on the upper floor, henry placed the manuscript on his table, open at the first leaf. his nerves were unquestionably shaken; his hand trembled as he turned the pages, he started at chance noises on the staircase of the hotel. the scenario, or outline, of the countess's play began with no formal prefatory phrases. she presented herself and her work with the easy familiarity of an old friend. 'allow me, dear mr. francis westwick, to introduce to you the persons in my proposed play. behold them, arranged symmetrically in a line. 'my lord. the baron. the courier. the doctor. the countess. 'i don't trouble myself, you see, to invest fictitious family names. my characters are sufficiently distinguished by their social titles, and by the striking contrast which they present one with another. the first act opens-'no! before i open the first act, i must announce, injustice to myself, that this play is entirely the work of my own invention. i scorn to borrow from actual events; and, what is more extraordinary still, i have not stolen one of my ideas from the modern french drama. as the manager of an english theatre, you will naturally refuse to believe this. it doesn't matter. nothing matters--except the opening of my first act. 'we are at homburg, in the famous salon d'or, at the height of the season. the countess (exquisitely dressed) is seated at the green table. strangers of all nations are standing behind the players, venturing their money or only looking on. my lord is among the strangers. he is struck by the countess's personal appearance, in which beauties and defects are fantastically mingled in the most attractive manner. he watches the countess's game, and places his money where he sees her deposit her own little stake. she looks round at him, and says, "don't trust to my colour; i have been unlucky the whole evening. place your stake on the other colour, and you may have a chance of winning." my lord (a true englishman) blushes, bows, and obeys. the countess proves to be a prophet. she loses again. my lord wins twice the sum that he has risked. 'the countess rises from the table. she has no more money, and she offers my lord her chair. 'instead of taking it, he politely places his winnings in her hand, and begs her to accept the loan as a favour to himself. the countess stakes again, and loses again. my lord smiles superbly, and presses a second loan on her. from that moment her luck turns. she wins, and wins largely. her brother, the baron, trying his fortune in another room, hears of what is going on, and joins my lord and the countess. 'pay attention, if you please, to the baron. he is delineated as a remarkable and interesting character. 'this noble person has begun life with a single-minded devotion to the science of experimental chemistry, very surprising in a young and handsome man with a brilliant future before him. a profound knowledge of the occult sciences has persuaded the baron that it is possible to solve the famous problem called the "philosopher's stone." his own pecuniary resources have long since been exhausted by his costly experiments. his sister has next supplied him with the small fortune at her disposal: reserving only the family jewels, placed in the charge of her banker and friend at frankfort. the countess's fortune also being swallowed up, the baron has in a fatal moment sought for new supplies at the gaming table. he proves, at starting on his perilous career, to be a favourite of fortune; wins largely, and, alas! profanes his noble enthusiasm for science by yielding his soul to the all-debasing passion of the gamester. 'at the period of the play, the baron's good fortune has deserted him. he sees his way to a crowning experiment in the fatal search after the secret of transmuting the baser elements into gold. but how is he to pay the preliminary expenses? destiny, like a mocking echo, answers, how? 'will his sister's winnings (with my lord's money) prove large enough to help him? eager for this result, he gives the countess his advice how to play. from that disastrous moment the infection of his own adverse fortune spreads to his sister. she loses again, and again--loses to the last farthing. 'the amiable and wealthy lord offers a third loan; but the scrupulous countess positively refuses to take it. on leaving the table, she presents her brother to my lord. the gentlemen fall into pleasant talk. my lord asks leave to pay his respects to the countess, the next morning, at her hotel. the baron hospitably invites him to breakfast. my lord accepts, with a last admiring glance at the countess which does not escape her brother's observation, and takes his leave for the night. 'alone with his sister, the baron speaks out plainly. "our affairs," he says, "are in a desperate condition, and must find a desperate remedy. wait for me here, while i make inquiries about my lord. you have evidently produced a strong impression on him. if we can turn that impression into money, no matter at what sacrifice, the thing must be done." 'the countess now occupies the stage alone, and indulges in a soliloquy which develops her character. 'it is at once a dangerous and attractive character. immense capacities for good are implanted in her nature, side by side with equally remarkable capacities for evil. it rests with circumstances to develop either the one or the other. being a person who produces a sensation wherever she goes, this noble lady is naturally made the subject of all sorts of scandalous reports. to one of these reports (which falsely and abominably points to the baron as her lover instead of her brother) she now refers with just indignation. she has just expressed her desire to leave homburg, as the place in which the vile calumny first took its rise, when the baron returns, overhears her last words, and says to her, "yes, leave homburg by all means; provided you leave it in the character of my lord's betrothed wife!" 'the countess is startled and shocked. she protests that she does not reciprocate my lord's admiration for her. she even goes the length of refusing to see him again. the baron answers, "i must positively have command of money. take your choice, between marrying my lord's income, in the interest of my grand discovery--or leave me to sell myself and my title to the first rich woman of low degree who is ready to buy me." 'the countess listens in surprise and dismay. is it possible that the baron is in earnest? he is horribly in earnest. "the woman who will buy me," he says, "is in the next room to us at this moment. she is the wealthy widow of a jewish usurer. she has the money i want to reach the solution of the great problem. i have only to be that woman's husband, and to make myself master of untold millions of gold. take five minutes to consider what i have said to you, and tell me on my return which of us is to marry for the money i want, you or i." 'as he turns away, the countess stops him. 'all the noblest sentiments in her nature are exalted to the highest pitch. "where is the true woman," she exclaims, "who wants time to consummate the sacrifice of herself, when the man to whom she is devoted demands it? she does not want five minutes--she does not want five seconds--she holds out her hand to him, and she says, sacrifice me on the altar of your glory! take as stepping-stones on the way to your triumph, my love, my liberty, and my life!" 'on this grand situation the curtain falls. judging by my first act, mr. westwick, tell me truly, and don't be afraid of turning my head:-am i not capable of writing a good play?' henry paused between the first and second acts; reflecting, not on the merits of the play, but on the strange resemblance which the incidents so far presented to the incidents that had attended the disastrous marriage of the first lord montbarry. was it possible that the countess, in the present condition of her mind, supposed herself to be exercising her invention when she was only exercising her memory? the question involved considerations too serious to be made the subject of a hasty decision. reserving his opinion, henry turned the page, and devoted himself to the reading of the next act. the manuscript proceeded as follows:-'the second act opens at venice. an interval of four months has elapsed since the date of the scene at the gambling table. the action now takes place in the reception-room of one of the venetian palaces. 'the baron is discovered, alone, on the stage. he reverts to the events which have happened since the close of the first act. the countess has sacrificed herself; the mercenary marriage has taken place--but not without obstacles, caused by difference of opinion on the question of marriage settlements. 'private inquiries, instituted in england, have informed the baron that my lord's income is derived chiefly from what is called entailed property. in case of accidents, he is surely bound to do something for his bride? let him, for example, insure his life, for a sum proposed by the baron, and let him so settle the money that his widow shall have it, if he dies first. 'my lord hesitates. the baron wastes no time in useless discussion. "let us by all means" (he says) "consider the marriage as broken off." my lord shifts his ground, and pleads for a smaller sum than the sum proposed. the baron briefly replies, "i never bargain." my lord is in love; the natural result follows--he gives way. 'so far, the baron has no cause to complain. but my lord's turn comes, when the marriage has been celebrated, and when the honeymoon is over. the baron has joined the married pair at a palace which they have hired in venice. he is still bent on solving the problem of the "philosopher's stone." his laboratory is set up in the vaults beneath the palace--so that smells from chemical experiments may not incommode the countess, in the higher regions of the house. the one obstacle in the way of his grand discovery is, as usual, the want of money. his position at the present time has become truly critical. he owes debts of honour to gentlemen in his own rank of life, which must positively be paid; and he proposes, in his own friendly manner, to borrow the money of my lord. my lord positively refuses, in the rudest terms. the baron applies to his sister to exercise her conjugal influence. she can only answer that her noble husband (being no longer distractedly in love with her) now appears in his true character, as one of the meanest men living. the sacrifice of the marriage has been made, and has already proved useless. 'such is the state of affairs at the opening of the second act. 'the entrance of the countess suddenly disturbs the baron's reflections. she is in a state bordering on frenzy. incoherent expressions of rage burst from her lips: it is some time before she can sufficiently control herself to speak plainly. she has been doubly insulted--first, by a menial person in her employment; secondly, by her husband. her maid, an englishwoman, has declared that she will serve the countess no longer. she will give up her wages, and return at once to england. being asked her reason for this strange proceeding, she insolently hints that the countess's service is no service for an honest woman, since the baron has entered the house. the countess does, what any lady in her position would do; she indignantly dismisses the wretch on the spot. 'my lord, hearing his wife's voice raised in anger, leaves the study in which he is accustomed to shut himself up over his books, and asks what this disturbance means. the countess informs him of the outrageous language and conduct of her maid. my lord not only declares his entire approval of the woman's conduct, but expresses his own abominable doubts of his wife's fidelity in language of such horrible brutality that no lady could pollute her lips by repeating it. "if i had been a man," the countess says, "and if i had had a weapon in my hand, i would have struck him dead at my feet!" 'the baron, listening silently so far, now speaks. "permit me to finish the sentence for you," he says. "you would have struck your husband dead at your feet; and by that rash act, you would have deprived yourself of the insurance money settled on the widow--the very money which is wanted to relieve your brother from the unendurable pecuniary position which he now occupies!" 'the countess gravely reminds the baron that this is no joking matter. after what my lord has said to her, she has little doubt that he will communicate his infamous suspicions to his lawyers in england. if nothing is done to prevent it, she may be divorced and disgraced, and thrown on the world, with no resource but the sale of her jewels to keep her from starving. 'at this moment, the courier who has been engaged to travel with my lord from england crosses the stage with a letter to take to the post. the countess stops him, and asks to look at the address on the letter. she takes it from him for a moment, and shows it to her brother. the handwriting is my lord's; and the letter is directed to his lawyers in london. 'the courier proceeds to the post-office. the baron and the countess look at each other in silence. no words are needed. they thoroughly understand the position in which they are placed; they clearly see the terrible remedy for it. what is the plain alternative before them? disgrace and ruin--or, my lord's death and the insurance money! 'the baron walks backwards and forwards in great agitation, talking to himself. the countess hears fragments of what he is saying. he speaks of my lord's constitution, probably weakened in india--of a cold which my lord has caught two or three days since--of the remarkable manner in which such slight things as colds sometimes end in serious illness and death. 'he observes that the countess is listening to him, and asks if she has anything to propose. she is a woman who, with many defects, has the great merit of speaking out. "is there no such thing as a serious illness," she asks, "corked up in one of those bottles of yours in the vaults downstairs?" 'the baron answers by gravely shaking his head. what is he afraid of?--a possible examination of the body after death? no: he can set any post-mortem examination at defiance. it is the process of administering the poison that he dreads. a man so distinguished as my lord cannot be taken seriously ill without medical attendance. where there is a doctor, there is always danger of discovery. then, again, there is the courier, faithful to my lord as long as my lord pays him. even if the doctor sees nothing suspicious, the courier may discover something. the poison, to do its work with the necessary secrecy, must be repeatedly administered in graduated doses. one trifling miscalculation or mistake may rouse suspicion. the insurance offices may hear of it, and may refuse to pay the money. as things are, the baron will not risk it, and will not allow his sister to risk it in his place. 'my lord himself is the next character who appears. he has repeatedly rung for the courier, and the bell has not been answered. "what does this insolence mean?" 'the countess (speaking with quiet dignity--for why should her infamous husband have the satisfaction of knowing how deeply he has wounded her?) reminds my lord that the courier has gone to the post. my lord asks suspiciously if she has looked at the letter. the countess informs him coldly that she has no curiosity about his letters. referring to the cold from which he is suffering, she inquires if he thinks of consulting a medical man. my lord answers roughly that he is quite old enough to be capable of doctoring himself. 'as he makes this reply, the courier appears, returning from the post. my lord gives him orders to go out again and buy some lemons. he proposes to try hot lemonade as a means of inducing perspiration in bed. in that way he has formerly cured colds, and in that way he will cure the cold from which he is suffering now. 'the courier obeys in silence. judging by appearances, he goes very reluctantly on this second errand. 'my lord turns to the baron (who has thus far taken no part in the conversation) and asks him, in a sneering tone, how much longer he proposes to prolong his stay in venice. the baron answers quietly, "let us speak plainly to one another, my lord. if you wish me to leave your house, you have only to say the word, and i go." my lord turns to his wife, and asks if she can support the calamity of her brother's absence--laying a grossly insulting emphasis on the word "brother." the countess preserves her impenetrable composure; nothing in her betrays the deadly hatred with which she regards the titled ruffian who has insulted her. "you are master in this house, my lord," is all she says. "do as you please." 'my lord looks at his wife; looks at the baron--and suddenly alters his tone. does he perceive in the composure of the countess and her brother something lurking under the surface that threatens him? this is at least certain, he makes a clumsy apology for the language that he has used. (abject wretch!) 'my lord's excuses are interrupted by the return of the courier with the lemons and hot water. 'the countess observes for the first time that the man looks ill. his hands tremble as he places the tray on the table. my lord orders his courier to follow him, and make the lemonade in the bedroom. the countess remarks that the courier seems hardly capable of obeying his orders. hearing this, the man admits that he is ill. he, too, is suffering from a cold; he has been kept waiting in a draught at the shop where he bought the lemons; he feels alternately hot and cold, and he begs permission to lie down for a little while on his bed. 'feeling her humanity appealed to, the countess volunteers to make the lemonade herself. my lord takes the courier by the arm, leads him aside, and whispers these words to him: "watch her, and see that she puts nothing into the lemonade; then bring it to me with your own hands; and, then, go to bed, if you like." 'without a word more to his wife, or to the baron, my lord leaves the room. 'the countess makes the lemonade, and the courier takes it to his master. 'returning, on the way to his own room, he is so weak, and feels, he says, so giddy, that he is obliged to support himself by the backs of the chairs as he passes them. the baron, always considerate to persons of low degree, offers his arm. "i am afraid, my poor fellow," he says, "that you are really ill." the courier makes this extraordinary answer: "it's all over with me, sir: i have caught my death." 'the countess is naturally startled. "you are not an old man," she says, trying to rouse the courier's spirits. "at your age, catching cold doesn't surely mean catching your death?" the courier fixes his eyes despairingly on the countess. "my lungs are weak, my lady," he says; "i have already had two attacks of bronchitis. the second time, a great physician joined my own doctor in attendance on me. he considered my recovery almost in the light of a miracle. take care of yourself," he said. "if you have a third attack of bronchitis, as certainly as two and two make four, you will be a dead man. i feel the same inward shivering, my lady, that i felt on those two former occasions--and i tell you again, i have caught my death in venice." 'speaking some comforting words, the baron leads him to his room. the countess is left alone on the stage. 'she seats herself, and looks towards the door by which the courier has been led out. "ah! my poor fellow," she says, "if you could only change constitutions with my lord, what a happy result would follow for the baron and for me! if you could only get cured of a trumpery cold with a little hot lemonade, and if he could only catch his death in your place--!" 'she suddenly pauses--considers for a while--and springs to her feet, with a cry of triumphant surprise: the wonderful, the unparalleled idea has crossed her mind like a flash of lightning. make the two men change names and places--and the deed is done! where are the obstacles? remove my lord (by fair means or foul) from his room; and keep him secretly prisoner in the palace, to live or die as future necessity may determine. place the courier in the vacant bed, and call in the doctor to see him--ill, in my lord's character, and (if he dies) dying under my lord's name!' the manuscript dropped from henry's hands. a sickening sense of horror overpowered him. the question which had occurred to his mind at the close of the first act of the play assumed a new and terrible interest now. as far as the scene of the countess's soliloquy, the incidents of the second act had reflected the events of his late brother's life as faithfully as the incidents of the first act. was the monstrous plot, revealed in the lines which he had just read, the offspring of the countess's morbid imagination? or had she, in this case also, deluded herself with the idea that she was inventing when she was really writing under the influence of her own guilty remembrances of the past? if the latter interpretation were the true one, he had just read the narrative of the contemplated murder of his brother, planned in cold blood by a woman who was at that moment inhabiting the same house with him. while, to make the fatality complete, agnes herself had innocently provided the conspirators with the one man who was fitted to be the passive agent of their crime. even the bare doubt that it might be so was more than he could endure. he left his room; resolved to force the truth out of the countess, or to denounce her before the authorities as a murderess at large. arrived at her door, he was met by a person just leaving the room. the person was the manager. he was hardly recognisable; he looked and spoke like a man in a state of desperation. 'oh, go in, if you like!' he said to henry. 'mark this, sir! i am not a superstitious man; but i do begin to believe that crimes carry their own curse with them. this hotel is under a curse. what happens in the morning? we discover a crime committed in the old days of the palace. the night comes, and brings another dreadful event with it--a death; a sudden and shocking death, in the house. go in, and see for yourself! i shall resign my situation, mr. westwick: i can't contend with the fatalities that pursue me here!' henry entered the room. the countess was stretched on her bed. the doctor on one side, and the chambermaid on the other, were standing looking at her. from time to time, she drew a heavy stertorous breath, like a person oppressed in sleeping. 'is she likely to die?' henry asked. 'she is dead,' the doctor answered. 'dead of the rupture of a blood-vessel on the brain. those sounds that you hear are purely mechanical--they may go on for hours.' henry looked at the chambermaid. she had little to tell. the countess had refused to go to bed, and had placed herself at her desk to proceed with her writing. finding it useless to remonstrate with her, the maid had left the room to speak to the manager. in the shortest possible time, the doctor was summoned to the hotel, and found the countess dead on the floor. there was this to tell--and no more. looking at the writing-table as he went out, henry saw the sheet of paper on which the countess had traced her last lines of writing. the characters were almost illegible. henry could just distinguish the words, 'first act,' and 'persons of the drama.' the lost wretch had been thinking of her play to the last, and had begun it all over again! chapter xxvii henry returned to his room. his first impulse was to throw aside the manuscript, and never to look at it again. the one chance of relieving his mind from the dreadful uncertainty that oppressed it, by obtaining positive evidence of the truth, was a chance annihilated by the countess's death. what good purpose could be served, what relief could he anticipate, if he read more? he walked up and down the room. after an interval, his thoughts took a new direction; the question of the manuscript presented itself under another point of view. thus far, his reading had only informed him that the conspiracy had been planned. how did he know that the plan had been put in execution? the manuscript lay just before him on the floor. he hesitated; then picked it up; and, returning to the table, read on as follows, from the point at which he had left off. 'while the countess is still absorbed in the bold yet simple combination of circumstances which she has discovered, the baron returns. he takes a serious view of the case of the courier; it may be necessary, he thinks, to send for medical advice. no servant is left in the palace, now the english maid has taken her departure. the baron himself must fetch the doctor, if the doctor is really needed. '"let us have medical help, by all means," his sister replies. "but wait and hear something that i have to say to you first." she then electrifies the baron by communicating her idea to him. what danger of discovery have they to dread? my lord's life in venice has been a life of absolute seclusion: nobody but his banker knows him, even by personal appearance. he has presented his letter of credit as a perfect stranger; and he and his banker have never seen each other since that first visit. he has given no parties, and gone to no parties. on the few occasions when he has hired a gondola or taken a walk, he has always been alone. thanks to the atrocious suspicion which makes him ashamed of being seen with his wife, he has led the very life which makes the proposed enterprise easy of accomplishment. 'the cautious baron listens--but gives no positive opinion, as yet. "see what you can do with the courier," he says; "and i will decide when i hear the result. one valuable hint i may give you before you go. your man is easily tempted by money--if you only offer him enough. the other day, i asked him, in jest, what he would do for a thousand pounds. he answered, 'anything.' bear that in mind; and offer your highest bid without bargaining." 'the scene changes to the courier's room, and shows the poor wretch with a photographic portrait of his wife in his hand, crying. the countess enters. 'she wisely begins by sympathising with her contemplated accomplice. he is duly grateful; he confides his sorrows to his gracious mistress. now that he believes himself to be on his death-bed, he feels remorse for his neglectful treatment of his wife. he could resign himself to die; but despair overpowers him when he remembers that he has saved no money, and that he will leave his widow, without resources, to the mercy of the world. 'on this hint, the countess speaks. "suppose you were asked to do a perfectly easy thing," she says; "and suppose you were rewarded for doing it by a present of a thousand pounds, as a legacy for your widow?" 'the courier raises himself on his pillow, and looks at the countess with an expression of incredulous surprise. she can hardly be cruel enough (he thinks) to joke with a man in his miserable plight. will she say plainly what this perfectly easy thing is, the doing of which will meet with such a magnificent reward? 'the countess answers that question by confiding her project to the courier, without the slightest reserve. 'some minutes of silence follow when she has done. the courier is not weak enough yet to speak without stopping to think first. still keeping his eyes on the countess, he makes a quaintly insolent remark on what he has just heard. "i have not hitherto been a religious man; but i feel myself on the way to it. since your ladyship has spoken to me, i believe in the devil." it is the countess's interest to see the humorous side of this confession of faith. she takes no offence. she only says, "i will give you half an hour by yourself, to think over my proposal. you are in danger of death. decide, in your wife's interests, whether you will die worth nothing, or die worth a thousand pounds." 'left alone, the courier seriously considers his position--and decides. he rises with difficulty; writes a few lines on a leaf taken from his pocket-book; and, with slow and faltering steps, leaves the room. 'the countess, returning at the expiration of the half-hour's interval, finds the room empty. while she is wondering, the courier opens the door. what has he been doing out of his bed? he answers, "i have been protecting my own life, my lady, on the bare chance that i may recover from the bronchitis for the third time. if you or the baron attempts to hurry me out of this world, or to deprive me of my thousand pounds reward, i shall tell the doctor where he will find a few lines of writing, which describe your ladyship's plot. i may not have strength enough, in the case supposed, to betray you by making a complete confession with my own lips; but i can employ my last breath to speak the half-dozen words which will tell the doctor where he is to look. those words, it is needless to add, will be addressed to your ladyship, if i find your engagements towards me faithfully kept." 'with this audacious preface, he proceeds to state the conditions on which he will play his part in the conspiracy, and die (if he does die) worth a thousand pounds. 'either the countess or the baron are to taste the food and drink brought to his bedside, in his presence, and even the medicines which the doctor may prescribe for him. as for the promised sum of money, it is to be produced in one bank-note, folded in a sheet of paper, on which a line is to be written, dictated by the courier. the two enclosures are then to be sealed up in an envelope, addressed to his wife, and stamped ready for the post. this done, the letter is to be placed under his pillow; the baron or the countess being at liberty to satisfy themselves, day by day, at their own time, that the letter remains in its place, with the seal unbroken, as long as the doctor has any hope of his patient's recovery. the last stipulation follows. the courier has a conscience; and with a view to keeping it easy, insists that he shall be left in ignorance of that part of the plot which relates to the sequestration of my lord. not that he cares particularly what becomes of his miserly master--but he does dislike taking other people's responsibilities on his own shoulders. 'these conditions being agreed to, the countess calls in the baron, who has been waiting events in the next room. 'he is informed that the courier has yielded to temptation; but he is still too cautious to make any compromising remarks. keeping his back turned on the bed, he shows a bottle to the countess. it is labelled "chloroform." she understands that my lord is to be removed from his room in a convenient state of insensibility. in what part of the palace is he to be hidden? as they open the door to go out, the countess whispers that question to the baron. the baron whispers back, "in the vaults!" the curtain falls.' chapter xxviii so the second act ended. turning to the third act, henry looked wearily at the pages as he let them slip through his fingers. both in mind and body, he began to feel the need of repose. in one important respect, the later portion of the manuscript differed from the pages which he had just been reading. signs of an overwrought brain showed themselves, here and there, as the outline of the play approached its end. the handwriting grew worse and worse. some of the longer sentences were left unfinished. in the exchange of dialogue, questions and answers were not always attributed respectively to the right speaker. at certain intervals the writer's failing intelligence seemed to recover itself for a while; only to relapse again, and to lose the thread of the narrative more hopelessly than ever. after reading one or two of the more coherent passages henry recoiled from the ever-darkening horror of the story. he closed the manuscript, heartsick and exhausted, and threw himself on his bed to rest. the door opened almost at the same moment. lord montbarry entered the room. 'we have just returned from the opera,' he said; 'and we have heard the news of that miserable woman's death. they say you spoke to her in her last moments; and i want to hear how it happened.' 'you shall hear how it happened,' henry answered; 'and more than that. you are now the head of the family, stephen; and i feel bound, in the position which oppresses me, to leave you to decide what ought to be done.' with those introductory words, he told his brother how the countess's play had come into his hands. 'read the first few pages,' he said. 'i am anxious to know whether the same impression is produced on both of us.' before lord montbarry had got half-way through the first act, he stopped, and looked at his brother. 'what does she mean by boasting of this as her own invention?' he asked. 'was she too crazy to remember that these things really happened?' this was enough for henry: the same impression had been produced on both of them. 'you will do as you please,' he said. 'but if you will be guided by me, spare yourself the reading of those pages to come, which describe our brother's terrible expiation of his heartless marriage.' 'have you read it all, henry?' 'not all. i shrank from reading some of the latter part of it. neither you nor i saw much of our elder brother after we left school; and, for my part, i felt, and never scrupled to express my feeling, that he behaved infamously to agnes. but when i read that unconscious confession of the murderous conspiracy to which he fell a victim, i remembered, with something like remorse, that the same mother bore us. i have felt for him to-night, what i am ashamed to think i never felt for him before.' lord montbarry took his brother's hand. 'you are a good fellow, henry,' he said; 'but are you quite sure that you have not been needlessly distressing yourself? because some of this crazy creature's writing accidentally tells what we know to be the truth, does it follow that all the rest is to be relied on to the end?' 'there is no possible doubt of it,' henry replied. 'no possible doubt?' his brother repeated. 'i shall go on with my reading, henry--and see what justification there may be for that confident conclusion of yours.' he read on steadily, until he had reached the end of the second act. then he looked up. 'do you really believe that the mutilated remains which you discovered this morning are the remains of our brother?' he asked. 'and do you believe it on such evidence as this?' henry answered silently by a sign in the affirmative. lord montbarry checked himself--evidently on the point of entering an indignant protest. 'you acknowledge that you have not read the later scenes of the piece,' he said. 'don't be childish, henry! if you persist in pinning your faith on such stuff as this, the least you can do is to make yourself thoroughly acquainted with it. will you read the third act? no? then i shall read it to you.' he turned to the third act, and ran over those fragmentary passages which were clearly enough written and expressed to be intelligible to the mind of a stranger. 'here is a scene in the vaults of the palace,' he began. 'the victim of the conspiracy is sleeping on his miserable bed; and the baron and the countess are considering the position in which they stand. the countess (as well as i can make it out) has raised the money that is wanted by borrowing on the security of her jewels at frankfort; and the courier upstairs is still declared by the doctor to have a chance of recovery. what are the conspirators to do, if the man does recover? the cautious baron suggests setting the prisoner free. if he ventures to appeal to the law, it is easy to declare that he is subject to insane delusion, and to call his own wife as witness. on the other hand, if the courier dies, how is the sequestrated and unknown nobleman to be put out of the way? passively, by letting him starve in his prison? no: the baron is a man of refined tastes; he dislikes needless cruelty. the active policy remains--say, assassination by the knife of a hired bravo? the baron objects to trusting an accomplice; also to spending money on anyone but himself. shall they drop their prisoner into the canal? the baron declines to trust water; water will show him on the surface. shall they set his bed on fire? an excellent idea; but the smoke might be seen. no: the circumstances being now entirely altered, poisoning him presents the easiest way out of it. he has simply become a superfluous person. the cheapest poison will do.--is it possible, henry, that you believe this consultation really took place?' henry made no reply. the succession of the questions that had just been read to him, exactly followed the succession of the dreams that had terrified mrs. norbury, on the two nights which she had passed in the hotel. it was useless to point out this coincidence to his brother. he only said, 'go on.' lord montbarry turned the pages until he came to the next intelligible passage. 'here,' he proceeded, 'is a double scene on the stage--so far as i can understand the sketch of it. the doctor is upstairs, innocently writing his certificate of my lord's decease, by the dead courier's bedside. down in the vaults, the baron stands by the corpse of the poisoned lord, preparing the strong chemical acids which are to reduce it to a heap of ashes--surely, it is not worth while to trouble ourselves with deciphering such melodramatic horrors as these? let us get on! let us get on!' he turned the leaves again; attempting vainly to discover the meaning of the confused scenes that followed. on the last page but one, he found the last intelligible sentences. 'the third act seems to be divided,' he said, 'into two parts or tableaux. i think i can read the writing at the beginning of the second part. the baron and the countess open the scene. the baron's hands are mysteriously concealed by gloves. he has reduced the body to ashes by his own system of cremation, with the exception of the head--' henry interrupted his brother there. 'don't read any more!' he exclaimed. 'let us do the countess justice,' lord montbarry persisted. 'there are not half a dozen lines more that i can make out! the accidental breaking of his jar of acid has burnt the baron's hands severely. he is still unable to proceed to the destruction of the head--and the countess is woman enough (with all her wickedness) to shrink from attempting to take his place--when the first news is received of the coming arrival of the commission of inquiry despatched by the insurance offices. the baron feels no alarm. inquire as the commission may, it is the natural death of the courier (in my lord's character) that they are blindly investigating. the head not being destroyed, the obvious alternative is to hide it--and the baron is equal to the occasion. his studies in the old library have informed him of a safe place of concealment in the palace. the countess may recoil from handling the acids and watching the process of cremation; but she can surely sprinkle a little disinfecting powder--' 'no more!' henry reiterated. 'no more!' 'there is no more that can be read, my dear fellow. the last page looks like sheer delirium. she may well have told you that her invention had failed her!' 'face the truth honestly, stephen, and say her memory.' lord montbarry rose from the table at which he had been sitting, and looked at his brother with pitying eyes. 'your nerves are out of order, henry,' he said. 'and no wonder, after that frightful discovery under the hearth-stone. we won't dispute about it; we will wait a day or two until you are quite yourself again. in the meantime, let us understand each other on one point at least. you leave the question of what is to be done with these pages of writing to me, as the head of the family?' 'i do.' lord montbarry quietly took up the manuscript, and threw it into the fire. 'let this rubbish be of some use,' he said, holding the pages down with the poker. 'the room is getting chilly--the countess's play will set some of these charred logs flaming again.' he waited a little at the fire-place, and returned to his brother. 'now, henry, i have a last word to say, and then i have done. i am ready to admit that you have stumbled, by an unlucky chance, on the proof of a crime committed in the old days of the palace, nobody knows how long ago. with that one concession, i dispute everything else. rather than agree in the opinion you have formed, i won't believe anything that has happened. the supernatural influences that some of us felt when we first slept in this hotel--your loss of appetite, our sister's dreadful dreams, the smell that overpowered francis, and the head that appeared to agnes--i declare them all to be sheer delusions! i believe in nothing, nothing, nothing!' he opened the door to go out, and looked back into the room. 'yes,' he resumed, 'there is one thing i believe in. my wife has committed a breach of confidence--i believe agnes will marry you. good night, henry. we leave venice the first thing to-morrow morning. so lord montbarry disposed of the mystery of the haunted hotel. postscript a last chance of deciding the difference of opinion between the two brothers remained in henry's possession. he had his own idea of the use to which he might put the false teeth as a means of inquiry when he and his fellow-travellers returned to england. the only surviving depositary of the domestic history of the family in past years, was agnes lockwood's old nurse. henry took his first opportunity of trying to revive her personal recollections of the deceased lord montbarry. but the nurse had never forgiven the great man of the family for his desertion of agnes; she flatly refused to consult her memory. 'even the bare sight of my lord, when i last saw him in london,' said the old woman, 'made my finger-nails itch to set their mark on his face. i was sent on an errand by miss agnes; and i met him coming out of his dentist's door--and, thank god, that's the last i ever saw of him!' thanks to the nurse's quick temper and quaint way of expressing herself, the object of henry's inquiries was gained already! he ventured on asking if she had noticed the situation of the house. she had noticed, and still remembered the situation--did master henry suppose she had lost the use of her senses, because she happened to be nigh on eighty years old? the same day, he took the false teeth to the dentist, and set all further doubt (if doubt had still been possible) at rest for ever. the teeth had been made for the first lord montbarry. henry never revealed the existence of this last link in the chain of discovery to any living creature, his brother stephen included. he carried his terrible secret with him to the grave. there was one other event in the memorable past on which he preserved the same compassionate silence. little mrs. ferrari never knew that her husband had been--not, as she supposed, the countess's victim--but the countess's accomplice. she still believed that the late lord montbarry had sent her the thousand-pound note, and still recoiled from making use of a present which she persisted in declaring had 'the stain of her husband's blood on it.' agnes, with the widow's entire approval, took the money to the children's hospital; and spent it in adding to the number of the beds. in the spring of the new year, the marriage took place. at the special request of agnes, the members of the family were the only persons present at the ceremony. there was no wedding breakfast--and the honeymoon was spent in the retirement of a cottage on the banks of the thames. during the last few days of the residence of the newly married couple by the riverside, lady montbarry's children were invited to enjoy a day's play in the garden. the eldest girl overheard (and reported to her mother) a little conjugal dialogue which touched on the topic of the haunted hotel. 'henry, i want you to give me a kiss.' 'there it is, my dear.' 'now i am your wife, may i speak to you about something?' 'what is it?' 'something that happened the day before we left venice. you saw the countess, during the last hours of her life. won't you tell me whether she made any confession to you?' 'no conscious confession, agnes--and therefore no confession that i need distress you by repeating.' 'did she say nothing about what she saw or heard, on that dreadful night in my room?' 'nothing. we only know that her mind never recovered the terror of it.' agnes was not quite satisfied. the subject troubled her. even her own brief intercourse with her miserable rival of other days suggested questions that perplexed her. she remembered the countess's prediction. 'you have to bring me to the day of discovery, and to the punishment that is my doom.' had the prediction simply faded, like other mortal prophecies?--or had it been fulfilled on the terrible night when she had seen the apparition, and when she had innocently tempted the countess to watch her in her room? let it, however, be recorded, among the other virtues of mrs. henry westwick, that she never again attempted to persuade her husband into betraying his secrets. other men's wives, hearing of this extraordinary conduct (and being trained in the modern school of morals and manners), naturally regarded her with compassionate contempt. they spoke of agnes, from that time forth, as 'rather an old-fashioned person.' is that all? that is all. is there no explanation of the mystery of the haunted hotel? ask yourself if there is any explanation of the mystery of your own life and death.--farewell. this file was produced from images generously made available by the cwru preservation department digital library inns and taverns of old london setting forth the historical and literary associations of those ancient hostelries, together with an account of the most notable coffee-houses, clubs, and pleasure gardens of the british metropolis by henry c. shelley author of "untrodden english ways," etc. 1909 preface for all races of teutonic origin the claim is made that they are essentially home-loving people. yet the englishman of the sixteenth and seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, especially of the latter, is seen to have exercised considerable zeal in creating substitutes for that home which, as a teuton, he ought to have loved above all else. this, at any rate, was emphatically the case with the londoner, as the following pages will testify. when he had perfected his taverns and inns, perfected them, that is, according to the light of the olden time, he set to work evolving a new species of public resort in the coffee-house. that type of establishment appears to have been responsible for the development of the club, another substitute for the home. and then came the age of the pleasure-garden. both the latter survive, the one in a form of a more rigid exclusiveness than the eighteenth century londoner would have deemed possible; the other in so changed a guise that frequenters of the prototype would scarcely recognize the relationship. but the coffee-house and the inn and tavern of old london exist but as a picturesque memory which these pages attempt to revive. naturally much delving among records of the past has gone to the making of this book. to enumerate all the sources of information which have been laid under contribution would be a tedious task and need not be attempted, but it would be ungrateful to omit thankful acknowledgment to henry b. wheatley's exhaustive edition of peter cunningham's "handbook of london," and to warwick wroth's admirable volume on "the london pleasure gardens of the eighteenth century." many of the illustrations have been specially photographed from rare engravings in the print boom of the british museum. h.c.s. contents preface i. inns and taverns of old london. i. famous southwark inns. ii. inns and taverns east of st paul's. iii. taverns of fleet street and thereabouts. iv. taverns west of temple bar. vi. inns and taverns further afield. ii. coffee-houses of old london. i. coffee-houses on 'change and near-by. ii. round st paul's. iii. the strand and covent garden. iv. further west. iii. the clubs of old london. literary. "social and gaming". iv. pleasure gardens of old london. i. vauxhall. ii. ranelagh. iii. other favourite resorts. index list of illustrations king's head tavern, fleet street geoffrey chaucer tabard inn, southwark in 1810 bridge-foot, southwark, showing the bear inn in 1616 courtyard of boar's head inn, southwark george inn white hart inn, southwark oliver goldsmith cock inn, leadenhall street paul pindar tavern ancient view of cheapside, showing the nag's head inn a french ordinary in london yard of belle sauvage inn the cheshire cheese--entrance prom fleet street the cheshire cheese--the johnson room dr. samuel johnson tablet and bust from the devil tavern ben jonson feathers tavern adam and eve tavern a trial before the pie-powder court at the hand and shears tavern falcon tavern, bankside garraway's coffee-house mad dog in a coffee-house tom's coffee-house lloyd's coffee-house grecian coffee-house john dryden joseph addison sir richard steele lion's head at button's coffee-house british coffee-house slaughter's coffee-house old palace yard, westminster don saltero's coffee-house st james's street, showing white's on the left and brooks's on the right the brilliants "promised horrors of the french invasion" gambling saloon at brooks's club tickets for vauxhall entrance to vauxhall the citizen at vauxhall scene at vauxhall venetian masquerade at ranelagh, 1749 the assault on dr. john hill at ranelagh marylebone gardens white conduit house bagnigge wells finch's grotto, southwark i. inns and taverns of old london. chapter i. famous southwark inns. unique among the quaint maps of old london is one which traces the ground-plan of southwark as it appeared early in the sixteenth century. it is not the kind of map which would ensure examination honours for its author were he competing among schoolboys of the twentieth century, but it has a quality of archaic simplicity which makes it a more precious possession than the best examples of modern cartography. drawn on the principle that a minimum of lines and a maximum of description are the best aid to the imagination, this plan of southwark indicates the main routes of thoroughfare with a few bold strokes, and then tills in the blanks with queer little drawings of churches and inns, the former depicted in delightfully distorted perspective and the latter by two or three half-circular strokes. that there may be no confusion between church and inn, the possibility of which is suggested by the fact that several of the latter are adorned with spire-like embellishments, the sixteenth-century cartographer told which were which in so many words. it is by close attention to the letter-press, and by observing the frequent appearance of names which have age-long association with houses of entertainment, that the student of this map awakens to the conviction that ancient southwark rejoiced in a more than generous provision of inns. such was the case from the earliest period of which there is any record. the explanation is simple. the name of the borough supplies the clue. southwark is really the south-work of london, that is, the southern defence or fortification of the city. the thames is here a moat of spacious breadth and formidable depth, yet the romans did not trust to that defence alone, but threw up further obstacles for any enemy approaching the city from the south. it was from that direction assault was most likely to come. from the western and southern counties of england, and, above all, from the continent, this was the high road into the capital. all this had a natural result in times of peace. as london bridge was the only causeway over the thames, and as the high street of southwark was the southern continuation of that causeway, it followed that diplomatic visitors from the continent and the countless traders who had business in the capital were obliged to use this route coming and going. the logical result of this constant traffic is seen in the countless inns of the district. in the great majority of cases those visitors who had business in the city itself during the day elected to make their headquarters for the night on the southern shore of the thames. although no definite evidence is available, it is reasonable to conclude that the most ancient inns of southwark were established at least as early as the most ancient hostelries of the city itself. to which, however, the prize of seniority is to be awarded can never be known. yet on one matter there can be no dispute. pride of place among the inns of southwark belongs unquestionably to the tabard. not that it is the most ancient, or has played the most conspicuous part in the social or political life of the borough, but because the hand of the poet has lifted it from the realm of the actual and given it an enduring niche in the world of imagination. no evidence is available to establish the actual date when the tabard was built; stow speaks of it as among the "most ancient" of the locality; but the nearest approach to definite dating assigns the inn to the early fourteenth century. one antiquary indeed fixes the earliest distinct record of the site of the inn in 1304, soon after which the abbot of hyde, whose abbey was in the neighbourhood of winchester, here built himself a town mansion and probably at the same time a hostelry for travellers. three years later the abbot secured a license to erect a chapel close by the inn. it seems likely, then, that the tabard had its origin as an adjunct of the town house of a hampshire ecclesiastic. but in the early history of the hostelry no fact stands out so clearly as that it was chosen by chaucer as the starting-point for his immortal canterbury pilgrims. more than two centuries had passed since thomas à becket had fallen before the altar of st. benedict in the minster of canterbury, pierced with many swords as his reward for contesting the supremacy of the church against henry ii. "what a parcel of fools and dastards have i nourished in my house," cried the monarch when the struggle had reached an acute stage, "that not one of them will avenge me of this one upstart clerk!" four knights took the king at his word, posted with all speed to canterbury, and charged the prelate to give way to the wishes of the sovereign. "in vain you threaten me," à becket rejoined. "if all the swords in england were brandishing over my head, your terrors could not move me. foot to foot you will find me fighting the battle of the lord." and then the swords of the knights flashed in the dim light of the minster and another name was added to the church's roll of martyrs. the murder sent a thrill of horror through all christendom; à becket was speedily canonized, and his tomb became the objective of countless pilgrims from every corner of the christian world. in chaucer's days, some two centuries later, the pilgrimage had become a favourite occupation of the devout. each awakening of the year, when the rains of april had laid the dust of march and aroused the buds of tree and herb from their winter slumber, the longing to go on a pilgrimage seized all classes alike. "and specially, from every shires ende of engelond, to caunterbury they wende, the holy blisful martir for to seke, that hem hath holpen, whan that they were seke." precisionists of the type who are never satisfied unless they can apply chronology in the realm of imagination will have it that chaucer's pilgrimage was a veritable event, and that it took place in april, 1388. they go further still and identify chaucer's host with the actual henry bailley, who certainly was in possession of the tabard in years not remote from that date. the records show that he twice represented the borough of southwark in parliament, and another ancient document bears witness how he and his wife, christian by name, were called upon to contribute two shillings to the subsidy of richard ii. these are the dry bones of history; for the living picture of the man himself recourse must be had to chaucer's verse: "a semely man our hoste was with-alle for to han been a marshal in an halle; a large man he was with eyen stepe, a fairer burgeys is ther noon in chepe; bold of his speche, and wys, and well y-taught, and of manhood him lakkede right naught. eke thereto he was right a merry man." no twentieth century pilgrim to the tabard inn must expect to find its environment at all in harmony with the picture enshrined in chaucer's verse. the passing years have wrought a woeful and materializing change. the opening lines of the prologue are permeated with a sense of the month of april, a "breath of uncontaminate springtide" as lowell puts it, and in those far-off years when the poet wrote, the beauties of the awakening year were possible of enjoyment in southwark. then the buildings of the high street were spaciously placed, with room for field and hedgerow; to-day they are huddled as closely together as the hand of man can set them, and the verdure of grass and tree is unknown. nor is it otherwise with the inn itself, for its modern representative has no points of likeness to establish a kinship with the structure visualized in chaucer's lines. it is true the poet describes the inn more by suggestion than set delineation, but such hints that it was "a gentle hostelry," that its rooms and stables were alike spacious, that the food was of the best and the wine of the strongest go further with the imagination than concrete statements. [illustration: geoffrey chaucer.] giving faith for the moment to that theory which credits the canterbury tales with being based on actual experience, and recalling the quaint courtyard of the inn as it appeared on that distant april day of 1388, it is a pleasant exercise of fancy to imagine chaucer leaning over the rail of one of the upper galleries to watch the assembling of his nine-and-twenty "sondry folk." they are, as j. r. green has said, representatives of every class of english society from the noble to the ploughman. "we see the 'verray-perfight gentil knight' in cassock and coat of mail, with his curly-headed squire beside him, fresh as the may morning, and behind them the brown-faced yeoman in his coat and hood of green with a mighty bow in his hand. a group of ecclesiastics light up for us the mediaeval church--the brawny hunt-loving monk, whose bridle jingles as loud and clear as the chapel bell--the wanton friar, first among the beggars and harpers of the courtly side--the poor parson, threadbare, learned, and devout ('christ's lore and his apostles twelve he taught, and first he followed it himself')--the summoner with his fiery face--the pardoner with his wallet 'full of pardons, come from rome all hot'--the lively prioress with her courtly french lisp, her soft little red mouth, and _amor vincit omnia_ graven on her brooch. learning is there in the portly person of the doctor of physics, rich with the profits of the pestilence--the busy sergeant-of-law, 'that ever seemed busier than he was'--the hollow-cheeked clerk of oxford with his love of books and short sharp sentences that disguise a latent tenderness which breaks out at last in the story of griseldis. around them crowd types of english industry; the merchant; the franklin in whose house 'it snowed of meat and drink'; the sailor fresh from frays in the channel; the buxom wife of bath; the broad-shouldered miller; the haberdasher, carpenter, weaver, dyer, tapestry-maker, each in the livery of his craft; and last the honest ploughman who would dyke and delve for the poor without hire." smilingly as chaucer may have gazed upon this goodly company, his delight at their arrival paled before the radiant pleasure of mine host, for a poet on the lookout for a subject can hardly have welcomed the advent of the pilgrims with such an interested anticipation of profit as the innkeeper whose rooms they were to occupy and whose food and wines they were to consume. henry bailley was equal to the auspicious occasion. "greet chere made our hoste us everichon, and to the soper sette he us anon; and served us with vitaille at the beste. strong was the wyn, and wel to drinke us leste." but the host of the tabard was more than an efficient caterer; he was something of a diplomatist also. taking advantage of that glow of satisfaction which is the psychological effect of physical needs generously satisfied, he appears to have had no difficulty in getting the pilgrims to pay their "rekeninges," and having attained that practical object he rewarded his customers with liberal interest for their hard cash in the form of unstinted praise of their collective merits, in all that year he had not seen so merry a company gathered under his roof, etc., etc. but of greater moment for future generations was his suggestion that, as there was no comfort in riding to canterbury dumb as a stone, the pilgrims should beguile their journey by telling stories. the suggestion was loudly acclaimed and the scheme unanimously pledged in further copious draughts of wine. and then, to "reste wente echon," until the dawn came again and smiled down upon that brave company whose tale-telling pilgrimage has since been followed with so much delight by countless thousands. by the time stow made his famous survey of london, some two centuries later, the tabard was rejoicing to the full in the glories cast around it by chaucer's pen. stow cites the poet's commendation as its chief title to fame, and pauses to explain that the name of the inn was "so called of the sign, which, as we now term it, is of a jacket, or sleeveless coat, whole before, open on both sides, with a square collar, winged at the shoulders; a stately garment of old time, commonly worn of noblemen and others, both at home and abroad in the war, but then (to wit in the wars) their arms embroidered, or otherwise depict upon them, that every man by his coat of arms might be known from others." all this heraldic lore did not prevent the subsequent change--for a time--of the name tabard to the meaningless name of talbot, a distortion, however, which survives only in antiquarian history. at the dissolution of the monasteries this inn, which up till then had retained its connection with the church through belonging to hyde abbey, was granted to two brothers named master, and in 1542 its annual rent is fixed at nine pounds. an authority on social life in england during the middle of queen elizabeth's reign ventures on the following description of the arrangements of the inn at that period. "on the ground-floor, looking on to the street, was a room called 'the darke parlour,' a hall, and a general reception-room called 'the parlour.' this was probably the dining-room of the house, as it opened on to the kitchen on the same level. below the dark parlour was a cellar. on the first floor, above the parlour and the hall, were three rooms--'the middle chamber,' 'the corner chamber,' and 'maister hussye's chamber,' with garrets or 'cock lofts' over them. over the great parlour was another room. there were also rooms called 'the entry chamber' and 'the newe chamber,' 'the flower de luce' and 'mr. russell's chamber,' of which the position is not specified." [illustration: tabard inn, southwark, in 1810.] when, in 1575, the old tabard, the inn, that is, of george shepherd's water-colour drawing of 1810, was demolished, making way for the present somewhat commonplace representative of the ancient hostelry, many protests were made on the plea that it was sheer vandalism to destroy a building so intimately associated with the genius of chaucer. but the protests were based upon lack of knowledge. chaucer's inn had disappeared long before. it is sometimes stated that that building survived until the great southwark fire of 1676, but such assertions overlook the fact that there is in existence a record dated 1634 which speaks of the tabard as having been built of brick six years previously upon the old foundation. here, then, is proof that the tabard of the pilgrims was wholly reconstructed in 1628, and even that building--faithful copy as it may have been of the poet's inn--was burnt to the ground in 1676. from the old foundations, however, a new tabard arose, built on the old plan, so that the structure which was torn down in 1875 may have perpetuated the semblance of chaucer's inn to modern times. compared with its association with the canterbury pilgrims, the subsequent history of the tabard is somewhat prosaic. here a record tells how it became the objective of numerous carriers from kent and sussex, there crops up a law report which enshrines the memory of a burglary, and elsewhere in reminiscences or diary may be found a tribute to the excellence of the inn's rooms and food and the reasonableness of the charges. it should not be forgotten, however, that violent hands have been laid on the famous inn for the lofty purposes of melodrama. more than sixty years ago a play entitled "mary white, or the murder at the old tabard" thrilled the theatregoer with its tragic situations and the terrible perils of the heroine. but the tribulations of mary white have left no imprint on english literature. chaucer's pilgrims have, and so long as the mere name of the tabard survives, its recollection will bring in its train a moving picture of that merry and motley company which set out for the shrine of à becket so many generations ago. poetic license bestows upon another notable southwark inn, the bear at bridge-foot, an antiquity far eclipsing that of the tabard. in a poem printed in 1691, descriptive of "the last search after claret in southwark," the heroes of the verse are depicted as eventually finding their way to "the bear, which we soon understood was the first house in southwark built after the flood." to describe the inn as "the first house in southwark" might have been accurate for those callers who approached it over london bridge, but in actual chronology the proud distinction of dating from post-deluge days has really to give place to the much more recent year of 1319. there is, preserved among the archives of the city of london a tavern lease of that date which belongs without doubt to the history of this hostelry, for it refers to the inn which thomas drinkwater had "recently built at the head of london bridge." this thomas drinkwater was a taverner of london, and the document in question sets forth how he had granted the lease of the bear to one james beauflur, who agrees to purchase all his wines from the inappropriately named drinkwater, who, on his part, was to furnish his tenant with such necessaries as silver mugs, wooden hanaps, curtains, cloths and other articles. a century and a half later the inn figures in the accounts of sir john howard, that warlike "jacke of norfolk" who became the first duke of norfolk in the howard family and fatally attested his loyalty to his king on bosworth field. from that time onward casual references to the bear are numerous. it was probably the best-known inn of southwark, for its enviable position at the foot of london bridge made it conspicuous to all entering or leaving the city. its attractions were enhanced by the fact that archery could be practised in its grounds, and that within those same grounds was the thames-side landing stage from whence the tilt-boats started for greenwich and gravesend. it was the opportunity for shooting at the target which helped to lure sir john howard to the bear, but as he sampled the wine of the inn before testing his skill as a marksman, he found himself the poorer by the twenty-pence with which he had backed his own prowess. under date 1633 there is an interesting reference which sets forth that, although orders had been given to have all the back-doors to taverns on the thames closed up, owing to the fact that wrong-doers found them convenient in evading the officers of the law, an exception was made in the case of the bear owing to the fact that it was the starting-place for greenwich. [illustration: bridge-foot, southwark. (_showing the bear inn in_ 1616.)] evidence in abundance might be cited to show that the inn was a favourite meeting place with the wits and gallants of the court of charles i and the restoration. "the maddest of all the land came to bait the bear," is one testimony; "i stuffed myself with food and tipple till the hoops were ready to burst," is another. there is one figure, however, of the thirties of the seventeenth century which arrests the attention. this is sir john suckling, that gifted and ill-fated poet and man of fashion of whom it was said that he "had the peculiar happiness of making everything that he did become him." his ready wit, his strikingly handsome face and person, his wealth and generosity, his skill in all fashionable pastimes made him a favourite with all. the preferences of the man, his delight in the joys of the town as compared with the pleasures of secluded study in the country, are clearly seen in those sprightly lines in which he invited the learned john hales, the "walking library," to leave eton and "come to town": "there you shall find the wit and wine flowing alike, and both divine: dishes, with names not known in books, and less among the college-cooks; with sauce so pregnant, that you need not stay till hunger bids you feed. the sweat of learned jonson's brain, and gentle shakespeare's eas'er strain, a hackney coach conveys you to, in spite of all that rain can do: and for your eighteenpence you sit the lord and judge of all fresh wit." nor was it in verse alone that suckling celebrated the praises of wine. among the scanty remains of his prose there is that lively sally, written at the bear, and entitled: "the wine-drinkers to the water-drinkers." after mockingly commiserating with the teetotalers over the sad plight into which their habits had brought them, the address continues: "we have had divers meetings at the bear at the bridge-foot, and now at length have resolved to despatch to you one of our cabinet council, colonel young, with some slight forces of canary, and some few of sherry, which no doubt will stand you in good stead, if they do not mutiny and grow too headstrong for their commander. him captain puff of barton shall follow with all expedition, with two or three regiments of claret; monsieur de granville, commonly called lieutenant strutt, shall lead up the rear of rhenish and white. these succours, thus timely sent, we are confident will be sufficient to hold the enemy in play, and, till we hear from you again, we shall not think of a fresh supply.... given under our hand at the bear, this fourth of july." somewhere about the date when this drollery was penned there happened at the bear an incident which might have furnished the water-drinkers with an effective retort on their satirist. the earl of buccleugh, just returned from military service abroad, on his way into london, halted at the bear to quaff a glass of sack with a friend. a few minutes later he put off in a boat for the further shore of the thames, but ere the craft had gone many yards from land the earl exclaimed, "i am deadly sick, row back; lord have mercy upon me!" those were his last words, for he died that night. another picturesque figure of the seventeenth century is among the shades that haunt the memory of the bear, samuel pepys, that irrepressible gadabout who was more intimately acquainted with the inns and taverns of london than any man of his time. that thames-side hostelry was evidently a favourite resort of the diarist. on both occasions of his visits to southwark pair he made the inn his base of operations as it were, especially in 1668 when the puppet-show of whittington seemed "pretty to see," though he could not resist the reflection "how that idle thing do work upon people that see it, and even myself too!" pepys had other excitements that day. he was so mightily taken with jacob hall's dancing on the ropes that on meeting that worthy at a tavern he presented him with a bottle of wine. having done justice to all the sights of the fair, he returned to the bear, where his waterman awaited him with the gold and other things to the value of forty pounds which the prudent diarist had left in his charge at the inn "for fear of my pockets being cut." pepys himself incidentally explains why he had so friendly a regard for the bridge-foot tavern. "going through bridge by water," he writes, "my waterman told me how the mistress of the beare tavern, at the bridge-foot, did lately fling herself into the thames, and drowned herself; which did trouble me the more, when they tell me it was she that did live at the white horse tavern in lumbard street, which was a most beautiful woman, as most i have seen." yet another fair woman, frances stuart, one of the greatest beauties of the court of charles ii, is linked with the history of the beare. sad as was the havoc she wrought in the heart of the susceptible pepys, who is ever torn between admiration of her loveliness and mock-reprobation of her equivocal position at court, frances stuart created still deeper passions in men more highly placed than he. apart from her royal lover, there were two nobles, the dukes of york and richmond who contended for her hand, with the result of victory finally resting with the latter. but the match had to be a runaway one. the king was in no mood to part with his favourite, and so the lovers arranged a meeting at the bear, where a coach was in waiting to spirit them away into kent. no wonder charles was offended, especially when the lady sent him back his presents. nearly a century and a half has passed since the bear finally closed its doors. all through the lively years of the restoration it maintained its reputation as a house of good cheer and a wholly desirable rendezvous, and it figures not inconspicuously in the social life of london down to 1761. by that time the ever-increasing traffic over the thames bridge had made the enlargement of that structure a necessity, and the bear was among the buildings which had to be demolished. further south in the high street, and opposite the house in which john harvard, the founder of america's oldest university, was born, stood the boar's head, an inn which was once the property of sir fastolfe, and was by him bequeathed through a friend to magdalen college, oxford. this must not be confused with the boar's head of shakespeare, which stood in eastcheap on the other side of the river, though it is a remarkable coincidence that it was in the latter inn the dramatist laid the scene of prince hal's merrymaking with the sir john falstaff we all know. the earliest reference to the southwark boar's head occurs in the paston letters under date 1459. this is an epistle from a servant of fastolfe to john paston, asking him to remind his master that he had promised him he should be made host of the boar's head, but whether he ever attained to that desired position there is no evidence to show. the inn makes but little figure in history; by 1720 it had dwindled to a-mere courtyard, and in 1830 the last remnants were cleared away. [illustration: courtyard of boar's head inn, southwark.] inevitably, however, the fact that the boar's head was the property of sir john fastolfe prompts the question, what relation had he to the sir john falstaff of shakespeare's plays? this has been a topic of large discussion for many years. there are so many touches of character and definite incidents which apply in common to the two knights that the poet has been assumed to have had the historic fastolfe ever in view when drawing the portrait of his falstaff. the historian fuller assumed this to have been the case, for he complains that the "stage have been overbold" in dealing with fastolfe's memory. sidney lee, however, sums up the case thus: "shakespeare was possibly under the misapprehension, based on the episode of cowardice reported in 'henry vi,' that the military exploits of the historical sir john fastolfe sufficiently resembled those of his own riotous knight to justify the employment of a corrupted version of his name. it is of course untrue that fastolfe was ever the intimate associate of henry v when prince of wales, who was not his junior by more than ten years, or that he was an impecunious spendthrift and gray-haired debauchee. the historical fastolfe was in private life an expert man of business, who was indulgent neither to himself nor his friends. he was nothing of a jester, and was, in spite of all imputations to the contrary, a capable and brave soldier." sad as has been the havoc wrought by time and the hand of man among the hostelries of southwark, a considerable portion of one still survives in its actual seventeenth century guise. this is the george inn, which is slightly nearer london bridge than the tabard. to catch a peep of its old-world aspect, with its quaint gallery and other indubitable tokens of a distant past, gives the pilgrim a pleasant shock. it is such a contrast to the ugly modern structures which impose themselves on the public as "ye olde" this and "ye olde" that. here at any rate is a veritable survival. nor does it matter that the george has made little figure in history; there is a whole world of satisfaction in the thought that it has changed but little since it was built in 1672. its name is older than its structure. stow included the george among the "many fair inns" he saw in southwark in 1598, a fact which deals a cruel blow to that crude theory which declares inns were so named after the royal georges of great britain. [illustration: george inn.] among the numerous other inns which once lined the high street of southwark there is but one which has claims upon the attention on the score of historic and literary interest. this is the white hart, which was doubtless an old establishment at the date, 1406, of its first mention in historical records. forty-four years later, that is in 1450, the inn gained its most notable association by being made the head-quarters of jack cade at the time of his famous insurrection. modern research has shown that this rebellion was a much more serious matter than the older historians were aware of, but the most careful investigation into cade's career has failed to elicit any particulars of note prior to a year before the rising took place. the year and place of his birth are unknown, but twelve months before he appears in history he was obliged to flee the realm and take refuge in france owing to his having murdered a woman who was with child. he served for a time in the french army, then returned under an assumed name and settled in kent, which was the centre of discontent against henry vi. as the one hope of reform lay in an appeal to arms, the discontent broke into open revolt. "the rising spread from kent over surrey and sussex. everywhere it was general and organized--a military levy of the yeomen of the three shires." it was not of the people alone, for more than a hundred esquires and gentlemen threw in their lot with the rebels; but how it came about that jack cade attained the leadership is a profound mystery. leader, however, he was, and when he, with his twenty thousand men, took possession of southwark as the most desirable base from which to threaten the city of london, he elected the white hart for his own quarters. this was on the first of july, 1450, and for the next few of those midsummer days the inn was the scene of many stirring and tragic events. daily, cade at the head of his troops crossed the bridge into the city, and on one of those excursions he caused the seizure and beheadal of the hated lord say. daily, too, there was constant coming and going at the white hart of cade's emissaries. at length, however, the citizens of london, stung into action by the robberies and other outrages of the rebels, occupied the bridge in force. a stubborn struggle ensued, but cade and his men were finally beaten off. the amnesty which followed led to a conference at which terms were arranged and a general pardon granted. that for cade, however, as it was made out in his assumed name of mortimer, was invalid, and on the discovery being made he seized a large quantity of booty and fled. not many days later he was run to earth, wounded in being captured, and died as he was being brought back to london. his naked body was identified by the hostess of the white hart, who was probably relieved to gaze upon so certain an indication that she would be able to devote herself once more to the entertainment of less troublesome guests. for all the speedy ending of his ambitions, cade is assured of immortality so long as the pages of shakespeare endure. the rebel is a stirring figure in the second part of king henry vi and as an orator of the mob reaches his greatest flights of eloquence in that speech which perpetuates the name of his headquarters at southwark. "hath my sword therefore broke through london gates, that you should leave me at the white hart in southwark?" but english literature was not done with the old inn. many changes were to pass over its head during the nearly four centuries which elapsed ere it was touched once more by the pen of genius, changes wrought by the havoc of fire and the attritions of the hand of time. when those years had fled a figure was to be seen in its courtyard to become better known to and better beloved by countless thousands than the rebel leader of the fifteenth century. "in the borough," wrote the creator of that figure, "there still remain some half dozen old inns, which have preserved their external features unchanged, and which have escaped alike the rage for public improvement and the encroachments of private speculation. great, rambling, queer old places they are, with galleries, and passages, and staircases, wide enough and antiquated enough to furnish materials for a hundred ghost stories.... it was in the yard of one of these inns--of no less celebrated a one than the white hart--that a man was busily employed in brushing the dirt off a pair of boots, early on the morning succeeding the events narrated in the last chapter. he was habited in a coarse-striped waistcoat, with black calico sleeves, and blue glass buttons; drab breeches and leggings. a bright red handkerchief was wound in a very loose and unstudied style round his neck, and an old white hat was carelessly thrown on one side of his head. there were two rows of boots before him, one cleaned and the other dirty, and at every addition he made to the clean row, he paused from his work, and contemplated its results with evident satisfaction." [illustration: white hart inn, southwark.] who does not recognize sam weller, making his first appearance in "the posthumous papers of the pickwick club"? and who has not revelled in the lively scene in the white hart when mr. pickwick and his friends arrived in the nick of time to prevent the ancient but still sentimental rachael from becoming mrs. jingle? it is not difficult to understand why that particular instalment of "pickwick" was the turning-point of the book's fortunes. prior to the advent of sam in the courtyard of the white hart the public had shown but a moderate interest in the new venture of "boz," but from that event onward the sales of the succeeding parts were ever on the increase. sam and the white hart, then, had much to do with the career of dickens, for if "pickwick" had failed it is more than probable that he would have abandoned literature as a profession. when dickens wrote, the white hart was still in existence. it is so no longer. till late in the last century this hostelry was spared the fate which had overtaken so many southwark taverns, even though, in place of the nobles it had sheltered, its customers had become hop-merchants, farmers, and others of lower degree. in 1889, in the month of july, four hundred and thirty-nine years after it had received jack cade under its roof, the last timbers of the old inn were levelled to the ground. chapter ii. inns and taverns east of st. paul's. boswell relates how, in one of his numerous communicative moods, he informed dr. johnson of the existence of a club at "the boar's head in eastcheap, the very tavern where falstaff and his joyous companions met; the members of which all assume shakespeare's characters. one is falstaff, another prince henry, another bardolph, and so on." if the assiduous little scotsman entertained the idea of joining the club, a matter on which he does not throw any light, johnson's rejoinder was sufficient to deter him from doing so. "don't be of it, sir. now that you have a name you must be careful to avoid many things not bad in themselves, but which will lessen your character." whether johnson's remark was prompted by an intimate knowledge of the type of person frequenting the boar's head in his day cannot be decided, but there are ample grounds for thinking that the patrons of that inn were generally of a somewhat boisterous kind. that, perhaps, is partly shakespeare's fault. prior to his making it the scene of the mad revelry of prince hal and his none too choice companions, the history of the boar's head, so far as we know it, was sedately respectable. one of the earliest references to its existence is in a lease dated 1537, some sixty years before the first part of henry iv was entered in the stationers' register. some half century later, that is in 1588, the inn was kept by one thomas wright, whose son came into a "good inheritance," was made clerk of the king's stable, and a knight, and was "a very discreet and honest gentleman." but shakespeare's pen dispelled any atmosphere of respectability which lingered around the boar's head. from the time when he made it the meeting-place of the mad-cap prince of wales and his roistering followers, down to the day of goldsmith's reverie under its roof, the inn has dwelt in the imagination at least as the rendezvous of hard drinkers and practical jokers. how could it be otherwise after the limning of such a scene as that described in henry iv? that was sufficient to dedicate the inn to conviviality for ever. how sharply the picture shapes itself as the hurrying dialogue is read! the key-note of merriment is struck by the prince himself as he implores the aid of poins to help him laugh at the excellent trick he has just played on the boastful but craven falstaff, and the bustle and hilarity of the scene never flags for a moment. even francis, the drawer, whose vocabulary is limited to "anon, anon, sir"--the fellow that had "fewer words than a parrot, and yet the son of a woman"--and the host himself, as perplexed as his servant when two customers call at once, contribute to the movement of the episode in its earlier stages. but the pace is, increased furiously when the burly falstaff, scant of breath indeed, bustles hurriedly in proclaiming in one breath his scorn of cowards and his urgent need of a cup of sack. we all know the boastful story he told, how he and his three companions had been set upon and robbed by a hundred men, how he himself--as witness his sword "packed like a hand-saw"--had kept at bay and put to flight now two, anon four, and then seven, and finally eleven of his assailants. we all can see, too, the roguish twinkle in prince hal's eyes as the braggart knight embellishes his lying tale with every fresh sentence, and are as nonplussed as he when, the plot discovered, falstaff finds a way to take credit for his cowardice. who would not forgive so cajoling a vaunter? it was later in this scene, be it remembered, that the portly knight was found fast asleep behind the arras, "snorting like a horse," and had his pockets searched to the discovery of that tavern bill--not paid we may be sure--which set forth an expenditure on the staff of life immensely disproportionate to that on drink, and elicited the famous ejaculation--"but one half-pennyworth of bread to this intolerable deal of sack!" but shakespeare had not finished with the boar's head. more coarse and less merry, but not less vivid, is that other scene wherein the shrill-tongued doll tearsheet and the peace-making dame quickly figure. and it is of a special and private room in the boar's head we think as we listen to dame quickly's tale of how the amorous falstaff made love to her with his hand upon "a parcel-gilt goblet," and followed up the declaration with a kiss and a request for thirty shillings. for shakespeare's sake, then, the boar's head is elect into that small circle of inns which are immortal in the annals of literature. but, like chaucer's tabard, no stone of it is left. boswell made a mistake, and so did goldsmith after him, in thinking that the boar's head of the eighteenth century was the boar's head of shakespeare's day. they both forgot the great fire of london. that disastrous conflagration of 1666 swept away every vestige of the old inn. upon its foundation, however, another boar's head arose, the sign of which, cut in stone and dated 1668, is among the treasures of the guildhall museum. this was the building in which boswell's club met, and it was under its roof goldsmith penned his famous reverie. as was to be expected of that social soul, the character of falstaff gave goldsmith more consolation than the most studied efforts of wisdom: "i here behold," he continues, "an agreeable old fellow forgetting age, and showing me the way to be young at sixty-five. sure i am well able to be as merry, though not so comical, as he. is it not in my power to have, though not so much wit, at least as much vivacity?--age, care, wisdom, reflection, begone--i give you to the winds! let's have t'other bottle: here's to the memory of shakespeare, falstaff, and all the merry men of eastcheap!" [illustration: oliver goldsmith.] with such zest did goldsmith enter into his night out at the boar's head that when the midnight hour arrived he discovered all his companions had stolen away, leaving him--still in high spirits with the landlord as his sole companion. then the mood of reverie began to work. the very room helped to transport him back through the centuries; the oak floor, the gothic windows, the ponderous chimney-piece,--all were reminders of the past. but the prosaic landlord was an obstacle to the complete working of the spell. at last, however, a change came over mine host, or so it seemed to the dreaming chronicler. "he insensibly began to alter his appearance; his cravat seemed quilled into a ruff, and his breeches swelled out into a farlingale. i now fancied him changing sexes; and as my eyes began to close in slumber, i imagined my fat landlord actually converted into as fat a landlady. however, sleep made but few changes in my situation: the tavern, the apartment, and the table, continued as before: nothing suffered mutation but my host, who was fairly altered into a gentlewoman, whom i knew to be dame quickly, mistress of this tavern in the days of sir john; and the liquor we were drinking seemed converted into sack and sugar." such an opportunity of interviewing an acquaintance of falstaff was not to be lost, and to the credit of dame quickly be it said that she was far more communicative than some moderns are under the questioning ordeal. but it was no wonder she was loquacious: had she not been ordered by pluto to keep a record of every transaction at the boar's head, and in the discharge of that duty compiled three hundred tomes? some may subscribe to the opinion that dame quickly was indiscreet as well as loquacious; certainly she did not spare the reputations of some who had dwelt under that ancient roof. the sum of the matter, however, was that since the execution of that hostess who was accused of witchcraft the boar's head "underwent several revolutions, according to the spirit of the times, or the disposition of the reigning monarch. it was this day a brothel, and the next a conventicle for enthusiasts. it was one year noted for harbouring whigs, and the next infamous for a retreat to tories. some years ago it was in high vogue, but at present it seems declining." one other son of genius was to add to the fame of the boar's head, the american goldsmith, that is, the gentle washington irving. of course shakespeare was the moving spirit once more. while turning over the pages of henry iv irving was seized with a sudden inspiration: "i will make a pilgrimage to eastcheap, and see if the old boar's head tavern still exists." but it was too late. the only relic of the ancient abode of dame quickly was the stone boar's head, built into walls reared where the inn once stood. nothing daunted, however, irving explored the neighbourhood, and was rewarded, as he thought, by running to earth dame quickly's "parcel-gilt goblet" in a tavern near by. he had one other "find." in the old graveyard of st. michael's, which no longer exists, he discovered, so he avers, the tombstone of one robert preston who, like the francis of "anon, anon, sir," was a drawer at the boar's head, and quotes from that tombstone the following admonitory epitaph: "bacchus, to give the toping world surprise, produced one sober son, and here he lies. though rear'd among full hogsheads, he defied the charms of wine, and every one beside. o reader, if to justice thou'rt inclined, keep honest preston daily in thy mind. he drew good wine, took care to fill his pots, had sundry virtues that excused his faults. you that on bacchus have the like dependence, pray copy bob, in measure and attendance." small as was the reward of living's quest, a still more barren result would ensue on a modern pilgrimage to the boar's head. it was still a tavern in 1785, for a chronicler of that date described it as having on each side of the doorway "a vine branch, carved in wood, rising more than three feet from the ground, loaded with leaves and clusters; and on the top of each a little falstaff, eight inches high, in the dress of his day." but dame quickly's forecast of declining fortune moved on to its fulfilment. in the last stages of its existence the building was divided into two, while the carved boar's head which irving saw still remained as the one sign of its departed glories. finally came the resolve to widen the approach to london bridge from the city side, and the carrying out of that resolve involved the sweeping away of the boar's head. this was in 1831, and, as has been said, the only relic of the ancient tavern is that carved sign in the guildhall museum. but the curious in such matters may be interested to know that the statue of king william marks approximately the spot of ground where hover the immortal memories of shakespeare, and goldsmith, and irving. within easy distance of eastcheap, in upper thames street, which skirts the river bank, there stood, in shakespeare's day and much later, a tavern bearing the curious name of the three cranes in the vintry. john stow, that zealous topographer to whom the historians of london owe so large a debt, helps to explain the mystery. the vintry, he tells us, was that part of the thames bank where "the merchants of bordeaux craned their wines out of lighters and other vessels, and there landed and made sale of them." he also adds that the three cranes' lane was "so called not only of a sign of three cranes at a tavern door, but rather 'of three strong cranes of timber placed on the vintry wharf by the thames side, to crane up wines there." earlier than the seventeenth century, however, it would seem that one crane had to suffice for the needs of "the merchants of bordeaux," and then the tavern was known simply as the crane. two references, dated respectively 1552 and 1554, speak of the sign in the singular. twenty years later, however, the one had become three. ben jonson, whose knowledge of london inns and taverns was second, only to that of pepys, evidently numbered the three cranes in the vintry among his houses of call. of two of his allusions to the house one is derogatory of the wit of its patrons, the other laudatory of the readiness of its service. "a pox o' these pretenders to wit!" runs the first passage. "your three cranes, mitre, and mermaid men! not a corn of true salt, not a grain of right mustard amongst them all." and here is the other side of the shield, credited to iniquity in "the devil is an ass":- "nay, boy, i will bring thee to the bawds and roysters at billingsgate, feasting with claret-wine and oysters; from thence shoot the bridge, child, to the cranes in the vintry, and see there the gimblets how they make their entry." of course pepys was acquainted with the house. he had, indeed, a savage memory of one meal under its roof. it was all owing to the marrying proclivities of his uncle fenner. bereft of his wife on the last day of august, that easy-going worthy, less than two months later, was discovered by his nephew in an ale-house, "very jolly and youthsome, and as one that i believe will in a little time get him a wife." pepys' anticipation was speedily realized. uncle fenner had indulged himself with a new partner by the middle of january, and must needs give a feast to celebrate the event. and this is pepys' frank record of the occasion: "by invitation to my uncle fenner's, where i found his new wife, a pitiful, old, ugly, ill-bred woman, in a hatt, a midwife. here were many of his, and as many of her relatives, sorry, mean people; and after choosing our gloves, we all went over to the three cranes taverne, and (although the best room of the house) in such a narrow dogg-hole we were crammed, (and i believe we were near forty) that it made me loath my company and victuals; and a sorry, poor dinner it was." in justice to the three cranes, pepys must not be allowed to have the last word. that particular dinner, no doubt, owed a good deal of its defects to the atmosphere and the company amid which it was served. at any rate, the host of the black bear at cumnor--he of sir walter scott's "kenilworth"--was never weary of praising the three cranes, "the most topping tavern in london" as he emphatically declared. no one can glance even casually over a list of tavern signs without observing how frequently the numeral "three" is used. various explanations have been offered for the propensity of mankind to use that number, one deriving the habit from the fact that primitive man divided the universe into three regions, heaven, earth, and water. pythagoras, it will be remembered, called three the perfect number; jove is depicted with three-forked lightning; neptune bears a trident; pluto has his three-headed dog. again, there are three fates, three furies, three graces and three muses. it is natural, then, to find the numeral so often employed in the signs of inns and taverns. thus we have the three angels, the three crowns, the three compasses, the three cups, the three horseshoes, the three tuns, the three nuns, and many more. in the city of london proper the three cups was a favourite sign and the three tuns was hardly less popular. there were also several three nuns, the most famous of which was situated in aldgate high street, where its modern representative still stands. in the bygone years it was a noted coaching inn and enjoyed an enviable reputation for the rare quality of its punch. defoe has a brief reference to the house in his "a journal of the plague year." an attempt to enumerate the king's head taverns of london would be an endless task. it must not be overlooked, however, that one of the most notable houses so named stood in fenchurch street, on the site now occupied by the london tavern. this is the tavern for which a notable historic association is claimed. the tradition has it that when the princess elizabeth, the "good queen bess" of after days, was released from the tower of london on may 19th, 1554, she went first to a neighbouring church to offer thanks for her deliverance, and then proceeded to the king's head to enjoy a somewhat plebeian dinner of boiled pork and pease-pudding. this legend seems to ignore the fact that the freedom of the princess was comparative only; that she was at that time merely removed from one prison to another; and that the record of her movements on that day speaks of her taking barge at the tower wharf and going direct to richmond en route for woodstock. however, the metal dish and cover which were used in serving that homely meal of boiled pork and pease-pudding are still shown, and what can the stickler for historical accuracy do in the face of such stubborn evidence? two other fenchurch street taverns have wholly disappeared. one of these, the elephant, was wont to claim a somewhat dubious association with hogarth. the artist is credited with once lodging under the elephant's roof and with embellishing the walls of the tap-room with pictures in payment for a long overdue bill. the subjects were said to have included the first study for the picture which afterwards became famous under the title of "modern midnight conversation," but treated in a much broader manner than is shown in the well-known print. when the building was pulled down in 1826 a heated controversy arose concerning these hogarth pictures, which were removed from the walls and exhibited in a pall mall gallery. the verdict of experts was given against their being the work of the master for whom they were claimed. the other tavern was one of the many mitres to be found in london during the seventeenth century. the host, dan rawlinson, was so staunch a royalist that when charles i was executed he hung his sign in mourning, an action which naturally caused him to be regarded with suspicion by the cromwell party, but "endeared him so much to the churchmen that he throve again and got a good estate." something of that prosperity was due no doubt to the excellent "venison-pasty" of which pepys was so fond. but dan rawlinson of the mitre had his reverses as well as his successes. during the dreaded plague of london pepys met an acquaintance in fenchurch street who called his attention to the fact that mr. rawlinson's door was shut up. "why," continued his informant, "after all this sickness, and himself spending all the last year in the country, one of his men is now dead of the plague, and his wife and one of his maids sick, and himself shut up." mrs. rawlinson died a day or two later and the maid quickly followed her mistress to the grave. a year later the mitre was destroyed in the great fire of london and pepys met its much-tried owner shortly after "looking over his ruins." but the tavern was rebuilt on a more spacious scale, and isaac fuller was commissioned to adorn its walls with paintings. this was the artist whose fondness of tavern life prevented him from becoming a great painter. the commission at the mitre was no doubt much to his liking, and walpole describes in detail the panels with which he adorned a great room in that house. "the figures were as large as life: a venus, satyr, and sleeping cupid; a boy riding a goat and another fallen down, over the chimney: this was the best part of the performance, says vertue: saturn devouring a child, mercury, minerva, diana, apollo; and bacchus, venus, and ceres embracing; a young silenus fallen down, and holding a goblet, into which a boy was pouring wine; the scarons, between the windows, and on the ceiling two angels supporting a mitre, in a large circle." the execution of all this must have kept fuller for quite a long time amid his favourite environment. [illustration: cock inn, leadenhall street.] one of the lesser known cock taverns of london was still in existence in leadenhall street during the first quarter of the last century. a drawing of the time shows it to have been a picturesque building, the most notable feature being that the window lights on the first floor extended the entire width of the front, the only specimen of the kind then remaining in london. at the time the drawing was made that particular room was used as the kitchen. from the dress of the boys of the carved brackets supporting the over-hanging upper story, it has been inferred that the house was originally a charity school. behind the tavern there stood a brick building dated 1627, formerly used by the bricklayers' company, but in 1795 devoted to the purposes of a jewish synagogue. as with all the old taverns of this sign, the effigy of the bird from which it took its name was prominently displayed in front. far more ancient than the cock is that other leadenhall street tavern, the ship and turtle, which is still represented in the thoroughfare. the claim is made for this house that it dates back to 1377, and for many generations, down, indeed, to 1835, it had a succession of widows as hostesses. the modern representative of this ancient house prides itself upon the quality of its turtle soup and upon the fact that it is the meeting-place of numerous masonic lodges, besides being in high favour for corporation and companies' livery dinners. if the pilgrim now turns his steps toward bishopsgate street within--the "within" signifying, of course, that that part of the thoroughfare was inside the old city wall--he will find himself in a neighbourhood where many famous inns once stood. apart from the wrestlers and the angel which are mentioned by stow, there were the flower pot, the white hart, the four swans, the three nuns, the green dragon, the ball, and several more. the reason for this crowding together of so many hostelries in one street is obvious. it was through bishop's gate that the farmers of the eastern counties came into the city and they naturally made their headquarters in the district nearest to the end of their journey. for many years the white hart maintained its old-time reputation as a "fair inn for the receipt of travellers." that it was an ancient structure is proved by the fact that when it was demolished, the date of 1480 was discovered on one of its half-timbered bays. the present up-to-date white hart stands on the site of the old inn. far greater interest attaches to the bull inn, even were it only for the fact of its association with thomas hobson, the cambridge carrier whom milton made famous. in the closing years of the sixteenth century the house appears to have had a dubious reputation, for when anthony bacon came to live in bishopsgate street in 1594 his mother became exceedingly anxious on his account, fearing "the neighbourhood of the bull inn." perhaps, however, the distressed mother based her alarm on the dangers of play-acting, for the house was notable as the scene of many dramatic performances. that it was the recognized headquarters for cambridge carriers is shown by an allusion, in 1637, which reads: "the blacke bull in bishopsgate street, who is still looking towards shoreditch to see if he can spy the carriers coming from cambridge." hobson, of course, was the head of that fraternity. he had flourished amazingly since he succeeded to his father's business in the university city, and attained that position of independence which enabled him to force the rule that each horse in his stable was to be hired only in its proper turn, thus originating the proverb, "hobson's choice," that is, "this or none." despite his ever growing wealth and advanced years, hobson continued his regular journeys to london until the outbreak of the plague caused the authorities to suspend the carrier service for a time. this is the fact upon which milton seized with such humourous effect in his poetical epitaph: "here lies old hobson. death hath broke his girt, and here, alas! hath laid him in the dirt; or else, the ways being foul, twenty to one he's here stuck in a slough, and overthrown. 'twas such a shifter that, if truth were known, death was half glad when he had got him down; for he had any time this ten years full dodged with him betwixt cambridge and the bull. and surely death could never have prevailed, had not his weekly course of carriage failed; but lately, finding him so long at home, and thinking now his journey's end was come, and that he had ta'en up his latest inn, in the kind office of a chamberlain, showed him his room where he must lodge that night, pulled off his boots, and took away the light." [illustration: paul pindar tavern.] among the "familiar letters" of james howell is a stately epistle addressed "to sir paul pindar, knight," who is informed to his face that of all the men of his times he is "one of the greatest examples of piety and constant integrity," and is assured that his correspondent could see his namesake among the apostles saluting and solacing him, and ensuring that his works of charity would be as a "triumphant chariot" to carry him one day to heaven. but sir paul pindar was more than benevolent; he was a master in business affairs and no mean diplomatist. his commercial aptitude he put to profitable use during a fifteen years' residence in italy; his skill as a negotiator was tested and proved by nine years' service in constantinople as the ambassador of james i to turkey. at the date of his final return to england, 1623, the merchant and diplomat was an exceedingly wealthy man, well able to meet the expense of that fine mansion in bishopsgate street without which perpetuated his name down to our own day. in its original state sir paul pindar's house, both within and without, was equal in splendour and extent to any mansion in london. and, as may be imagined, its owner was a person of importance in city and court life. one of his possessions was a great diamond worth thirty-five thousand pounds, which james i used to borrow for state occasions. the son of that monarch purchased this jewel in 1625 for about half its value and successfully deferred payment for even that reduced sum! sir paul, indeed, appears to have been a complacent lender of his wealth to royalty and the nobility, so that it is not surprising many "desperate debts" were owing him on his death. a century and a quarter after that event, that is in 1787, the splendid mansion of the wealthy merchant and diplomat had become a tavern under the names of its builder, and continued in that capacity until 1890, when railway extension made its demolition necessary. but the beautifully carved front is still preserved in the south kensington museum. while there may at times be good reason for doubting the claims made as to the antiquity of some london taverns, there can be none for questioning the ripe old age to which the pope's head in cornhill attained. this is one of the few taverns which stow deals with at length. he describes it as being "strongly built of stone," and favours the opinion that it was at one time the palace of king john. he tells, too, how in his day wine was sold there at a penny the pint and bread provided free. it was destroyed in the great fire, but rebuilt shortly after. pepys knew both the old and the new house. in the former he is said to have drunk his first "dish of tea," and he certainly enjoyed many a meal under its roof, notably on that occasion when, with sir w. penn and mrs. pepys, he "eat cakes and other fine things." another, not so pleasant, memory is associated with the pope's head. two actors figured in the episode, james quin and william bowen, between whom, especially on the side of the latter, strong professional jealousy existed. bowen, a low comedian of "some talent and more conceit," taunted quin with being tame in a certain role, and quin retorted in kind, declaring that bowen's impersonation of a character in "the libertine" was much inferior to that of another actor. bowen seems to have had an ill-balanced mind; he was so affected by jeremy collier's "short view" that he left the stage and opened a cane shop in holborn, thinking "a shopkeeper's life was the readiest way to heaven." but he was on the stage again in a year, thus resuming the career which was to be his ruin. for so thoroughly was he incensed by quin's disparagement that he took the earliest opportunity of forcing the quarrel to an issue. having invited quin to meet him, the two appear to have gone from tavern to tavern until they reached the pope's head. quin was averse to a duel, but no sooner had the two entered an empty room in the cornhill tavern than bowen fastened the door, and, standing with his back against it and drawing his sword, threatened quin that he would run him through if he did not draw and defend himself. in vain did quin remonstrate, and in the end he had to take to his sword to keep the angry bowen at bay. he, however, pressed so eagerly on his fellow actor that it was not long ere he received a mortal wound. before he died bowen confessed he had been in the wrong, and that frank admission was the main cause why quin was legally freed of blame for the tragic incident in the pope's head. although there was a mermaid tavern in cornhill, it must not be confused with its far more illustrious namesake in the nearby thoroughfare of cheapside. the cornhill house was once kept by a man named dun, and the story goes that one day when he was in the room with some witty gallants, one of them, who had been too familiar with the host's wife, exclaimed, "i'll lay five pounds there's a cuckold in this company." to which another immediately rejoined, "tis dun!" around the other mermaid--that in cheapside--much controversy has raged. one dispute was concerned with its exact site, but as the building disappeared entirely many generations ago that is not a matter of moment. another cause of debate is found in that passage of gifford's life of ben jonson which describes his habits in the year 1603. "about this time," gifford wrote, "jonson probably began to acquire that turn for conviviality for which he was afterwards noted. sir walter raleigh, previously to his unfortunate engagement with cobham and others, had instituted a meeting of _beaux esprits_ at the mermaid, a celebrated tavern in friday street. of this club, which combined more talent and genius, perhaps, than ever met together before or since, our author was a member; and here, for many years, he regularly repaired with shakespeare, beaumont, fletcher, selden, cotton, carew, martin, donne, and many others, whose names, even at this distant period, call up a mingled feeling of reverence and respect." many have found this flowing narrative hard of belief. it is doubted whether gifford had any authority for mixing up sir walter raleigh with the mermaid, and there are good grounds for believing that jonson's relations with shakespeare were not of an intimate character. all the same, it is beyond dispute that there were rare combats of wit at the mermaid in jonson's days and under his rule. for indisputable witness we have that epistle which francis beaumont addressed to jonson from some country retreat whither he and fletcher had repaired to work on two of their comedies. beaumont tells how he had dreams of the "full mermaid wine," dwells upon the lack of excitement in his rural abode, and then breaks out: "methinks the little wit i had is lost since i saw you; for wit is like a rest held up at tennis, which men do best with the best gamesters. what things have we seen done at the mermaid! heard words that have been so nimble, and so full of subtle flame, as if that every one (from whence they came) had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, and had resolved to live a fool the rest of his dull life." that poem inspired another which should always be included in the anthology of the mermaid. more than two centuries after beaumont penned his rhyming epistle to jonson, three brothers had their lodging for a brief season in cheapside, and the poetic member of the trio doubtless mused long and often on those kindred spirits who, for him far more than for ordinary mortals, haunted the spot where the famous tavern once stood. thus it came about that john keats' residence in cheapside was a prime factor in suggesting his "lines on the mermaid tavern": "souls of poets dead and gone, what elysium have ye known, happy field or mossy cavern, choicer than the mermaid tavern? have ye tippled drink more fine than mine host's canary wine? or are fruits of paradise sweeter than those dainty pies of venison? o generous food! drest as though bold robin hood would, with his maid marian, sup and bowse with horn and can. "i have heard that on a day mine host's sign-board flew away, nobody knew whither, till an astrologer's old quill to a sheepskin gave the story, said he saw you in your glory, underneath a new-old sign sipping beverage divine, and pledging with contented smack the mermaid in the zodiac. "souls of poets dead and gone, what elysium have ye known, happy field or mossy cavern, choicer than the mermaid tavern?" [illustration: ancient view of cheapside, showing the nag's head tavern.] compared with the mermaid, the other old taverns of cheapside make a meagre showing in history. there was a mitre, however, which dated back to 1475 at the least, and had the reputation of making "noses red"; and the bull head, whose host was the "most faithful friend" bishop ridley ever had, and was the meeting-place of the royal society for several years; and, above all, the nag's head, famous as the alleged scene of the fictitious consecration of the elizabethan bishops in 1559. there is an interesting drawing of 1638 depicting the procession of mary de medici in cheapside on the occasion of her visit to her daughter, the wife of charles i. this animated scene is historically valuable for the record it gives of several notable structures in the thoroughfare which was at that time the centre of the commercial life of london. in the middle of the picture is an excellent representation of cheapside cross, to the right the conduit is seen, and in the extreme corner of the drawing is a portion of the nag's head with its projecting sign. another of ben jonson's haunts was situated within easy distance of the mermaid. this was the three tuns, of the guildhall yard, which herrick includes in his list of taverns favoured by the dramatist. "ah ben! say how or when shall we thy guests, meet at those lyric feasts made at the sun, the dog, the triple tunne; where we such clusters had as made us nobly wild, not mad?" close at hand, too, in old jewry, was that windmill tavern, of which stow wrote that it was "sometime the jews' synagogue, since a house of friars, then a nobleman's house, after that a merchant's house, wherein mayoralties have been kept, and now a wine tavern." it must have been a fairly spacious hostelry, for on the occasion of the visit of the emperor charles v in 1522 the house is noted as being able to provide fourteen feather-beds, and stabling for twenty horses. from the fact that one of the characters in "every man in his humour" dates a letter from the windmill, and that two of the scenes in that comedy take place in a room of the tavern, it is obvious that it also must be numbered among the many houses frequented by jonson. one dramatic episode is connected with the history of the windmill. in the early years of the seventeenth century considerable excitement was aroused in worcestershire by the doings of john lambe, who indulged in magical arts and crystal glass enchantments. by 1622 he was in london, and numbered the king's favourite, the duke of buckingham, among his clients. that was sufficient to set the populace against him, an enmity which was greatly intensified by strange atmospheric disturbances which visited london in june, 1628. all this was attributed to lambe's conjuring, and the popular fury came to a climax a day or two later, when lambe, as he was leaving the fortune theatre, was attacked by a mob of apprentices. he fled towards the city and finally took refuge in the windmill. after affording the hunted man haven for a few hours the host, in view of the tumult outside, at length turned him into the street again, where he was so severely beaten that he died the following morning. a crystal ball and other conjuring implements were found on his person. far less exciting was the history of pontack's, a french ordinary in abchurch lane which played a conspicuous part in the social life of london during the eighteenth century. britons of that period had their own insular contempt for french cookery, as is well illustrated by rowlandson's caricature which, with its larder of dead cats and its coarse revelation of other secrets of french cuisine, may be regarded as typical of the popular opinion. but pontack and his eating-house flourished amazingly for all that. a french refugee in london in 1697 took pride in the fact that whereas it was difficult to obtain a good meal elsewhere "those who would dine at one or two guineas per head are handsomely accommodated at our famous pontack's." the owner of this ordinary is sketched in brief by evelyn, who frequently dined under his roof. under date july 13, 1683, the diarist wrote: "i had this day much discourse with monsieur pontaq, son to 'the famous and wise prime president of bordeaux. this gentleman was owner of that excellent vignoble of pontaq and obrien, from whence come the choicest of our bordeaux wines; and i think i may truly say of him, what was not so truly said of st. paul, that much learning had made him mad. he spoke all languages, was very rich, had a handsome person, and was well bred; about forty-five years of age." [illustration: a french ordinary in london. (_from a rowlandson caricature_).] hogarth, it will be remembered, paid pontack a dubious compliment in the third plate of his rake's progress series. the room of that boisterous scene is adorned with pictures of the roman emperors, one of which has been removed to give place to the portrait of pontack, who is described by a hogarth commentator as "an eminent french cook, whose great talents being turned to heightening sensual, rather than mental enjoyments, has a much better chance of a votive offering from this company, than would either vespasian or trajan." these advertisements, however, were all to the good of the house. they were exactly of the kind to attract the most profitable type of customer. those customers might grumble, as swift did, at the prices, but they all agreed that they enjoyed very good dinners. the poet, indeed, expressed the unanimous verdict of the town when he asked: "what wretch would nibble on a hanging shelf, when at pontack's he may regale himself?" chapter iii. taverns of fleet street and thereabouts. save for the high street of southwark, there was probably no thoroughfare of old london which could boast so many inns and taverns to the square yard as fleet street, but ere the pilgrim explores that famous neighbourhood he should visit several other spots where notable hostelries were once to be seen. he should, for example, turn his steps towards st. paul's churchyard, which, despite the fact that it was chiefly inhabited by booksellers, had its queen's arms tavern and its goose and gridiron. memories of david garrick and dr. johnson are associated with the queen's arms. this tavern was the meeting-place of a select club formed by a few intimate friends of the actor for the express purpose of providing them with opportunities to enjoy his society. its members included james clutterback, the city merchant who gave garrick invaluable financial aid when he started at drury lane, and john paterson, that helpful solicitor whom the actor selected as one of his executors. these admirers of "little david" were a temperate set; "they were 'none of them drinkers, and in order to make a reckoning called only for french wine." johnson's association with the house is recorded by boswell as belonging to the year 1781. "on friday, april 6," he writes, "he carried me to dine at a club which, at his desire, had been lately formed at the queen's arms in st. paul's churchyard. he told mr. hoole that he wished to have a city _club_, and asked him to collect one; but, said he, 'don't let them be _patriots_.' the company were to-day very sensible, well-behaved men." which, taken in conjunction with the abstemious nature of the garrick club, would seem to show that the queen's arms was an exceedingly decorous house. concerning the goose and gridiron only a few scanty facts have survived. prior to the great fire it was known as the mitre, but on its being rebuilt it was called the lyre. when it came into repute through the concerts of a favourite musical society being given within its walls, the house was decorated with a sign of apollo's lyre, surmounted by a swan. this provided too good an opportunity for the wits of the town to miss, and they promptly renamed the house as the goose and gridiron, which recalls the facetious landlord who, on gaining possession of premises once used as a music-house, chose for his sign a goose stroking the bars of a gridiron and inscribed beneath, "the swan and harp." it is an interesting note in the history of the st. paul's churchyard house that early in the eighteenth century, on the revival of freemasonry in england, the grand lodge was established here. almost adjacent to st. paul's, that is, in queen's head passage, which leads from paternoster row into newgate street, once stood the famous dolly's chop house, the resort of fielding, and defoe, and swift, and dryden, and pope and many other sons of genius. it was built on the site of an ordinary owned by richard tarleton, the elizabethan actor whose playing was so humorous that it even won the praise of jonson. he was indeed such a merry soul, and so great a favourite in clown's parts, that innkeepers frequently had his portrait painted as a sign. the chief feature of the establishment which succeeded tarleton's tavern appears to have been the excellence of its beef-steaks. it should also be added that they were served fresh from the grill, a fact which is accentuated by the allusion which smollett places in one of melford's letters to sir walkin phillips in "humphry clinker": "i send you the history of this day, which has been remarkably full of adventures; and you will own i give you them like a beef-steak at dolly's, _hot_ and _hot_, without ceremony and parade." out into newgate street the pilgrim should now make his way in search of that salutation tavern which is precious for its associations with coleridge and lamb and southey. once more, alas! the new has usurped the place of the old, but there is some satisfaction in being able to gaze upon the lineal successor of so noted a house. the salutation was a favourite social resort in the eighteenth century and was frequently the scene of the more formal dining occasions of the booksellers and printers. there is a poetical invitation to one such function, a booksellers' supper on january 19, 1736, which reads: "you're desired on monday next to meet 'at salutation tavern, newgate street, supper will be on table just at eight." one of those rhyming invitations was sent to samuel richardson, the novelist, who replied in kind: "for me i'm much concerned i cannot meet at salutation tavern, newgate street." another legend credits this with being the house whither sir christopher wren resorted to smoke his pipe while the new st. paul's was being built. more authentic, however, and indeed beyond dispute, are the records which link the memories of coleridge and lamb and southey with this tavern it was here southey found coleridge in one of his many fits of depression, but pleasanter far are the recollections which recall the frequent meetings of lamb and coleridge, between whom there was so much in common. they would not forget that it was at the nearby christ's hospital they were schoolboys together, the reminiscences of which happy days coloured the thoughts of elia as he penned that exquisite portrait of his friend: "come back into memory, like as thou wert in the day-spring of thy fancies, with hope like a fiery column before thee--the dark pillar not yet turned--samuel taylor coleridge--logician, metaphysician, bard!--how have i seen the casual passer through the cloisters stand still, entranced with admiration to hear thee unfold, in thy deep and sweet intonations, the mysteries of jamblichus, or plotinus, or reciting homer in his greek, or pindar--while the walls of the old grey friars re-echoed to the accents of the inspired charity-boy!" as coleridge was the elder by two years he left christ's hospital for cambridge before lamb had finished his course, but he came back to london now and then, to meet his schoolmate in a smoky little room of the salutation and discuss metaphysics and poetry to the accompaniment of egg-hot, welsh rabbits, and tobacco. those golden hours in the old tavern left their impress deep in lamb's sensitive nature, and when he came to dedicate his works to coleridge he hoped that some of the sonnets, carelessly regarded by the general reader, would awaken in his friend "remembrances which i should be sorry should be ever totally extinct--the 'memory 'of summer days and of delightful years,' even so far back as those old suppers at our old salutation inn,--when life was fresh and topics exhaustless--and you first kindled in me, if not the power, yet the love of poetry and beauty and kindliness." continuing westward from newgate street, the explorer of the inns and taverns of old london comes first to holborn viaduct, where there is nothing of note to detain him, and then reaches holborn proper, with its continuation as high holborn, which by the time of henry iii had become a main highway into the city for the transit of wood and hides, corn and cheese, and other agricultural products. it must be remembered also that many of the principal coaches had their stopping-place in this thoroughfare, and that as a consequence the inns were numerous and excellent and much frequented by country gentlemen on their visits to town. although those inns have long been swept away, the quaint half-timbered buildings of staple inn remain to aid the imagination in repicturing those far-off days when the dagger, and the red lion, and the bull and gate, and the blue boar, and countless other hostelries were dotted on either side of the street. with the first of these, the dagger tavern, we cross the tracks of ben jonson once more. twice does the dramatist allude to this house in "the alchemist," and the revelation that dapper frequented the dagger would have conveyed its own moral to seventeenth century playgoers, for it was then notorious as a resort of the lowest and most disreputable kind. the other reference makes mention of "dagger frumety," which is a reminder that this house, as was the case with another of like name, prided itself upon the excellence of its pies, which were decorated with a representation of a dagger. that these pasties were highly appreciated is the only conclusion which can be drawn from the contemporary exclamation, "i'll not take thy word for a dagger pie," and from the fact that in "the devil is an ass" jonson makes iniquity declare that the 'prentice boys rob their masters and "spend it in pies at the dagger and the woolsack." a second of these holborn inns bore a sign which has puzzled antiquaries not a little. the name was given as the bull and gate, but the actual sign was said to depict the boulogne gate at calais. here, it is thought, a too phonetic pronunciation of the french word led to the contradiction of name and sign. what is more to the point, and of greater interest, is the connection fielding established between tom jones and the bull and gate. when that hero reached london in his search after the irish peer who brought sophia to town, he entered the great city by the highway which is now gray's inn road, and at once began his arduous search. but without success. he prosecuted his enquiry till the clock struck eleven, and then jones "at last yielded to the advice of partridge, and retreated to the bull and gate in holborn, that being the inn where he had first alighted, and where he retired to enjoy that kind of repose which usually attends persons in his circumstances." no less notable a character than oliver cromwell is linked in a dramatic manner with the histories of the blue boar and the red lion inns. the narrative of the first incident is put in cromwell's own mouth by lord broghill, that accomplished irish peer whose conversion from royalism to the cause of the commonwealth was accomplished by the ironsides general in the course of one memorable interview. according to this authority, cromwell once declared that there was a time when he and his party would have settled their differences with charles i but for an incident which destroyed their confidence in that monarch. what that incident was cannot be more vividly described than by the words lord broghill attributed to cromwell. "while we were busied in these thoughts," he said, "there came a letter from one of our spies, who was of the king's bed-chamber, which acquainted us, that on that day our final doom was decreed; that he could not possibly tell us what it was, but we might find it out, if we could intercept a letter, sent from the king to the queen, wherein he declared what he would do. the letter, he said, was sewed up in the skirt of a saddle, and the bearer of it would come with the saddle upon his head, about ten of the clock that night, to the blue boar inn in holborn; for there he was to take horse and go to dover with it. this messenger knew nothing of the letter in the saddle, but some persons at dover did. we were at windsor, when we received this letter; and immediately upon the receipt of it, ireton and i resolved to take one trusty fellow with us, and with troopers' habits to go to the inn in holborn; which accordingly we did, and set our man at the gate of the inn, where the wicket only was open to let people in and out. our man was to give us notice, when any one came with a saddle, whilst we in the disguise of common troopers called for cans of beer, and continued drinking till about ten o'clock: the sentinel at the gate then gave notice that the man with the saddle was come in. upon this we immediately arose, and, as the man was leading out his horse saddled, came up to him with drawn swords and told him that we were to search all that went in and out there; but as he looked like an honest man, we would only search his saddle and so dismiss him. upon that we ungirt the saddle and carried it into the stall, where we had been drinking, and left the horseman with our sentinel: then ripping up one of the skirts of the saddle, we there found the letter of which we had been informed: and having got it into our own hands, we delivered the saddle again to the man, telling him he was an honest man, and bid him go about his business. the man, not knowing what had been done, went away to dover. as soon as we had the letter we opened it; in which we found the king had acquainted the queen, that he was now courted by both the factions, 'the scotch presbyterians and the army; and which bid fairest for him should have him; but he thought he should close with the scots, sooner than the other. upon this we took horse, and went to windsor; and finding we were not likely to have any tolerable terms with the king, we immediately from that time forward resolved his ruin." as that scene at the blue boar played so important a part in the sequence of events which were to lead to cromwell's attainment of supreme power in england, so another holborn inn, the red lion, was to witness the final act of that petty revenge which marked the downfall of the commonwealth. perplexing mystery surrounds the ultimate fate of cromwell's body, but the record runs that his corpse, and those of ireton and bradshaw, were ruthlessly torn from their graves soon after the restoration and were taken to the red lion, whence, on, the following morning, they were dragged on a sledge to tyburn and there treated with the ignominy hitherto reserved for the vilest criminals. all kinds of legends surround these gruesome proceedings. one tradition will have it that some of cromwell's faithful friends rescued his mutilated remains, and buried them in a field on the north side of holborn, a spot now covered by the public garden in red lion square. on the other hand grave doubts have been expressed as to whether the body taken to the red lion was really that of cromwell. one legend asserts that it was not buried in westminster abbey but sunk in the thames; another that it was interred in naseby field; and a third that it was placed in the coffin of charles i at windsor. impatient though he may be to revel in the multifarious associations of fleet street, the pilgrim should turn aside into ludgate hill for a few minutes for the sake of that belle sauvage inn the name of which has been responsible for a rich harvest of explanatory theory. addison contributed to it in his own humorous way. an early number of the spectator was devoted to the discussion of the advisability of an office being established for the regulation of signs, one suggestion being that when the name of a shopkeeper or innkeeper lent itself to "an ingenious sign-post" full advantage should be taken of the opportunity. in this connection addison offered the following explanation of the name of the ludgate hill inn, which, it has been shrewdly conjectured by henry b. wheatley, was probably intended as a joke. "as for the bell-savage, which is the sign of a savage man standing by a bell, i was formerly very much puzzled upon the conceit of it, till i accidentally fell into the reading of an old romance translated out of the french; which gives an account of a very beautiful woman who was found in a wilderness, and is called in the french la belle sauvage; and is everywhere translated by our countrymen the bell-savage." not quite so poetic is the most feasible explanation of this unusual name for an inn. it seems that the original sign of the house was the bell, but that in the middle of the fifteenth century it had an alternative designation. a deed of that period speaks of "all that tenement or inn with its appurtenances, called savage's inn, otherwise called the bell on the hoop." this was evidently a case where the name of the host counted for more than the actual sign of the house, and the habit of speaking of savage's bell may easily have led to the perversion into bell savage, and thence to the frenchified form mostly used to-day. leaving these questions of etymology for more certain matters, it is interesting to recall that it was in the yard of the belle sauvage sir thomas wyatt's rebellion came to an inglorious end. that rising was ostensibly aimed at the prevention of queen mary's marriage with a prince of spain, and for that reason won a large measure of support from the men of kent, at whose head wyatt marched on the, capital. at london bridge, however, his way was blocked, and he was obliged to make a détour by way of kingston, in the hope of entering the city by lud gate. but his men became disorganized on the long march, and at each stage more and more were cut off from the main body by the queen's forces, until, by the time he reached fleet street, the rebel had only some three hundred followers. "he passed temple bar," wrote froude, "along fleet street, and reached ludgate. the gate was open as he approached, when some one seeing a number of men coming up, exclaimed, 'these be wyatt's ancients.' muttered curses were heard among the by-standers; but lord howard was on the spot; the gates, notwithstanding the murmurs, were instantly closed; and when wyatt knocked, howard's voice answered, 'avaunt! traitor; thou shall not come in here.' 'i have kept touch,' wyatt exclaimed; but his enterprise was hopeless now, he sat down upon a bench outside the belle sauvage yard." that was the end. his followers scattered in all directions, and in a little while he was a prisoner, on his way to the tower and the block. [illustration: yard of belle sauvage inn.] more peaceful are the records which tell how the famous carver in wood, grinling gibbons, and the notorious quack, richard rock, once had lodgings in the belle sauvage yard, and more picturesque are the memories of those days when the inn was the starting-place of those coaches which lend a touch of romance to old english life. horace walpole says gibbons signalized his tenancy by carving a pot of flowers over a doorway, so delicate in leaf and stem that the whole shook with the motion of the carriages passing by. the quack, into the hands of whom and his like goldsmith declared all fell unless they were "blasted by lightning, or struck dead with some sudden disorder," was a "great man, short of stature, fat," and waddled as he walked. he was "usually drawn at the top of his own bills, sitting in his arm-chair, holding a little bottle between his finger and thumb, and surrounded with rotten teeth, nippers, pills, packets, and gallipots." from the belle sauvage to the commencement of fleet street is but a stone's throw, but the pilgrim must not expect to find any memorials of the past in the eastern portion of that famous thoroughfare. the buildings here are practically all modern, many of them, indeed, having been erected in the last decade. as these lines are being written, too, the announcement is made of a project for the further transformation of the street at the cost of half a million pounds. the idea is to continue the widening of the thoroughfare further west, and if that plan is carried out, devastation must overtake most of the ancient buildings which still remain. by far the most outstanding feature of the fleet street of to-day is the number and variety of its newspaper offices; two centuries ago it had a vastly different aspect. "from thence, along that tipling street, distinguish'd by the name of fleet, where tavern-signs hang thicker far, than trophies down at westminster; and ev'ry bacchanalian landlord displays his ensign, or his standard, bidding defiance to each brother, as if at wars with one another." how thoroughly the highway deserved the name of "tipling street" may be inferred from the fact that its list of taverns included but was not exhausted by the devil, the king's head, the horn, the mitre, the cock, the bolt-in-tun, the rainbow, the cheshire cheese, hercules pillars, the castle, the dolphin, the seven stars, dick's, nando's, and peele's. no one would recognize in the anderton's hotel of to-day the lineal successor of one of these ancient taverns, and yet it is a fact that that establishment perpetuates the horn tavern of the fifteenth century. in the early seventeenth century the house was in high favour with the legal fraternity, but its patronage of the present time is of a more miscellaneous character. the present building was erected in 1880. [illustration: the cheshire cheese--entrance from fleet street.] close by, a low and narrow archway gives access to wine office court, a spot ever memorable for its having been for some three years the home of oliver goldsmith. it was in 1760, when in his thirty-second year, that he took lodgings in this cramped alleyway, and here he remained, toiling as a journeyman for an astute publisher, until towards the end of 1762. so improved were goldsmith's fortunes in these days that he launched out into supper parties, one of which, in may, 1761, was rendered memorable by the presence of dr. johnson, who attired himself with unusual care for the occasion. to a companion who, noting the new suit of clothes, the new wig nicely powdered, and all else in harmony, commented on his appearance, johnson rejoined, "why, sir, i hear that goldsmith, who is a very great sloven, justifies his disregard of cleanliness and decency by quoting my practice, and i am desirous this night to show him a better example." the house where that supper party was held has disappeared, but in the cheshire cheese nearby there yet survives a building which the centuries have spared. exactly how old this tavern is cannot be decided. it is inevitable that there must have been a hostelry on this spot before the great fire of 1666, inasmuch as there is a record to show that it was rebuilt the following year. which goes to show that the present building has attained the ripe age of nearly two and a half centuries. no one who explores its various apartments will be likely to question that fact. everything about the place wears an air of antiquity, from the quaint bar-room to the more private chambers upstairs. the chief glory of the cheshire cheese, however, is to be seen downstairs on the left hand of the principal entrance. this is the genuinely old-fashioned eating-room, with its rude tables, its austere seats round the walls, its sawdust-sprinkled floor, and, above all, its sacred nook in the further right hand corner which is pointed out as the favourite seat of dr. johnson. above this niche is a copy of the reynolds portrait of the sturdy lexicographer, beneath which is the following inscription: "the favourite seat of dr. johnson.--born 18th septr., 1709. died 13th decr., 1784. in him a noble understanding and a masterly intellect were united with grand independence of character and unfailing goodness of heart, which won him the admiration of his own age, and remain as recommendations to the reverence of posterity. 'no, sir! there is nothing which has yet been contrived by man by which so much happiness has been produced as by a good tavern.'" [illustration: the cheshire cheese--the johnson room.] after all this it is surprising to learn that the authority for connecting dr. johnson with the cheshire cheese rests upon a somewhat late tradition. boswell does not mention the tavern, an omission which 'is accounted for by noting that "boswell's acquaintance with johnson began when johnson was an old man, and when he had given up the house in gough square, and goldsmith had long departed from wine office court. at the best," this apologist adds, "boswell only knew johnson's life in widely separated sections." as appeal cannot, then, be made to boswell it is made to others. the most important of these witnesses is a cyrus jay, who, in a book of reminiscences published in 1868, claimed to have frequented the cheshire cheese for fifty-five years, and to have known a man who had frequently seen johnson and goldsmith in the tavern. another writer has placed on record that he often met in the tavern gentlemen who had seen the famous pair there on many occasions. taking into account these traditions and the further fact that the building supplies its own evidence as to antiquity, it is not surprising that the cheshire cheese enjoys an enviable popularity with all who find a special appeal in the survivals of old london. as a natural consequence more recent writing in prose and verse has been bestowed upon this tavern than any other of the metropolis. perhaps the best of the many poems penned in its praise is that "ballade" written by john davidson, the poet whose mysterious disappearance has added so sad a chapter to the history of literature. "i know a house of antique ease within the smoky city's pale, a spot wherein the spirit sees old london through a thinner veil. the modern world so stiff and stale, you leave behind you when you please, for long clay pipes and great old ale and beefsteaks in the 'cheshire cheese.' "beneath this board burke's, goldsmith's knees were often thrust--so runs the tale- 'twas here the doctor took his ease and wielded speech that like a flail threshed out the golden truth. all hail, great souls! that met on nights like these till morning made the candles pale, and revellers left the 'cheshire cheese.' "by kindly sense and old decrees of england's use they set the sail we press to never-furrowed seas, for vision-worlds we breast the gale, and still we seek and still we fail, for still the 'glorious phantom' flees. ah well! no phantom are the ale and beefsteaks of the 'cheshire cheese.' "if doubts or debts thy soul assail, if fashion's forms its current freeze, try a long pipe, a glass of ale, and supper at the 'cheshire cheese.'" while the cheshire cheese was less fortunate than the cock in the fire of london, the latter house, which escaped that conflagration, has fallen on comparatively evil days in modern times. in other words, the exterior of the original building, which dated from early in the seventeenth century, was demolished in 1888, to make room for a branch establishment of the bank of england. pepys knew the old house and spent many a jovial evening beneath its roof. it was thither, one april evening in 1667, that he took mrs. pierce and mrs. knapp, the latter being the actress whom he thought "pretty enough" besides being "the most excellent, mad-humoured thing, and sings the noblest that ever i heard in my life." the trio had a gay time; they "drank, and eat lobster, and sang" and were "mightily merry." by and by the crafty diarist deleted mrs. pierce from the party, and went off to vauxhall with the fair actress, his confidence in the enterprise being strengthened by the fact that the night was "darkish." if she did not find out that excursion, mrs. pepys knew quite enough of her husband's weakness for mrs. knapp to be justified of her jealousy. and even he appears to have experienced twinges of conscience on the matter. perhaps that was the reason why he took his wife to the cock, and "did give her a dinner" there. other sinners have found it comforting to exercise repentance on the scene of their offences. judging from an advertisement which was published in 1665, the proprietor of the cock did not allow business to interfere with pleasure. "this is to certify," his announcement ran, "that the master of the cock and bottle, commonly called the cock alehouse, at temple bar, hath dismissed his servants, and shut up his house, for this long vacation, intending (god willing) to return at michaelmas next." but the tavern is prouder of its association with tennyson than of any other fact in its history. the poet was always fond of this neighbourhood. his son records that whenever he went to london with his father, the first item on their programme was a walk in the strand and fleet street. "instead of the stuccoed houses in the west end, this is the place where i should like to live," tennyson would say. during his early days he lodged in norfolk street close by, dining with his friends at the cock and other taverns, but always having a preference for the room "high over roaring temple-bar." in the estimation of the poet, as his son has chronicled, "a perfect dinner was a beef-steak, a potato, a cut of cheese, a pint of port, and afterwards a pipe (never a cigar). when joked with by his friends about his liking for cold salt beef and new potatoes, he would answer humorously, 'all fine-natured men know what is good to eat.' very genial evenings they were, with plenty of anecdote and wit." all this, especially the pint of port, throws light on "will waterproof's lyrical monologue," which, as the poet himself has stated, was "made at the cock." its opening apostrophe is familiar enough: "o plump head-waiter at the cock, to which i most resort, how goes the time? 'tis five o'clock. go fetch a pint of port." how faithfully that waiter obeyed the poet's injunction to bring him of the best, all readers of the poem are aware: "the pint, you brought me, was the best that ever came from pipe." undoubtedly. as witness the flights of fancy which it created. its potent vintage transformed both the waiter and the sign of the house in which he served and shaped this pretty legend. "and hence this halo lives about the waiter's hands, that reach to each his perfect pint of stout, his proper chop to each. he looks not like the common breed. that with the napkin dally; i think he came like ganymede, from some delightful valley. "the cock was of a larger egg than modern poultry drop, stept forward on a firmer leg, and cramm'd a plumper crop; upon an ampler dunghill trod, crow'd lustier late and early, sipt wine from silver, praising god, and raked in golden barley. "a private life was all his joy, till in a court he saw a something-pottle-bodied boy that knuckled at the law: he stoop'd and clutch'd him, fair and good, flew over roof and casement: his brothers of the weather stood stock-still for sheer amazement. "but he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire, and follow'd with acclaims, a sign to many a staring shire came crowing over thames. right down by smoky paul's they bore, till, where the street grows straiter, one fix'd for ever at the door, and one became head-waiter." just here the poet bethought himself. it was time to rein in his fancy. truly it was out of place to make "the violet of a legend blow among the chops and steaks." so he descends to more mundane things, to moralize at last upon the waiter's fate and the folly of quarrelling with our lot in life. it is interesting to learn from fitzgerald that the cock's plump head-waiter read the poem, but disappointing to know that his only remark on the performance was, "had mr. tennyson dined oftener here, he would not have minded it so much." from which poets may learn the moral that to trifle with jove's cupbearer in the interests of a tavern waiter is liable to lead to misunderstanding. but it is, perhaps, of more importance to note that, notwithstanding the destruction of the exterior of the cock in 1888, one room of that ancient building was preserved intact and may be found on the first floor of the new house. there, for use as well as admiration, are the veritable mahogany boxes which tennyson knew,- "old boxes, larded with the steam of thirty thousand dinners--" and not less in evidence is the stately old fireplace which pepys was familiar with. not even a seat or a fireplace has survived of the mitre tavern of shakespeare's days, or the mitre tavern which boswell mentions so often. they were not the same house, as has sometimes been stated, and the mitre of to-day is little more than a name-successor to either. ben jonson's plays and other literature of the seventeenth century make frequent mention of the old mitre, and that was no doubt the tavern pepys patronized on occasion. no one save an expert indexer would have the courage to commit himself to the exact number of boswell's references to the mitre. he had a natural fondness for the tavern as the scene of his first meal with johnson, and with johnson himself, as his biographer has explained, the place was a first favourite for many years. "i had learned," says boswell in recording the early stages of his acquaintance with his famous friend, "that his place of frequent resort was the mitre tavern in fleet street, where he loved to sit up late, and i begged i might be allowed to pass an evening with him there, which he promised i should. a few days afterwards i met him near temple-bar, about one o'clock in the morning, and asked if he would then go to the mitre. 'sir,' said he, 'it is too late; they won't let us in. but i'll go with you another night with all my heart.'" that other night soon came. boswell called for his friend at nine o'clock, and the two were soon in the tavern. they had a good supper, and port wine, but the occasion was more than food and drink to boswell. "the orthodox high-church sound of the mitre,--the figure and manner of the celebrated samuel johnson,--the extraordinary power and precision of his conversation, and the pride arising from finding myself admitted as his companion, produced a variety of sensations, and a pleasing elevation of mind beyond what i had ever before experienced." [illustration: dr. samuel johnson.] on the next occasion goldsmith was of the company, and the visit after that was brought about through boswell's inability to keep his promise to entertain johnson at his own rooms. the little scotsman had a squabble with his landlord, and was obliged to take his guest to the mitre. "there is nothing," johnson said, "in this mighty misfortune; nay, we shall be better at the mitre." and boswell was characteristically oblivious of the slur on his gifts as a host. but that, perhaps, is a trifle compared with the complacency with which he records further snubbings administered to him at that tavern. for example, there was that rainy night when boswell made some feeble complaints about the weather, qualifying them with the profound reflection that it was good for the vegetable creation. "yes, sir," johnson rejoined, "it is good for vegetables, and for the animals who eat those vegetables, and for the animals who eat those animals." then there was that other occasion when the note-taker talked airily about his interview with rousseau, and asked johnson whether he thought him a bad man, only to be crushed with johnson's, "sir, if you are talking jestingly of this, i don't talk with you. if you mean to be serious, i think him one of the worst of men." severer still was the rebuke of another conversation at the mitre. the ever-blundering boswell rated foote for indulging his talent of ridicule at the expense of his visitors, "making fools of his company," as he expressed it. "sir," johnson said, "he does not make fools of his company; they whom he exposes are fools already: he only brings them into action." but, if only in gratitude for what boswell accomplished, last impressions of the mitre should not be of those castigations. a far prettier picture is that which we owe to the reminiscences of dr. maxwell, who, while assistant preacher at the temple, had many opportunities of enjoying johnson's company. dr. maxwell relates that one day when he was paying johnson a visit, two young ladies, from the country came to consult him on the subject of methodism, to which they were inclined. "come," he said, "you pretty fools, dine with maxwell and me at the mitre, and we will take over that subject." away, they went, and after dinner johnson "took one of them upon his knee, and fondled her for half an hour together." dante gabriel rossetti chose that incident for a picture, but neither his canvas nor dr. maxwell's record enlightens us as to whether the "pretty fools" were preserved to the church of england. but it was a happy evening--especially for dr. johnson. as with the cock, a part of the interior of the rainbow tavern dates back more than a couple of centuries. the chief interest of the rainbow, however, lies in the fact that it was at first a coffee-house, and one of the earliest in london. it was opened in 1657 by a barber named james farr who evidently anticipated more profit in serving cups of the new beverage than in wielding his scissors and razor. he succeeded so well that the adjacent tavern-keepers combined to get his coffee-house suppressed, for, said they, the "evil smell" of the new drink "greatly annoyed the neighbourhood." but mr. farr prospered in spite of his competitors, and by and by he turned the rainbow into a regular tavern. no one who gazes upon the century-old print of the king's head can do other than regret the total disappearance of that picturesque building. this tavern stood at the west corner of chancery lane and is believed by antiquaries to have been built in the reign of edward vi. it figures repeatedly in ancient engravings of the royal processions of long-past centuries, and contributed a notable feature to the progress of queen elizabeth as she was on her way to visit sir thomas gresham. the students of the temple hit upon the effective device of having several cherubs descend, as it were, from the heavens, for the purpose of presenting the queen with a crown of gold and laurels, together with the inevitable verses of an elizabethan ceremony, and the roof of the king's head was chosen as the heaven from whence these visitants came down. only the first and second floors were devoted to tavern purposes; on the ground floor were shops, from one of which the first edition of izaak walton's "complete angler" was sold, while another provided accommodation for the grocery business of abraham cowley's father. from 1679 the king's head was the common headquarters of the notorious green ribbon club, which included a precious set of scoundrels among its members, chief of them all being that astounding perjurer, titus gates. hence the tavern's designation as a "protestant house." it was pulled down in 1799. another immortal tavern of fleet street, the most immortal of them all, ben jonson's devil, has also utterly vanished. its full title was the devil and st. dunstan, aptly represented by the sign depicting the saint holding the tempter by the nose, and its site, appropriately enough, was opposite st. dunstan's church, on the south side of fleet street and close to temple-bar. one of hogarth's illustrations to "hudibras" gives a glimpse of the tavern, but on the wrong side of the street, as is so common in the work of that artist. no doubt the devil had had a protracted existence prior to jonson's day, but its chief title to fame dates from the time when the convivial dramatist made it his principal rendezvous. the exact date of that event is difficult to determine. nor is it possible to explain why jonson removed his patronage from the mermaid in cheapside to the devil in fleet street. the fact remains, however, that while the earlier period of his life has its focus in cheapside the later is centred in the vicinity of temple-bar. [illustration: tablet and bust from the devil tavern.] perhaps jonson may have found the accommodation of the devil more suited to his needs. after passing through those years of opposition which all great poets have to face, there came to him the crown of acknowledged leadership among the writers of his day. he accepted it willingly. he seems to have been temperamentally fitted to the post. he was, in fact, never so happy as when in the midst of a group of men who owned his pre-eminence. what was more natural, then, than that he should have conceived the idea of forming a club? and in the great apollo room at the devil he found the most suitable place of meeting. over the door of this room, inscribed in gold letters on a black ground, this poetical greeting was displayed. "welcome all who lead or follow to the oracle of apollo- here he speaks out of his pottle, or the tripos, his tower bottle: all his answers are divine, truth itself doth bow in wine. hang up all the poor hop-drinkers, cries old sam, the king of skinkers; he the half of life abuses, that sits watering with the muses. those dull girls no good can mean us; wine it is the milk of venus, and the poet's horse accounted: ply it, and you all are mounted. 'tis the true phoebian liquor, cheers the brains, makes wit the quicker. pays all debts, cures all diseases, and at once three senses pleases. welcome all who lead or follow, to the oracle of apollo." that relic of the devil still exists, carefully preserved in the banking establishment which occupies the site of the tavern; and with it, just as zealously guarded, is a bust of jonson which stood above the verses. inside the apollo room was another poetical inscription, said to have been engraved in black marble. these verses were in the dramatist's best latin, and set forth the rules for his tavern academy. much of their point is lost in the english version, which, however, deserves quotation for the sake of the inferences it suggests as to the conduct which was esteemed "good form" in jonson's club. "as the fund of our pleasure, let each pay his shot, except some chance friend, whom a member brings in. far hence be the sad, the lewd fop, and the sot; for such have the plagues of good company been. "let the learned and witty, the jovial and gay, the generous and honest, compose our free state; and the more to exalt our delight whilst we stay, let none be debarred from his choice female mate. "let no scent offensive the chamber infest. let fancy, not cost, prepare all our dishes. let the caterer mind the taste of each guest, and the cook, in his dressing, comply with their wishes. "let's have no disturbance about taking places, to show your nice breeding, or out of vain pride. let the drawers be ready with wine and fresh glasses, let the waiters have eyes, though their tongues must be ty'd. "let our wines without mixture or stum, be all fine, or call up the master, and break his dull noddle. let no sober bigot here think it a sin, to push on the chirping and moderate bottle. "let the contests be rather of books than of wine, let the company be neither noisy nor mute. let none of things serious, much less of divine, when belly and head's full profanely dispute. "let no saucy fidler presume to intrude, unless he is sent for to vary our bliss. with mirth, wit, and dancing, and singing conclude, to regale every sense, with delight in excess. "let raillery be without malice or heat. dull poems to read let none privilege take. let no poetaster command or intreat another extempore verses to make. "let argument bear no unmusical sound, nor jars interpose, sacred friendship to grieve. for generous lovers let a corner be found, where they in soft sighs may their passions relieve. "like the old lapithites, with the goblets to fight, our own 'mongst offences unpardoned will rank, or breaking of windows, or glasses, for spight, and spoiling the goods for a rakehelly prank. "whoever shall publish what's said, or what's done, be he banished for ever our assembly divine. let the freedom we take be perverted by none to make any guilty by drinking good wine." by the testimony of those rules alone it is easy to see how thoroughly the masterful spirit of jonson ruled in the apollo room. his air was a throne, his word a sceptre that must be obeyed. this impression is confirmed by many records and especially by drummond's character sketch. the natural consequence was that membership in the apollo club came to be regarded as an unusual honour. there appears to have been some kind of ceremony at the initiation of each new member, which gave all the greater importance to the rite of being "sealed of the tribe of ben." long after the dramatist was dead, his "sons" boasted of their intimacy with him, much to the irritation of dryden and others. while he lived, too, they were equally elated at being admitted to the inner circle at the devil, and, after the manner of marmion, sung the praises of their "boon delphic god," surrounded with his "incense and his altars smoking." [illustration: ben jonson.] incense was an essential if jonson was to be kept in good humour. many anecdotes testify to that fact. there is the story of his loss of patience with the country gentleman who was somewhat talkative about his lands, and his interruption, "what signifies to us your dirt and your clods? where you have an acre of land, i have ten acres of wit." and howell tells of that supper party which, despite good company, excellent cheer and choice wines, was turned into a failure by jonson engrossing all the conversation and "vapouring extremely of himself and vilifying others." yet there were probably few of his own circle, the "sons of ben," who would have had it otherwise. few indeed and fragmentary are the records of his conversation in the apollo room, but they are sufficient to prove how ready a wit the poet possessed. take, for example, the story of that convivial gathering when the tavern keeper promised to forgive jonson the reckoning if he could tell what would please god, please the devil, please the company, and please him. the poet at once replied: "god is pleased, when we depart from sin, the devil's pleas'd, when we persist therein; your company's pleas'd, when you draw good wine, and thou'd be pleas'd, if i would pay thee thine." some austere biographers have chided the memory of the poet for spending so much of his time at the devil. they forget, or are ignorant of the fact that there is proof the time was well spent. in a manuscript of jonson which still exists there are many entries which go to show that some of his finest work was inspired by the merry gatherings in the apollo room. for many years after jonson's death the devil, and especially the apollo room, continued in high favour with the wits of london and the men about town. pepys knew the house, of course, and so did evelyn, and swift dined there, and steele, and many another genius of the eighteenth century. it was in the apollo room, too, that the official court-day odes of the poets laureate were rehearsed, which explains the point of the following lines: "when laureates make odes, do you ask of what sort? do you ask if they're good or are evil? you may judge--from the devil they come to the court, and go from the court to the devil." but the apollo room is not without its idyllic memory. it was created by the ever-delightful pen of steele. who can forget the picture he draws of his sister jenny and her lover tranquillus and their wedding morning? "the wedding," he writes, "was wholly under my care. after the ceremony at church, i resolved to entertain the company with a dinner suitable to the occasion, and pitched upon the apollo, at the old devil at temple-bar, as a place sacred to mirth tempered with discretion, where ben jonson and his sons used to make their liberal meetings." the mirth of that assembly was threatened by the indiscretion of that double-meaning speaker who is usually in evidence at such gatherings to the confusion of the bride, but happily his career was cut short by the plain sense of the soldier and sailor, as may be read in the pages of the "tatler." within easy hail of the devil, on the site now occupied by st. clement's chambers, dane's inn, there stood until 1853 a quaint old hostelry known as the angel inn. it dated from the opening years of the sixteenth century at least, for it is specifically named in a letter of february 6th, 1503. in the middle of that century, too, it figures in the progress of bishop harper to the martyr's stake, for it was from this inn that prelate was taken to gloucester to be burnt. the angel cannot hope to compete with the neighbouring taverns of fleet street on the score of literary associations, but the fact that seven or eight mail coaches started from its yard every night will indicate how large a part it played in the life of old london. chapter iv. taverns west of temple bar. even one short generation ago it would have been difficult to recognize in the strand of that period any resemblance to the picture of that highway given by stow at the dawn of the seventeenth century. much less would it have been possible to recall its aspect in those earlier years when it was literally a strand, that is, a low-lying road by the side of the thames, stretching from temple-bar to charing cross. on the south side of the thoroughfare were the mansions of bishops and nobles dotted at sparse intervals; on the north was open country. to-day there are even fewer survivals of the past than might have been seen thirty years ago. the wholesale clearance of holywell street and the buildings to the north has completely transformed the neighbourhood, while along the southern line of the highway, changes almost equally revolutionary have been carried out. as a consequence the inns and taverns of the strand and the streets leading therefrom have nearly all been swept away, leaving a modern representative only here and there. utterly vanished, for example, leaving not a wreck behind, are the spotted dog and the craven head, two houses more or less associated with the sporting fraternity. the former, indeed, was a favourite haunt of prize-fighters and their backers; the latter was notorious for its host, robert hales by name, whose unusual stature--he stood seven feet six inches--enabled him "to look down on all his customers, although he was always civil to them." when the novelty of hales' physical proportions wore off, and trade declined, a new attraction was provided in the form of a couple of buxom barmaids attired in bloomer costume--importations, so the story goes, from the united states. a far more ancient and reputable house was the crown and anchor which had entrances both on the strand and arundel street. it is referred to by strype in his edition of stow, published in 1720, as "a large and curious house, with good rooms and other conveniences," and could boast of associations with johnson, and boswell, and reynolds. perhaps there was something in the atmosphere of the place which tended to emphasize johnson's natural argumentativeness; at any rate the crown and anchor was the scene of his dispute with reynolds as to the merits of wine in assisting conversation, and it was here too that he had his famous bout with dr. percy. boswell describes him as being in "remarkable vigour of mind, and eager to exert himself in conversation" on that occasion, and then transcribes the following proof. "he was vehement against old dr. mounsey, of chelsea college, as 'a fellow who swore and talked bawdy.' 'i have been often in his company,' said dr. percy, 'and never heard him swear or talk bawdy.' mr. davies, who sat next to dr. percy, having after this had some conversation with him, made a discovery which in his zeal to pay court to dr. johnson, he eagerly proclaimed aloud from the foot of the table: 'oh, sir, i have found out a very good reason why dr. percy never heard mounsey swear or talk bawdy, for he tells me he never saw him but at the duke of northumberland's table.' 'and so, sir,' said dr. johnson loudly to dr. percy, 'you would shield this man from the charge of swearing and talking bawdy, because he did not do so at the duke of northumberland's table. sir, you might as well tell us that you had seen him hold up his hand at the old bailey, and he neither swore nor talked bawdy; or that you had seen him in the cart at tyburn, and he neither swore nor talked bawdy. and is it thus, sir, that you presume to controvert what i have related?' dr. johnson's animadversion was uttered in such a manner, that dr. percy seemed to be displeased, and soon after left the company, of which johnson did not at that time take any notice." nor did the following morning bring any regret. "well," said he when boswell called, "we had good talk." and boswell's "yes, sir; you tossed and gored several persons," no doubt gave him much pleasure. when the crown and anchor was rebuilt in 1790 the accommodation of the tavern was materially increased by the erection of a large room suitable for important public occasions and capable of seating upwards of two thousand persons. that room was but eight years old when it was the scene of a remarkable gathering. those were stirring times politically, largely owing to fox's change of party and to his adhesion to the cause of electoral reform. hence the banquet which took place at the crown and anchor on january 24th, 1798, in honour of fox's birthday. the duke of norfolk presided over a company numbering fully two thousand persons, and the notable men present included sheridan and horne tooke. the record of the function tells how "captain morris"--elder brother of the author of "kitty crowder," and a song-writer of some fame in his day--"produced three new songs on the occasion," and how "mr. hovell, mr. robinson, mr. dignum, and several other gentlemen, in the different rooms sang songs applicable to the _fête_." but the ducal chairman's speech and the toasts which followed were the features of the gathering. the former was commendably brief. "we are met," he said, "in a moment of most serious difficulty, to celebrate the birth of a man dear to the friends of freedom. i shall only recall to your memory, that, not twenty years ago, the illustrious george washington had not more than two thousand men to rally round him when his country was attacked. america is now free. this day full two thousand men are assembled in this place. i leave you to make the application. i propose to you the health of charles fox." then came the following daring toasts: "the rights of the people." "constitutional redress of the wrongs of the people." "a speedy and effectual reform in the representation of the people in parliament." "the genuine principles of the british constitution." "the people of ireland; and may they be speedily restored to the blessings of law and liberty." and when the chairman's health had been drunk "with three times three," that nobleman concluded his speech of thanks with the words: "before i sit down, give me leave to call on you to drink our sovereign's health: 'the majesty of the people.'" such "seditious and daring tendencies," as the royalist chronicler of the times described them, could not be overlooked in high quarters, and the result of that gathering at the crown and anchor was that the duke of norfolk was dismissed from the lord-lieutenancy of the west riding of yorkshire, and from his regiment in the militia. it would have been a greater punishment could george iii have ordered a bath for the indiscreet orator. that particular member of the howard family had a horror of soap and water, and appears to have been washed only when his servants found him helpless in a drunken stupor. he it was also who complained to dudley north that he had vainly tried every remedy for rheumatism, to receive the answer, "pray, my lord, did you ever try a clean shirt?" in that district of the strand known as the adelphi--so called from the pile of buildings erected here in 1768 by the brothers adam--there still exists an adelphi hotel which may well perpetuate the building in which gibbon found a temporary home in 1787. ten years earlier it was known as the adelphi tavern, and on the thirteenth of january was the scene of an exciting episode. the chief actors in this little drama, which nearly developed into a tragedy, were a captain stony and a mr. bates, the latter being the editor of _the morning post._ it appears that that journal had recently published some paragraphs reflecting on the character of a lady of rank, whose cause, as the sequel will show, captain stony had good reason for making his own. whether the offending editor had been lured to the adelphi ignorant of what was in store, or whether the angry soldier met him there by accident, does not transpire; the record implies, however, that the couple had a room to themselves in which to settle accounts. the conflict opened with each discharging his pistol at the other, but without effect, which does not speak well for the marksmanship of either. then they took to their swords, with the result of the captain receiving wounds in the breast and arm and mr. bates a thrust in the thigh, clearly demonstrating that at this stage the man of the pen had the better of the man of the sword. and he maintained the advantage. for a little later the editor's weapon "bent and slanted against the captain's breast-bone." on having his attention called to the fact the soldier agreed that mr. bates should straighten his blade. at this critical moment, however, while, indeed, the journalist had his sword under his foot, the door of the room was broken open and the combatants separated. "on the sunday following," so the sequel reads, "captain stony was married to the lady in whose behalf he had thus hazarded his life." duels were so common in those days that gibbon probably heard nothing about the fight in the adelphi when he took rooms there one hot august day in 1787. besides, he had more important matters to occupy his thoughts. only six weeks had passed since, between the hours of eleven and twelve at night, he had, in the summer house of his garden at laussanne, written the last sentence of "the decline and fall of the roman empire," and now he had arrived in london with the final instalment of the manuscript on which he had bestowed the labour of nearly twenty years. the heightened mood he experienced on the completion of his memorable task may well have persisted to the hour of his arrival in london. some reflection of that feeling perhaps underlay the jocular announcement of his letter from the adelphi to lord sheffield, wherein he wrote: "intelligence extraordinary. this day (august the seventh) the celebrated e. g. arrived with a numerous retinue (one servant). we hear that he has brought over from laussanne the remainder of his history for immediate publication." gibbon remained at the adelphi for but a few days, after which the story of the tavern lapses into the happiness which is supposed to accrue from a lack of history. before retracing his steps to explore the many interesting thoroughfares which branch off from the strand, the pilgrim should continue on that highway to its western extremity at charing cross. the memory of several famous inns is associated 'with that locality, including the swan, the golden cross, locket's, and the rummer. the first named dated from the fifteenth century. it survived sufficiently long to be frequented by ben jonson and is the subject of an anecdote told of that poet. being called upon to make an extemporary grace before king james, and having ended his last line but one with the word "safe," jonson finished with the words, "god blesse me, and god blesse raph." the inquisitive monarch naturally wanted to know who ralph was, and the poet replied that he was "the drawer at the swanne taverne by charing crosse, who drew him good canarie." it is feasible to conclude that no small portion of the hundred pounds with which the king rewarded jonson was expended on that "good canarie." and perhaps ralph was not forgotten. by name, at any rate, the golden cross is still in existence, but the present building dates no farther back than 1832. of locket's ordinary, however, no present-day representative exists. when leigh hunt wrote "the town" he declared that it was no longer known where it exactly stood, but more recent investigators have discovered that drummond's banking house covers its site. as was the case with pontack's in the city, locket's was pre-eminently the resort of the "smart set." the prices charged are proof enough of that, even though they were not always paid. the case of sir george ethrege is one in point. that dissolute dramatist and diplomat of the restoration period was a frequent customer at locket's until his debt there became larger than his means to discharge it. before that catastrophe overtook him he was the principal actor in a lively scene at the tavern. something or other caused an outbreak of fault-finding one evening, and the commotion brought mrs. locket on the scene. "we are all so provoked," said sir george to the lady, "that even i could find in my heart to pull the nosegay out of your bosom, and throw the flowers in your face." nor was that the only humorous threat against mrs. locket from the same mouth. probably because he was so good a customer and an influential man about town, his indebtedness to the ordinary was allowed to mount up until it reached a formidable figure. and then sir george stopped his visits. mrs. locket, however, sent some one to dun him for the money and to threaten him with prosecution. but that did not daunt the wit. he bade the messenger tell mrs. locket that he would kiss her if she stirred in the matter. sir george's command was duly obeyed. it stirred mrs. locket to action. calling for her hood and scarf, and declaring that she would see if "there was any fellow alive that had the impudence," she was about to set out to put the matter to the test when her husband restrained her with his "pr'ythee, my dear, don't be so rash, you don't know what a man may do in his passion." it is not difficult to understand how the bill of sir george ethrege reached such alarming proportions. "they shall compose you a dish," is a contemporary reference, "no bigger than a saucer, shall come to fifty shillings." and again, "at locket's, brown's, and at pontack's enquire what modish kickshaws the nice beaux desire, what fam'd ragouts, what new invented sallat, has best pretensions to regale the palate." adam locket, the founder of the house, lived until about 1688, and was succeeded by his son edward who was at the head of affairs until 1702. all through the reign of queen anne the ordinary flourished, but after her death references to it become scanty and finally it disappeared so completely that leigh hunt, as has been said, was in ignorance as to its site. and hunt also owned to not knowing the site of another charing cross tavern, the rummer. as a matter of fact that, to modern ear, curiously-named tavern was at first located almost next door to locket's, whence it was removed to the waterside in 1710 and burnt down in 1750. the memory of the tavern would probably have sunk into oblivion with its charred timbers, save for the accident of its connection with matthew prior. for the rummer was kept by an uncle of the future poet, into whose keeping he is supposed to have fallen on the death of his father. one cannot resist the suspicion that this uncle, samuel prior by name, was of a shifty nature. he had serious enemies, that is certain. the best proof of that fact is the announcement he inserted in the _london gazette_ offering a reward of ten guineas for the discovery of the persons who spread the report that he was in league with the clippers of aoin. then there is the nephew's portrait, which implies that his tavern-keeping relative was an adept in the tricks of his trade. "my uncle, rest his soul! when living, might have contrived me ways of thriving; taught me with cider to replenish my vats, or ebbing tide of rhenish; so, when for hock i drew pricked white-wine,' swear't had the flavour, and was right-wine." destiny, however, had decided the nephew's fate otherwise. the earl of dorset, so the story goes, was at the rummer with a party one day when a dispute arose over a passage in horace. young prior, then a scholar of westminster, was called in to decide the point, and so admirably did he do it that the earl immediately undertook to pay his expenses at cambridge. he, in fact, "spoiled the youth to make a poet." annotators of hogarth have pointed out that the scene of his "night" picture was laid in that district of charing cross where locket's and the rummer were situated. harking back now to drury lane the explorer finds himself in the midst of the memories of many daring adventures. the jacobites who aimed at the dethroning of william iii were responsible for one of those episodes. during the absence of that monarch they tried to raise a riot in london on the birthday of the prince of wales. macaulay tells the rest of the story. "they met at a tavern in drury lane, and, when hot with wine, sallied forth sword in hand, headed by porter and goodman, beat kettledrums, unfurled banners, and began to light bonfires. but the watch, supported by the populace, was too strong for the revellers. they were put to rout: the tavern where they had feasted was sacked by the mob: the ringleaders were apprehended, tried, fined, and imprisoned, but regained their liberty in time to bear a part in a far more criminal design." noisy brawls and dark deeds became common in drury lane. it was the haunt of such quarrelsome persons as that captain fantom, who, coming out of the horseshoe tavern late one night, was offended by the loud jingling spurs of a lieutenant he met, and forthwith challenged him to a duel and killed him. and the tavern-keepers of drury lane were not always model citizens. there was that jack grimes, for example, whose death in holland in 1769 recalled the circumstance that he was known as "lawyer grimes," and formerly kept the nag's head tavern in princes' street, drury lane, "and was transported several years ago for fourteen years, for receiving fish, knowing them to be stolen." there is, however, one relieving touch in the tavern history of this thoroughfare. one of its houses of public entertainment was the meeting-place of a club of virtuosi, for whose club-room louis laguerre, the french painter who settled in london in 1683, designed and executed a bacchanalian procession. this was the artist who was coupled with verrio in pope's depreciatory line, "where sprawl the saints of verrio and laguerre." poets and prose writers alike were wont to agree in giving catherine street an unenviable reputation. gay is specially outspoken in his description of that thoroughfare and the class by which it used to be haunted. it was in this street, too, that jessop's once flourished, "the most disreputable night house of london." that nest of iniquity, however, has long been cleared away, and there are no means of identifying that tavern of which boswell speaks. he describes it, on the authority of dr. johnson, as a "pretty good tavern, where very good company met in an evening, and each man called for his own half-pint of wine, or gill if he pleased; they were frugal men, and nobody paid but for what he himself drank. the house furnished no supper; but a woman attended with mutton pies, which anybody might purchase." if the testimony of pope is to be trusted, the cuisine of the bedford head, which was described in 1736 as "a noted tavern for eating, drinking, and gaming, in southampton street, covent garden," was decidedly out of the ordinary. in his imitation of the second satire of horace he makes oldfield, the notorious glutton who exhausted a fortune of fifteen hundred pounds a year in the "simple luxury of good eating," declare, "let me extol a cat, on oysters fed, i'll have a party at the bedford-head." and in another poem he asks, "when sharp with hunger, scorn you to be fed, except on pea-chicks at the bedford-head?" there is an earlier reference to this house than the one cited above, for an advertisement of june, 1716, alludes to it as "the duke of bedford's head tavern in southampton street, covent garden." perhaps the most notable event in its history was it being the scene of an abortive attempt to repeat in 1741 that glorification of admiral vernon which was a great success in 1740. that seaman, it will be remembered, had in 1739 kept his promise to capture porto bello with a squadron of but six ships. that the capture was effected with the loss of but seven men made the admiral a popular hero, and in the following year his birthday was celebrated in london with great acclaim. but in 1740 his attempt to seize cartagena ended in complete failure, and another enterprise against santiago came to a similar result. all this, however, did not daunt his personal friends, who wished to engineer another demonstration in vernon's honour. horace walpole tells how the attempt failed. "i believe i told you," he wrote to one of his friends, "that vernon's birthday passed quietly, but it was not designed to be pacific; for at twelve at night, eight gentlemen dressed like sailors, and masked, went round covent garden with a drum beating for a volunteer mob; but it did not take; and they retired to a great supper that was prepared for them at the bedford head, and ordered by whitehead, the author of 'manners.'" at a later date it was the meeting-place of a club to which john wilkes belonged. in all london there is probably no thoroughfare of equal brief length which can boast so many deeply interesting associations as maiden lane, which stretches between southampton and bedford streets in the vicinity of covent garden. andrew marvell had lodgings here in 1677; voltaire made it his headquarters on his visit to london in 1727; it was the scene of the birth of joseph mallord william turner in 1775; and while one tavern was the rendezvous of the conspirators against the life of william iii, another was the favourite haunt of richard porson, than whom there is hardly a more illustrious name in the annals of english classical scholarship. while the name of the conspirators' tavern is not mentioned by macaulay, that frequented by porson had wide fame under the sign of the cider cellars. it had been better for the great scholar's health had nothing but cider been sold therein. but that would hardly have suited his tastes. it is a kindly judgment which asserts that he would have achieved far more than he actually did "if the sobriety of his life had been equal to the honesty and truthfulness of his character." all accounts agree that the charms of his society in such gatherings as those at the cider cellars were irresistible. "nothing," was the testimony of one friend, "could be more gratifying than a tête-à-tête with him; his recitations from shakespeare, and his ingenious etymologies and dissertations on the roots of the english language were a high treat." and another declares that nothing "came amiss to his memory; he would set a child right in his twopenny fable-book, repeat the whole of the moral tale of the dean of badajos, or a page of athenæus on cups, or eustathius on homer." one anecdote tells of his repeating the "rape of the lock," making observations as he went on, and noting the various readings. and an intimate friend records the following incident connected with the tavern he held most in regard. "i have heard professor porson at the cider cellars in maiden lane recite from memory to delighted listeners the whole of anstey's 'pleaders' guide.' he concluded by relating that when buying a copy of it and complaining that the price was very high, the bookseller said, 'yes, sir, but you know law books are always very dear.'" somewhat earlier than porson's day another convivial soul haunted this neighbourhood. this was george alexander stevens, the strolling player who eventually attained a place in the company of covent garden theatre. he was an indifferent actor but an excellent lecturer. one of his discourses, a lecture on heads, was immensely popular in england, and not less so in boston and philadelphia. prior to the affluence which he won by his lecture tours he had frequently to do "penance in jail for the debts of the tavern." he was, as campbell says, a leading member of all the great bacchanalian clubs of his day, and had no mean gift in writing songs in praise of hard drinking. one of these deserves a better fate than the oblivion into which it has fallen, and may be cited here as eminently descriptive of the scenes enacted nightly in such a resort as the cider cellars. "contented i am, and contented i'll be, for what can this world more afford, than a lass that will sociably sit on my knee, and a cellar as sociably stored. my brave boys. "my vault door is open, descend and improve, that cask,--ay, that will we try. 'tis as rich to the taste as the lips of your love, and as bright as her cheeks to the eye: my brave boys. "in a piece of slit hoop, see my candle is stuck, 'twill light us each bottle to hand; the foot of my glass for the purpose i broke, as i hate that a bumper should stand, my brave boys. "astride on a butt, as a butt should be strod, i gallop the brusher along; like a grape-blessing bacchus, the good fellow's god, and a sentiment give, or a song, my brave boys. "we are dry where we sit, though the coying drops seem with pearls the moist walls to emboss; from the arch mouldy cobwebs in gothic taste stream, like stucco-work cut out of moss: my brave boys. "when the lamp is brimful, how the taper flame shines, which, when moisture is wanting, decays; replenish the lamp of my life with rich wines, or else there's an end of my blaze, my brave boys. "sound those pipes, they're in tune, and those bins are well fill'd; view that heap of old hock in your rear; 'yon bottles are burgundy! mark how they're pil'd, like artillery, tier over tier, my brave boys. "my cellar's my camp, and my soldiers my flasks, all gloriously rang'd in review; when i cast my eyes round, i consider my casks as kingdoms i've yet to subdue, my brave boys. "like macedon's madman, my glass i'll enjoy, defying hyp, gravel, or gout; he cried when he had no more worlds to destroy, i'll weep when my liquor is out, my brave boys. "on their stumps some have fought, and as stoutly will i, when reeling, i roll on the floor; then my legs must be lost, so i'll drink as i lie, and dare the best buck to do more, my brave boys. "tis my will when i die, not a tear shall be shed, no _hic jacet_ be cut on my stone; but pour on my coffin a bottle of red, and say that his drinking is done, my brave boys." although to-day celebrated chiefly for being the central clearing-house for the flower, fruit and vegetable supply of london, covent garden as a whole can vie with any other district of the british capital in wealth of interesting association. the market itself dates from the middle of the seventeenth century, but the area was constituted a parish a few years earlier. by that time, however, it could boast many town residences of the nobility, and several inns. one of these has its name preserved only in the records of the house of lords, in a letter from a john button at amsterdam, who wrote to his brother "with mr. wm. wayte, at the sign of the horseshoe, covent garden." but the taverns of greater note, such as chatelaine's, the fleece, the rose, the hummums, and macklin's ill-fated ordinary, belong to more recent times. which of these houses was first established it would be hard to say. there can be no question, however, that chatelaine's ordinary was in great repute during the reign of charles ii, and that it continued in high favour throughout the latter years of the seventeenth century. pepys alludes to it in 1667 and again in his entries of the following year. on the second occasion his visit interfered with toothsome purchases he was making for a dinner at his own house. "to the fishmonger's, and bought a couple of lobsters, and over to the 'sparagus garden, thinking to have met mr. pierce, and his wife, and knipp; but met their servant coming to bring me to chatelin's, the french house, in covent garden, and there with musick and good company, manuel and his wife, and one swaddle, a clerk of lord arlington's, who dances, and speaks french well, but got drunk, and was then troublesome, and here mighty merry till ten at night. this night the duke of monmouth and a great many blades were at chatelin's, and i left them there, with a hackney-coach attending him." this was a different experience than fell to the lot of pepys on the previous occasion, for he tells how the dinner cost the party eight shillings and sixpence apiece, and it was "a base dinner, which did not please us at all." the ordinary was evidently in the same class as pontack's and locket's, as may be inferred from it being classed with the latter in one contemporary reference: "next these we welcome such as firstly dine at locket's, at gifford's, or with shataline." allusions in the plays of the period also show it was the resort of those who thought quite as much of spending money as of eating. thus shadwell makes one of his characters say of another who had risen in life that he was "one that the other day could eat but one meal a day, and that at a threepenny ordinary, now struts in state and talks of nothing but shattelin's and lefrond's." and another dramatist throws some light on the character of its frequenters by the remark, "come, prettie, let's go dine at chateline's, and there i'll tell you my whole business." far less fashionable was the fleece tavern, where pepys found pleasant entertainment on several occasions. his earliest reference to the house is in his account of meeting two gentlemen who told him how a scottish knight was "killed basely the other day at the fleece," but that tale did not prevent him from visiting the tavern himself. along with a "captain cuttle" and two others he went thither to drink, and "there we spent till four o'clock, telling stories of algiers, and the manner of life of slaves there." and then he tells how one night he dropped in at the opera for the last act "and there found mr. sanchy and mrs. mary archer, sister to the fair betty, whom i did admire at cambridge, and thence took them to the fleece in covent garden; but mr. sanchy could not by any argument get his lady to trust herself with him into the taverne, which he was much troubled at." equally lively reputations were enjoyed by the rose and the hummums. the former was conveniently situated for first-nighters at the king's playhouse, as pepys found on a may midday in 1668. anxious to see the first performance of sir charles sedley's new play, which had been long awaited with great expectation, he got to the theatre at noon, only to find the doors not yet open. gaining admission shortly after he seems to have been content to sit for a while and watch the gathering audience. but eventually the pangs of hunger mastered him, and so, getting a boy to keep his place, he slipped out to "the rose tavern, and there got half a breast of mutton off the spit, and dined all alone." twenty years later the vicinity of the rose gained an unenviable reputation. "a man could not go from the rose tavern to the piazza once, but he must venture his life twice." and it maintained that reputation well into the next century, growing ever more and more in favour with the gamblers and rufflers of the times. it was at the bar of this house that hildebrand horden, an actor of talent and one who promised to win a great name, was killed in a brawl. colley cibber tells that he was exceedingly handsome, and that before he was buried "it was observable that two or three days together several of the fair sex, well dressed, came in masks, and some in their own coaches, to visit the theatrical hero in his shroud." to the student of etymology the name of the hummums tells its own tale. the word is a near approach to the arabic "hammam," meaning a hot bath, and hence implies an establishment for bathing in the oriental manner. the tavern in covent garden bearing that name was one of the first bathing establishments founded in england, and the fact that it introduced a method of ablution which had its origin in a country of slavery prompted leigh hunt to reflect that englishmen need not have wondered how eastern nations could endure their servitude. "this is one of the secrets by which they endure it. a free man in a dirty skin is not in so fit a state to endure existence as a slave with a clean one; because nature insists that a due attention to the clay which our souls inhabit shall be the first requisite to the comfort of the inhabitant. let us not get rid of our freedom; let us teach it rather to those that want it; but let such of us as have them, by all means get rid of our dirty skins. there is now a moral and intellectual commerce among mankind, as well as an interchange of inferior goods; we should send freedom to turkey as well as clocks and watches, and import not only figs, but a fine state of pores." john wolcot, the satirist to whom, as peter pindar, nothing was sacred, and who surely had more accomplishments to fall back upon than ever poet had before, having been in turns doctor, clergyman, politician and painter, found a congenial resort at the hummums when he established himself in london. he preserved the memory of the house in verse, but it is an open question whether his reflections on the horrible sounds of which he complains should be referred to covent garden or to the city he had abandoned. "in covent garden at the hummums, now i sit, but after many a curse and vow, never to see the madding city more; where barrows truckling o'er the pavement roll: and, what is sorrow to a tuneful soul, where asses, asses greeting, love songs roar: which asses, that the garden square adorn, must lark-like be the heralds of my morn." those love songs have not ceased in covent garden; the amorous duets are to be heard to this day from the throats of countless costermongers' donkeys. but they disturb peter pindar's tuneful soul no more as he lies in his grave near by. it would be a grave injustice to the hummums to overlook the fact that it possessed a ghost-story of its own. its subject was dr. johnson's cousin, the parson ford "in whom both talents and good dispositions were disgraced by licentiousness," and the story was told to boswell by johnson himself. "a waiter at the hummums," johnson said, "in which house ford died, had been absent for some time, and returned, not knowing that ford was dead. going down to the cellar, according to the story, he met him; going down again, he met him a second time. when he came up he asked some of the people of the house what ford could be doing there. they told him ford was dead. the waiter took a fever, in which he lay for some time. when he recovered, he said he had a message to deliver to some women from ford; but he was not to tell what or to whom. he walked out; he was followed; but somewhere about st. paul's they lost him. he came back and said he had delivered it, and the women exclaimed, 'then we are all undone!' dr. pellet, who was not a credulous man, inquired into the truth of this story, and he said the evidence was irresistible." a tantalizing ghost-story this, and one that begets regret that the society for psychical research did not enter on its labours a century or so earlier. one other tavern, or ordinary, of unusual interest spent its brief career of less than a year under the piazza of covent garden. it was the experiment of charles macklin, an eighteenth century actor of undoubted talent and just as undoubted conceit and eccentricity. he had reached rather more than the midway of his long life--he was certainly ninety-seven when he died and may have been a hundred--when he resolved to leave the stage and carry out an idea over which he had long ruminated. 'this was nothing less than the establishment of what he grandiloquently called the british institution. so much in earnest was macklin that he accepted a farewell benefit at drury lane theatre, at which he recited a good-bye prologue commending his daughter to the favour of playgoers. in the greenroom that night, when regrets were expressed at the loss of so admirable an actor, foote remarked, "you need not fear; he will first break in business, and then break his word." and foote did not a little to make his prophecy come true. for a part of macklin's scheme, whereby he was to instruct the public and fill his own pockets at the same time, was a lecture-room on the "plan of the ancient greek, roman, and modern french and italian societies of liberal investigation." macklin appointed himself the instructor in chief, and there was hardly a subject under the sun upon which he was not prepared to enlighten the british public at the moderate price of "one shilling each person." the first two or three lectures were a success. then the novelty wore off and opposition began. foote set up a rival oratory and devoted himself to the simple task of burlesquing that of macklin. he would impersonate macklin in his armchair, examining a pupil in classics after this fashion. "well, sir, did you ever hear of aristophanes?" "yes, sir; a greek dramatist, who wrote--" "ay; but i have got twenty comedies in these drawers, worth his _clouds_ and stuff. do you know anything of cicero?" "a celebrated orator of rome, who in the polished and persuasive is considered a master in his art." "yes, yes; but i'll be bound he couldn't teach elocution." of course all this raillery was more attractive to the public than macklin's serious and pedagogic dissertations. the result may be imagined. foote's oratory was crowded; macklin's empty. but that was not the worst. another feature of the british institution was the establishment of the ordinary aforesaid. the prospectus of the institution bore this notice: "there is a public ordinary every day at four o'clock, price three shillings. each person to drink port, claret, or whatever liquor he shall choose." a disastrous precursor of the free lunch this would seem. and so it proved. but not immediately. attracted by the novelty of having a famous actor for host, the ordinary went swimmingly for a time. macklin presided in person. as soon as the door of the room was shut--a bell rang for five minutes, a further ten minutes' grace was given, and then no more were admitted--the late actor bore in the first dish and then took his place at the elaborate sideboard to superintend further operations. dinner over, and the bottles and glasses placed on the table, "macklin, quitting his former situation, walked gravely up to the front of the table and hoped 'that all things were found agreeable;' after which he passed the bell-rope round the chair of the person who happened to sit at the head of the table, and, making a low bow at the door, retired." he retired to read over the notes of the lecture he had prepared for these same guests, and during his absence for the rest of the evening his waiters and cooks seized the opportunity to reap their harvest. the sequel of the tale was soon told in the bankruptcy court, and macklin went back to the stage, as foote said he would. and now he lies peacefully enough in his grave in the covent garden st. paul's, within stone's throw of the scene where he tried to be a tavern-keeper and failed. chapter v. inns and taverns further afield. outside the more or less clearly defined limits of the city, the neighbourhood of st. paul's, fleet street, the strand and covent garden, the explorer of the inns and taverns of old london may encircle the metropolis from any given point and find something of interest everywhere. such a point of departure may be made, for example, in the parish of lambeth, where, directly opposite the somerset house of to-day, once stood the feathers tavern connected with cuper's gardens. the career of that resort was materially interfered with by the passing of an act in 1752 for the regulation of places of entertainment "and punishing persons keeping disorderly houses." the act stipulated that every place kept for public dancing, music, or other entertainment, within twenty miles of the city, should be under a license. [illustration: feathers tavern. ] evidently it was found impossible to secure a license for cuper's gardens, for in a public print of may 22nd, 1754, the widow evans advertises that "having been deny'd her former liberty of opening her gardens as usual, through the malicious representations of ill-meaning persons, she therefore begs to acquaint the public that she hath open'd them as a tavern till further notice. coffee and tea at any hour of the day." there is no record of the widow evans ever recovering her former "liberty," and hence the necessity of continuing the place as a tavern merely, with its seductive offer of "coffee and tea at any hour." even without a license, however, a concert was announced for the night of august 30th, 1759, the law being evaded by the statement that the vocal and instrumental programme was to be given by "a select number of gentlemen for their own private diversion." as there is no record of any other entertainment having been given at the e'eathers, it is probable that this attempt to dodge the law met with condign punishment, and resulted in the closing of the place for good. after it had stood unoccupied for some time dr. johnson passed it in the company of beauclerk, langton, and lady sydney beauclerk, and made a sportive suggestion that he and beauclerk and langton should take it. "we amused ourselves," he said, "with scheming how we should all do our parts. lady sydney grew angry and said, 'an old man should not put such things in young people's heads.' she had no notion of a joke, sir; had come late into life, and had a mighty unpliable understanding." though johnson did not carry his joke into effect, the feathers has not lacked for perpetuation, as is shown by the modern public-house of that name in the vicinity of waterloo bridge. from lambeth to westminster is an easy journey, but unhappily there are no survivals of the numerous inns which figure in records of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. one of those hostelries makes its appearance in the expense sheet of a roger keate who went to london in 1575 on the business of his town of weymouth. he notes that on friday the tenth day of february, "in the companie of certain courtiars, and of mr. robert gregorie, at westminster, at the sarrazin's head" he spent the sum of five shillings. this must have been a particularly festive occasion, for a subsequent dinner cost mr. keate but twenty pence, and "sundrie drinkinges" another day left him the poorer by but two shillings and twopence. another document, this time of date 1641, perpetuates the memory of a second westminster inn in a lively manner. this is a petition of a constable of st. martin's-in-the-fields to the house of commons, and concerned the misdoings of certain apprentices at the time of the riot caused by colonel lunsford's assault on the citizens of westminster. the petitioner, peter scott by name, stated that he tried to appease the 'prentices by promising to release their fellows detained as prisoners in the mermaid tavern. when he and another constable approached the door of the house, his colleague was thrust in the leg with a sword from within, which so enraged the 'prentices--though why is not explained--that they broke into the tavern, and the keeper had since prosecuted the harmless peter scott for causing a riot. numerous as were the taverns of westminster, it is probable that the greater proportion of them were to be found in one thoroughfare, to wit, king street. it was the residence and place of business of one particularly aggressive brewer in the closing quarter of the seventeenth century. this vendor of ale, john england by name, had the distinction of being the king's brewer, and he appears to have thought that that position gave him more rights than were possessed by ordinary mortals. so when an order was made prohibiting the passing of drays through king street during certain hours of the day, he told the constables that he, the king's brewer, cared nothing for the order of the house of lords. the example proved infectious. other brewers' draymen became obstreperous too, one calling the beadle that stopped him "a rogue" and another vowing that if he knew the beadle "he would have a touch with him at quarterstaff." but all these fiery spirits of king street were brought to their senses, and are found expressing sorrow for their offence and praying for their discharge. according to the legend started by ben jonson, this same king street was the scene of poet spenser's death of starvation. "he died," so jonson said, "for want of bread in king street; he refused twenty pieces sent him by my lord essex, and said he was sure he had no time to spend them." this myth is continually cropping up, but no evidence has been adduced in its support. the fact that he died in a tavern in king street tells against the story. that thoroughfare, then the only highway between the royal palace of whitehall and the parliament house, was a street of considerable importance, and spenser's presence there is explained by stow's remark that "for the accommodation of such as come to town in the terms, here are some good inns for their reception, and not a few taverns for entertainment, as is not unusual in places of great confluence." there are ample proofs, too, that king street was the usual resort of those who were messengers to the court, such as spenser was at the time of his death. it is strange, however, that not many of the names of these taverns have survived. yet there are two, the leg and the bell, to which there are allusions in seventeenth century records. there is one reference in that "parliamentary diary" supposed to have been written by thomas burton, the book which carlyle characterized as being filled "with mere dim inanity and moaning wind." this chronicler, under date december 18th, 1656, tells how he dined with the clothworkers at the leg, and how "after dinner i was awhile at the leg with major-general howard and mr. briscoe." being so near whitehall in one direction and the parliament house in the other, it is not surprising to learn that the nimble pepys was a frequent visitor at the tavern. after a morning at whitehall "with my lord" in june, 1660, he dined there with a couple of friends. nearly a year later business took him to the house of lords, but as he failed to achieve the purpose he had in view he sought consolation at the leg, where he "dined very merry." a more auspicious occasion took place three years after. "to the exchequer, and there got my tallys for ~17,500, the first payment i ever had out of the exchequer, and at the legg spent 14s. upon my old acquaintance, some of them the clerks, and away home with my tallys in a coach, fearful every moment of having one of them fall out, or snatched from me." he was equally glowing with satisfaction when he visited the tavern again in 1667. all sorts of compliments had been paid him that day, and he had been congratulated even by the king and the duke of york. "i spent the morning thus walking in the hall, being complimented by everybody with admiration: and at noon stepped into the legg with sir william warren." 'then there was that other house in king street, the bell, upon which the diarist bestowed some of his patronage. on his first visit he was caught in a neat little trap. "met with purser washington, with whom and a lady, a friend of his, i dined at the bell tavern in king street, but the rogue had no more manners than to invite me, and to let me pay my club." which was too bad of the purser, when pepys' head and heart were full of "infinite business." the next call, however, was more satisfactory and less expensive. he merely dropped in to see "the seven flanders mares that my lord has bought lately." but the bell had a history both before and after pepys' time. it is referred to so far back as the middle of the fifteenth century, and it was in high favour as the headquarters of the october club in the reign of queen anne. during the eighteenth century many fashionable resorts were located in pall mall and neighbouring streets. in pall mall itself was the famous star and garter, and close by was st. alban's tavern, celebrated for its political gatherings and public dinners. horace walpole has several allusions to the house and tells an anecdote which illustrates the wastefulness of young men about town. a number of these budding aristocrats were dining at st. alban's tavern and found the noise of the coaches outside jar upon their sensitive nerves. so they promptly ordered the street to be littered with straw, and probably cared little that the freak cost them fifty shillings each. no doubt the charges at the st. allan's were in keeping with the exclusive character of the house, and it might be inferred that the same would have held good at the star and garter. but that was not the case. many testimonies to the moderate charges of that house have been cited. perhaps the most conclusive evidence on this point is furnished by swift, who was always a bit of a haggler as to the prices he paid at taverns. it was 'at his suggestion that the little club to which he belonged discarded the tavern they had been used to meeting in and went to the star and garter for their dinner. "the other dog," swift wrote in one of his little letters to stella, "was so extravagant in his bills that for four dishes, and four, first and second course, without wine or dessert, he charged twenty-one pounds, six shillings and eightpence." that the bill at the star and garter was more reasonable is a safe inference from the absence of any complaint on the part of swift. several clubs were wont to meet under this roof. among these was the nottinghamshire club, an association of gentlemen who had estates in that county and were in the habit of dining together when in town. one such gathering, however, had a tragic termination. it took place on january 26th, 1765, and among those present were william chaworth, john hewett, lord byron, a great-uncle of the poet, and seven others. perfect harmony prevailed until about seven o'clock, when the wine was brought in and conversation became general. at this juncture one member of the company started a conversation about the best method of preserving game, and the subject was at once taken up by mr. chaworth and lord byron, who seem to have held entirely opposite views. the former was in favour of severity against all poachers, the latter declaring that the best way to have most game was to take no care of it all. nettled by this opposition, mr. chaworth ejaculated that he had more game on five acres than lord byron had on all his manors. retorts were bandied to and fro, until finally mr. chaworth clenched matters by words which were tantamount to a challenge to a duel. nothing more was said, however, and the company was separating when mr. chaworth and lord byron happened to meet on a landing. what transpired at first then is not known, but evidently the quarrel was resumed in some form or other, for the two joined in calling a waiter and asking to be shown into an empty room. the waiter obeyed, opening the door and placing a small tallow candle on the table before he retired. the next news from that room was the ringing of a bell, and when it was answered it was found that mr. chaworth was mortally wounded. what had happened was explained by mr. chaworth, who said that he could not live many hours; that he forgave lord byron, and hoped the world would; that the affair had passed in the dark, only a small tallow candle burning in the room; that lord byron asked him if he meant the conversation on the game to sir charles sedley or to him? to which he replied, if you have anything to say, we had better shut the door; that while he was doing this, lord byron bid him draw, and, in turning, he saw his lordship's sword half drawn, on which he whipped out his own, and made the first pass; the sword being through his lordship's waistcoat, he thought he had killed him, and asking whether he was not mortally wounded, lord byron, while he was speaking, shortened his sword, and stabbed him in the abdomen. mr. chaworth survived but a few hours. there was a trial, of course, but it ended in lord byron's acquittal on the ground that he had been guilty of but manslaughter. and the poet, the famous grand-nephew, rounds off this story of the star and garter by declaring that his relative, so far from feeling any remorse for the death of mr. chaworth, always kept the sword he had used with such fatal effect and had it hanging in his bedroom when he died. although the neighbouring suffolk street is a most decorous thoroughfare at the present time, and entirely innocent of taverns, it was furnished with two, the cock and the golden eagle, in the latter portion of the seventeenth century. at the former evelyn dined on one occasion with the councillors of the board of trade; at the latter, on january 30th, 1735, occurred the riot connected with the mythical calf's head club. how the riot arose is something of a mystery. it seems, however, that a mob was gathered outside the tavern by the spreading of the report that some young nobles were dining within on a calf's head in ridicule of the execution of charles i, and a lurid account was afterwards circulated as to how a bleeding calf's head, wrapped in a napkin, was thrown out of the window, while the merrymakers within drank all kinds of confusion to the stuart race. according to the narrative of one who was in the tavern, the calf's head business was wholly imaginary. nor was the date of the dinner a matter of prearrangement. it seems that the start of the commotion was occasioned by some of the company inside observing that some boys outside had made a bonfire, which, in their hilarity, they were anxious to emulate. so a waiter was commissioned to make a rival conflagration, and then the row began. it grew to such proportions that the services of a justice and a strong body of guards were required ere peace 'could be restored to suffolk street. rare indeed is it to find a tavern in this district which can claim a clean record in the matter of brawls, and duels, and sudden deaths. each of the two most famous houses of the haymarket, that is, long's and the blue posts tavern, had its fatality. it was at the former ordinary, which must not be confused with another of the same name in covent garden, that philip herbert, the seventh earl of pembroke, committed one of those murderous assaults for which he was distinguished. he killed a man in a duel in 1677, and in the first month of the following year was committed to the tower "for blasphemous words." that imprisonment, however, was of brief duration, for in february a man petitioned the house of lords for protection from the earl's violence. and the day before, in a drunken scuffle at long's he had killed a man named nathaniel cony. this did not end his barbarous conduct, for two years later he murdered an officer of the watch, when returning from a drinking bout at turnham green. mercifully for the peace of the community this blood-thirsty peer died at the age of thirty. at the blue posts tavern the disputants were a mr. moon and a mr. hunt, who began their quarrel in the house, "and as they came out at the door they drew their swords, and the latter was run through and immediately died." there was another blue posts in spring gardens close by, which became notorious from being the resort of the jacobites. this, in fact, was the house in which robert charnock and his fellow conspirators were at breakfast when news reached them which proved that their plot had been discovered. a more refined atmosphere hangs around the memory of the thatched house, that st. james's street tavern which started on its prosperous career in 1711 and continued it until 1865, at which date the building was taken down to make room for the conservative clubhouse. its title would have led a stranger to expect a modest establishment, but that seems to have been bestowed on the principle which still prevails when a mansion is designated a cottage. it reminds one of coleridge and his "the devil did grin, for his darling sin is the pride that apes humility." swift was conscious of the incongruity of the name, as witness the lines, "the deanery house may well be match'd, under correction, with the thatch'd." as a matter of fact the tavern was of the highest class and greatly in repute with the leaders of society and fashion. and its frequenters were not a little proud of being known among its patrons. hence the delightful retort of the lord chancellor thurlow recorded by lord campbell. "in the debates on the regency, a prim peer, remarkable for his finical delicacy and formal adherence to etiquette, having cited pompously certain resolutions which he said had been passed by a party of noblemen and gentlemen of great distinction at the thatched house tavern, the lord chancellor thurlow, in adverting to these said, 'as to what the noble lord in the red ribbon told us he had heard at the ale-house.'" town residences of a duke and several earls are now the most conspicuous buildings in the mayfair stanhope street, but in the closing years of the eighteenth century there was a tavern here of the name of pitt's head. on a june night in 1792 this house was the scene of a gathering which had notable results. the host conceived the idea of inviting a number of the servants of the neighbourhood to a festivity in honour of the king's birthday, one feature of which was to be a dance. the company duly assembled to the number of forty, but some busybody carried news of the gathering to a magistrate who, with fifty constables, quickly arrived on the scene to put an end to the merrymaking. every servant in the tavern was taken into custody and marched off to a watch-house in mount street. news of what had happened spread during the night, and early in the morning the watch-house was surrounded by a furious mob. a riot followed, which was not easily suppressed. but another consequence followed. during the riot the earl of lonsdale was stopped in his carriage while passing to his own house, and annoyed by that experience he addressed some curt words to a captain cuthbert who was on duty with the soldiers. of course a duel was the next step. after failing to injure each other at two attempts, the seconds intervened, and insisted that, as their quarrel had arisen through a mutual misconception, and as neither of them would make the first concession, they should advance towards each other, step for step, and both declare, in the same breath, that they were sorry for what had happened. in pre-railway days piccadilly could boast of the white horse cellar, which dickens made famous as the starting-point of mr. pickwick for bath after being mulct in seven hundred and fifty pounds damages by the fair widow bardell. the fact that it was an important coaching depot appears to have been its chief attraction in those and earlier days, for the novelist's description of the interior would hardly prove seductive to travellers were the house existing in its old-time condition. "the travellers' room at the white horse cellar," wrote dickens, "is of course uncomfortable; it would be no travellers' room if it were not. it is the right-hand parlour, into which an aspiring kitchen fireplace appears to have walked, accompanied by a rebellious poker, tongs, and shovel. it is divided into boxes, for the solitary confinement of travellers, and is furnished with a clock, a looking-glass, and a live waiter: which latter article is kept in a small kennel for washing glasses, in a corner of the apartment." pierce egan, in the closing pages of his lively account of jerry hawthorn's visit to london, gives an outside view of the tavern only. and that more by suggestion than direct description. it is the bustle of the place rather than its architectural features egan was concerned with, and in that he was seconded by his artist, george cruikshank, whose picture of the white horse cellar is mostly coach and horses and human beings. few if any london taverns save the adam and eve can claim to stand upon ground once occupied by a king's palace. this tavern, which has a modern representative of identical name, was situated at the northern end of tottenham court road, at the junction of the road leading to hampstead. it was built originally on the site of a structure known as king john's palace, which subsequently became a manor house, and then gave way to the adam and eve tavern and gardens. this establishment had a varied career. at one time it was highly respectable; then its character degenerated to the lowest depths; afterwards taking an upward move once more. something in the shape of a place for refreshments was standing on this spot in the mid seventeenth century, for the parish books of st. giles in the fields record that three serving maids were in 1645 fined a shilling each for "drinking at totenhall court on the sabbath daie." in the eighteenth century the resort was at the height of its popularity. it had a large room with an organ, skittle-alleys, and cosy arbours for those who liked to consume their refreshments out of doors. at one time also its attractions actually embraced "a monkey, a heron, some wild fowl, some parrots, and a small pond for gold-fish." it was at this stage in its history, when its surroundings were more rural than it is possible to imagine to-day, that the tavern was depicted by hogarth in his "march to finchley" plate. early in the last century, however, it "became a place of more promiscuous resort, and persons of the worst character and description were in the constant habit of frequenting it; highwaymen, footpads, pickpockets, and common women formed its leading visitants, and it became so great a nuisance to the neighbourhood, that the magistrates interfered, the organ was banished, the skittle-grounds destroyed, and the gardens dug up." a creepy story is told of a subterraneous passage having existed in connection with the manor house which formerly stood on this spot, a passage which many set out to explore but which has kept its secret hidden to this day. [illustration: adam and eve tavern.] record has already been made of the fact that there was one "sarrazin's" head tavern at westminster; it must be added that there was another at snow hill, which disappeared when the holborn viaduct was built. dickens, who rendered so many valuable services in describing the buildings of old london, has left a characteristic pen-picture of this tavern. "near to the jail, and by consequence near to smithfield, and on that particular part of snow hill where omnibuses going eastward seriously think of falling down on purpose, and where horses in hackney cabriolets going westward not unfrequently fall by accident, is the coachyard of the saracen's head inn; its portals guarded by two saracens' heads and shoulders frowning upon you from each side of the gateway. the inn itself garnished with another saracen's head, frowns upon you from the top of the yard. when you walk up this yard you will see the booking-office on your left, and the tower of st. sepulchre's church darting abruptly up into the sky on your right, and a gallery of bedrooms upon both sides. just before you, you will observe a long window with the words 'coffee room' legibly painted above it." that allusion to st. sepulchre's church recalls the fact that in that building may be seen the brass to the memory of the redoubtable captain john smith, who was to win the glory of laying the first abiding foundations of english life in america. the brass makes due record of the fact that he was "admiral of new england," and it also bears in the coat of arms three turks' heads, in memory of smith's alleged single-handed victory over that number of saracens. as selden pointed out, when englishmen came home from fighting the saracens, and were beaten by them, they, to save their own credit, pictured their enemy with big, terrible faces, such as frowned at dickens from so many coigns of vantage in the old saracen's head, [illustration: a trial before the pie-powder court at the hand and shears tavern.] during the closing decade of the famous bartholomew fair--an annual medley of commerce and amusement which had its origin in the days when it was the great cloth exchange of all england and attracted clothiers from all quarters--the scene of what was known as the pie-powder court was located in a 'tavern known as the hand and shears. concerning this court blackstone offered this interesting explanation: "the lowest, and, at the same time, the most expeditious court of justice known to the law of england, is the court of pie-powder, _curia pedis pulverizati_, so called from the dusty feet of the suitors." another explanation of the name is that the court was so called "because justice is there done as speedily as dust can fall from the foot." whatever be the correct solution, the curious fact remains that this court was a serious affair, and had the power to enforce law and deal out punishment within the area of the fair. there is an excellent old print of the hand and shears in which the court was held, and another not less interesting picture showing the court engaged on the trial of a case. it is evident from the garb of the two principal figures that plaintiff and defendant belonged to the strolling-player fraternity, who always contributed largely to the amusements of the fair. this curious example of swift justice, recalling the old testament picture of the judge sitting at the gate of the city, became entirely a thing of the past when bartholomew fair was abolished in 1854. there are two other inns, one to the north, the other to the south, the names of which can hardly escape the notice of the twentieth century visitor to london. these are the angel at islington, and the elephant and castle at walworth. the former is probably the older of the two, though both were in their day famous as the starting-places of coaches, just as they are conspicuous to-day as traffic centres of omnibuses and tram-cars. the angel dates back to before 1665, for in that year of plague in london a citizen broke out of his house in the city and sought refuge here. he was refused admission, but was taken in at another inn and found dead in the morning. in the seventeenth century and later, as old pictures testify, the inn presented the usual features of a large old country hostelry. as such the courtyard is depicted by hogarth in his print of the "stage coach." its career has been uneventful in the main, though in 1767 one of its guests ended his life by poison, leaving behind this message: "i have for fifteen years past suffered more indigence than ever gentleman before submitted to, i am neglected by my acquaintance, traduced by my enemies, and insulted by the vulgar." [illustration: falcon tavern, bankside.] if he would complete the circle of his tour on the outskirts of london proper, the pilgrim, on leaving the elephant and castle, should wend his way to bankside, though not in the expectation of finding any vestige left of that falcon tavern which was the daily resort of shakespeare and his theatrical companions; not far from blackfriars bridge used to be falcon stairs and the falcon glass works, and other industrial buildings bearing that name, but no falcon tavern within recent memory. it has been denied that shakespeare frequented the falcon tavern which once did actually exist. but so convivial a soul must have had some "house of call," and there is no reason to rob the memory of the old falcon of what would be its greatest honour. especially does it seem unnecessary in view of the fact that the falcon and many another inn and tavern of old london, has vanished and left "not a rack behind." ii. coffee-houses of old london. chapter i. coffee-houses on 'change and near-by. coffee-houses still exist in london, but it would be difficult to find one answering to the type which was so common during the last forty years of the seventeenth century and the first half of the eighteenth. the establishment of to-day is nothing more than an eating-house of modest pretensions, frequented mostly by the labouring classes. in many cases its internal arrangements follow the old-time model, and the imitation extends to the provision of a daily newspaper or two from which customers may glean the news of the day without extra charge. here and there, too, the coffee-house of the present perpetuates the convenience of its prototype by allowing customers' letters to be sent to its address. but the more exalted type of coffee-house has lost its identity in the club. it is generally agreed that 1652 was the date of the opening of the first coffee-house in london. there are, however, still earlier references to the drink itself. for example, sir henry blount wrote from turkey in 1634 to the effect that the natives of that country had a "drink called _cauphe_ ...in taste a little bitterish," and that they daily entertained themselves "two or three hours in _cauphe-_houses, which, in turkey, abound more than inns and alehouses with us." also it will be remembered that evelyn, under date 1637, recorded how a greek came to oxford and "was the first i ever saw drink coffee." whether the distinction of opening the first coffee-house in london belongs to a mr. bowman or to a pasqua rosee cannot be decided. but all authorities are as one in locating that establishment in st. michael's alley, cornhill, and that the date was 1652. the weight of evidence seems to be in favour of rosee, who was servant to a turkey merchant named edwards. having acquired the coffee-drinking habit in turkey, mr. edwards was accustomed to having his servant prepare the beverage for him in his london house, and the new drink speedily attracted a levee of curious onlookers and tasters. evidently the company grew too large to be convenient, and at this juncture mr. edwards suggested that rosee should set up as a vendor of the drink. he did so, and a copy of the prospectus he issued on the occasion still exists. it set forth at great length "the virtue of the coffee drink first publiquely made and sold in england by pasqua rosee," the berry of which was described as "a simple innocent thing" but yielding a liquor of countless merits. but rosee was frank as to its drawbacks; "it will prevent drowsiness," he continued, "and make one fit for business, if one have occasion to watch; and therefore you are not to drink it after supper, unless you intend to be watchful, for it will hinder sleep for three or four hours." that pasqua rosee prospered amazingly in st. michael's alley, "at the signe of his own head," is the only conclusion possible from the numerous rival establishments which were quickly set up in different parts of london. by the end of the century it was computed that the coffee-houses of london numbered nearly three thousand. but there were days of tribulation to be passed through before that measure of success was attained. in eight years after rosee had opened his establishment the consumption of coffee in england had evidently increased to a notable extent, for in 1660 the house of commons is found granting to charles ii for life the excise duty on coffee "and other outlandish drinks." but it is a curious fact that while the introduction of tea was accepted with equanimity by the community, the introduction of coffee was strenuously opposed for more than a decade. poets and pamphleteers combined to decry the new beverage. the rhyming author of "a cup of coffee, or coffee in its colours," published in 1663, voiced his indignation thus: "for men and christians to turn turks and think to excuse the crime, because 'tis in their drink! pure english apes! ye might, for aught i know, would it but mode learn to eat spiders too. should any of your grandsires' ghosts appear in your wax-candle circles, and but hear the name of coffee so much called upon, then see it drank like scalding phlegethon; would they not startle, think ye, all agreed 'twas conjuration both in word and deed?" by way of climax this opponent of the new drink appealed to the shades of ben jonson and other libation-loving poets, and recalled how they, as source of inspiration, "drank pure nectar as the gods drink too." three years later a dramatist seems to have tried his hand at depicting the new resort on the stage, for pepys tells how in october, 1666, he saw a play called "the coffee-house." it was not a success; "the most ridiculous, insipid play that ever i saw in my life," was pepys' verdict. but there was nothing insipid about the pamphlet which, under the title of "the character of a coffee-house," issued from the press seven years later. the author withheld his name, and was wise in so doing, for his cuts and thrusts with his pen would have brought down upon him as numerous cuts and thrusts with a more dangerous weapon had his identity been known. "a coffee-house," he wrote, "is a lay-conventicle, good-fellowship turned puritan, ill-husbandry in masquerade; whither people come, after toping all day, to purchase, at the expense of their last penny, the repute of sober companions: a rota-room, that, like noah's ark, receives animals of every sort, from the precise diminutive band, to the hectoring cravat and cuffs in folio; a nursery for training up the smaller fry of virtuosi in confident tattling, or a cabal of kittling critics that have only learned to spit and mew; a mint of intelligence, that, to make each man his penny-worth, draws out into petty parcels what the merchant receives in bullion. he, that comes often, saves two-pence a week in gazettes, and has his news and his coffee for the same charge, as at a three-penny ordinary they give in broth to your chop of mutton; it is an exchange where haberdashers of political smallwares meet, and mutually abuse each other, and the public, with bottomless stories, and headless notions; the rendezvous of idle pamphlets, and persons more idly employed to read them; a high court of justice, where every little fellow in a camlet cloke takes upon him to transpose affairs both in church and state, to shew reasons against acts of parliament, and condemn the decrees of general councils." having indulged in that trenchant generalization, this vigorous assailant proceeded to describe a coffee-house in detail. the room "stinks of tobacco worse than hell of brimstone;" the coffee itself had the appearance of "pluto's diet-drink, that witches tipple out of dead men's skulls;" and the company included "a silly fop and a worshipful justice, a griping rook and a grave citizen, a worthy lawyer and an errant pickpocket, a reverend non-conformist and a canting mountebank, all blended together to compose an oglio of impertinence." there is a delightful sketch of one named "captain all-man-sir," as big a boaster as falstaff, and a more delicately etched portrait of the town wit, who is summed up as the "jack-pudding of society" in the judgment of all wise men, but an incomparable wit in his own. the peroration of this pamphlet, devoted to a wholesale condemnation of the coffee-house, indulges in too frank and unsavoury metaphors for modern re-publication. of course there was an answer. pamphleteering was one of the principal diversions of the age. "coffee-houses vindicated" was the title of the reply. the second pamphlet was not the equal of the first in terseness or wit, but it had the advantage in argument. the writer did not find it difficult to make out a good case for the coffee-house. it was economical, conduced to sobriety, and provided innocent diversion. when one had to meet a friend, a tavern was an expensive place; "in an ale-house you must gorge yourself with pot after pot, sit dully alone, or be drawn in to club for others' reckonings." not so at the coffee-house: "here, for a penny or two, you may spend two or three hours, have the shelter of a house, the warmth of a fire, the diversion of company; and conveniency, if you please, of taking a pipe of tobacco; and all this without any grumbling or repining." on the score of sobriety the writer was equally cogent. it was stupid custom which insisted that any and every transaction should be carried out at a tavern, where continual sipping made men unfit for business. coffee, on the contrary, was a "wakeful" drink. and the company of the coffee-house enabled its frequenter to follow the proper study of man, mankind. the triumphant conclusion was that a well-regulated coffee-house was "the sanctuary of health, the nursery of temperance, the delight of frugality, an academy of civility, and free-school of ingenuity." but a still more serious-minded person took part in the assault upon the coffee-house. he was one of those amateur statesmen, who usually, as in this case, abrogate to themselves the title of "lover of his country," who have a remedy for every disease of the body politic. in a series of proposals offered for the consideration of parliament, this patriot pleaded for the suppression of coffee-houses on the ground that if less coffee were drunk there would be a larger demand for beer, and a larger demand for beer meant the growing of more english grain. apart from economics, however, there were adequate reasons for suppression. these coffee-houses have "done great mischiefs to the nation, and undone many of the king's subjects: for they, being great enemies to diligence and industry, have been the ruin of many serious and hopeful young gentlemen and tradesmen, who, before frequenting these places, were diligent students or shopkeepers, extraordinary husbands of their time as well as money; but since these houses have been set up, under pretence of good husbandry, to avoid spending above one penny or two-pence at a time, have gone to these coffee-houses; where, meeting friends, they have sat talking three or four hours; after which, a fresh acquaintance appearing, and so one after another all day long, hath begotten fresh discourse, so that frequently they have staid five or six hours together," to the neglect of shops and studies, etc., etc. even yet, however, the worst had not been said. the wives of england had to be heard from. hence the "women's petition against coffee," which enlivens the annals of the year of grace 1674. the pernicious drink was indicted on three counts: "it made men as unfruitful as the deserts whence that unhappy berry is said to be brought;" its use would cause the offspring of their "mighty ancestors" to "dwindle into a succession of apes and pigmies;" and when a husband went out on a domestic errand he "would stop by the way to drink a couple of cups of coffee." these assaults--or, what is more probable, the abuse of the coffee-house for political purposes--had an effect, for a time. the king, although enjoying the excise from that "outlandish" drink, did issue a proclamation for the suppression of the coffee-houses, only to cancel it almost ere the ink was dry. but later, to put a stop to that public discussion of state affairs which was deemed sacrilege in the seventeenth century, an order was issued forbidding coffee-houses to keep any written or other news save such as appeared in the gazette. but the coffee-house as an institution was not to be put down. neither pamphlets nor poems, nor petitions nor proclamations, had any effect. it met a "felt want" apparently, or made so effective an appeal to the social spirit of seventeenth century londoners that its success was assured from the start. consequently pasqua rosee soon had opposition in his own immediate neighbourhood. it may be that the rainbow of fleet street was the second coffee-house to be opened in london, or that the honour belonged elsewhere; what is to be noted is that the establishments multiplied fast and nowhere more than in the vicinity of the royal exchange. several were to be found in change alley, while in the royal exchange of to-day, the third building of that name, are the headquarters of lloyd's, which perpetuates in name at least one of the most remarkable coffee-houses of the seventeenth century. evidence is abundant that the early coffee-houses took their colour from the district in which they were established. thus it would be idle in the main to expect a literary atmosphere among the houses which flourished in the heart of the city. they became the resorts of men of business, and gradually acquired a specific character from the type of business man most frequenting them. in a way batson's coffee-house was an exception to the rule, inasmuch as doctors and not merchants were most in evidence here. but the fact that it was tacitly accepted as the physicians' resort shows how the principle acted in a general way. one of the most constant visitors at batson's was sir richard blackmore, that scribbling doctor who was physician to william iii and then to queen anne. although his countless books were received either with ridicule or absolute silence, he still persisted in authorship, and finally produced an "heroick poem" in twelve books entitled, "prince alfred." lest any should wonder how a doctor could court the muse to that extent without neglecting his proper work, he explained in his preface that he had written the poem "by such catches and starts, and in such occasional uncertain hours as his profession afforded, and for the greater part in coffee-houses, or in passing up and down the streets," an apology which, led to his being accused of writing "to the rumbling of his chariot wheels." but in the main the real literary folk of the day would have none of him. he belonged to the city, and what had a mere city man to do with poetry? even dr. johnson, in taking note of a reply blackmore made to his critics, chided him with writing "in language such as cheapside easily furnished." other physicians, however, resorted to batson's coffee-house in a professional and not a poetic way. the character of its frequenters was described in a lively manner in the first number of the connoisseur, published in january, 1754. having devoted a few sentences to a neighbouring establishment, the writer noted that it is "but a short step to a gloomy class of mortals, not less intent on gain than the stock-jobbers: i mean the dispensers of life and death, who flock together like birds of prey watching for carcasses at batson's. i never enter this place, but it serves as a _memento mori_ to me. what a formidable assemblage of sable suits, and tremendous perukes! i have often met here a most intimate acquaintance, whom i have scarce known again; a sprightly young fellow, with whom i have spent many a jolly hour; but being just dubbed a graduate in physic, he has gained such an entire conquest over the risible muscles, that he hardly vouchsafes at any time to smile. i have heard him harangue, with all the oracular importance of a veteran, on the possibility of canning's subsisting for a whole month on a few bits of bread; and he is now preparing a treatise, in which he will set forth a new and infallible method to prevent the spreading of the plague from france to england. batson's has been reckoned the seat of solemn stupidity: yet it is not totally devoid of taste and common sense. they have among them physicians, who can cope with the most eminent lawyers or divines; and critics, who can relish the _sal volatile_ of a witty composition, or determine how much fire is requisite to sublimate a tragedy _secundum artem_." the house served a useful purpose at a time when physicians were not in the habit of increasing their knowledge by visiting the wards of the hospitals. batson's was a consulting-house instead, not alone for patients but for the doctors themselves. in this respect, then, it differed from the generally commercial character of the coffee-houses under the shadow of the exchange. [illustration: garraway's coffee-house.] but there was no mistaking the commercial character of a place like garraway's in change alley. the essayist just quoted is responsible for a story to the effect that when a celebrated actor was cast for the part of shylock he made daily visits to the coffee-houses near the exchange that "by a frequent intercourse and conversation with 'the unforeskin'd race,' he might habituate himself to their air and deportment." and the same chronicler goes on to say that personally he was never more diverted than by a visit to garraway's a few days before the drawing of a lottery. "i not only could read hope, fear, and all the various passions excited by a love of gain, strongly pictured in the faces of those who came to buy; but i remarked with no less delight, the many little artifices made use of to allure adventurers, as well as the visible alterations in the looks of the sellers, according as the demand for tickets gave occasion to raise or lower their price. so deeply were the countenances of these bubble-brokers impressed with attention to the main chance, and their minds seemed so dead to all other sensations, that one might almost doubt, where money is out of the case, whether a jew 'has eyes, hands, organs, dimensions, affections, passions.'" but lottery tickets were not the only things offered-for sale at garraway's. wine was a common article of sale there in the early days, and in the latter career of the house it became famous as an auction-room for land and house property. thomas garraway was the founder of the house, the same who is credited with having been the first to retail tea in england. on the success of pasqua rosee he was not long, apparently, in adding coffee to his stock, and then turning his place of business into a coffee-house. the house survived till 1866, and even to its latest years kept an old-time character. a frequenter of the place says the ground-floor was furnished with cosy mahogany boxes and seats, and that the ancient practice of covering the floor with sand was maintained to the last. two other houses, jonathan's and sam's, were notorious for their connection with stock-jobbing. the latter, indeed, figured prominently in the gigantic south sea bubble fraud. and even when that was exposed sam's continued to be the headquarters of all the get-rich-quick schemes of the day. thus in one issue of a newspaper of 1720 there were two announcements specially designed to catch the unwary. one notice told that a book would be opened for entering into a joint-partnership "on a thing that will turn to the advantage of the concerned," and the other was a modest proposal to raise two million pounds for buying and improving the fens of lincolnshire. [illustration: mad dog in a coffee-house. _(from a rowlandson caricature.)_] jonathan's is incidentally described by addison as "the general mart of stock-jobbers," and in that amusing account of himself to which he devoted the first number of the spectator he explained that he had been taken for a merchant on the exchange, "and sometimes passed for a jew in the assembly of stock-jobbers at jonathan's." half a century later than these allusions the annual register recorded a case tried at the guildhall arising out of an assault at this coffee-house. it seems that the master, mr. ferres, pushed the plaintiff, one isaac renoux, out of his house, for which he was fined one shilling damages on it being proved at the trial that "the house had been a market, time out of mind, for buying and selling government securities." such houses as john's in birchin lane and the jerusalem coffee-house, which was situated in a court off cornhill, were typical places of resort for merchants trading to distant parts of the world. one of rowlandson's lively caricatures, that of a "mad dog in a coffee-house," is a faithful representation of the interior of one of those houses. a bill on the wall shows how they were used for the publication of shipping intelligence, that particular placard giving details of the sailing of "the cerebus" for the brazils. in a private letter of july 30th, 1715, is an account of an exciting incident which had its origin in the jerusalem coffee-house. at that time england was in a state of commotion over the jacobite insurrection and the excitement seems to have turned the head of a captain montague, who was reputed to be "a civil sober man," of good principles and in good circumstances. he had entered the jerusalem coffee-house on the previous day, as the letter relates, and, without any provocation, "of a sudden struck a gentleman who knew him a severe blow on the eye; immediately after; drawing his sword, ran out through the alley cross cornhill still with it drawn; and at the south entrance of the exchange uttered words to this effect, that he was come in the face of the sun to proclaim james the third king of england, and that only he was heir." whereupon he knocked down another gentleman, who, however, had sense enough to see that the captain was out of his mind and called for assistance to secure him. it took half a dozen men to hold him in the coach which carried him to a magistrate, who promptly committed him to a mad-house. tom's coffee-house was situated in the same thoroughfare as john's. this was the resort affected by garrick on his occasional visits to the city, and is also thought to have been the house frequented by chatterton. in a letter to his sister that ill-fated poet excused the haphazard nature of his epistle he was writing her from tom's on the plea that there was "such a noise of business and politics in the room." he explained that his present business--the concocting of squibs, tales and songs on the events of the day--obliged him to frequent places of the best resort. [illustration: tom's coffee-house.] in view of its subsequent career no coffee-house of the city proper was of so much importance as that founded by edward lloyd. he first appears in the history of old london as the keeper of a coffee-house in tower street in 1688, but about four years later' he removed to lombard street in close proximity to the exchange, and his house gradually became the recognized centre of shipbroking and marine insurance business, for which the corporation still bearing the name of lloyd's is renowned all over the world. two pictures of lloyd's as it was in the first decade of the eighteenth century are to, be found in the gallery of english literature, one from the pen of steele, the other from that of addison. the first is in the form of a petition to isaac bickerstaff, esq., from the customers of the house, and begged that he would use his influence to get other coffee-houses to adopt a custom which prevailed at lloyd's. great scandal, it seems, had been caused by coffee-house orators of the irresponsible order. such nuisances were not tolerated at lloyd's. the petitioners explained--and by inference the explanation preserves a record of the internal economy of the house--that at lloyd's a servant was deputed to ascend the pulpit in the room and read the news on its arrival, "while the whole audience are sipping their respective liquors." the application of the petition lay in the suggestion that this method should be adopted in all coffee-houses, and that if any, one wished to orate at large on any item of the news of the day he should be obliged to ascend the pulpit and make his comments in a formal manner. [illustration: lloyd's coffee-house.] evidently the pulpit at lloyd's was a settled institution. it played a conspicuous part in that ludicrous incident which addison describes at his own expense. it was his habit, he explained, to jot down from time to time brief hints such as could be expanded into spectator papers, and a sheetful of such hints would naturally look like a "rhapsody of nonsense" to any one save the writer himself. such a sheet he accidentally dropped in lloyd's one day, and before he missed it the boy of the house had it in his hand and was carrying it around in search of its owner. but addison did not know that until it was too late. many of the customers had glanced at its contents, which had caused them so much merriment that the boy was ordered to ascend the pulpit and read the paper for the amusement of the company at large. "the reading of this paper," continues addison, "made the whole coffee-house very merry; some of them concluded that it was written by a madman, and others by somebody that had been taking notes out of the spectator. one who had the appearance of a very substantial citizen told us, with several political winks and nods, that he wished there was no more in the paper than what was expressed in it: that for his part, he looked upon the dromedary, the gridiron, and the barber's pole, to signify something more than what was usually meant by those words: and that he thought the coffee-man could not do better than to carry the paper to one of the secretaries of state." in the midst of the numerous other comments, wise and otherwise, addison reached for the paper, pretended to look it over, shook his head twice or thrice, and then twisted it into a match and lit his pipe with it. the ruse diverted suspicion, especially as addison applied himself to his pipe and the paper he was reading with seeming unconcern. and he consoled the readers of the spectator with the reflection that he had already used more than half the hints on that unfortunate sheet of notes. since those almost idyllic days, lloyd's has played a notable part in the life of the nation. at its headquarters in the royal exchange building are preserved many interesting relics of the history of the institution. from a simple coffee-house open to all and sundry, it has developed into the shipping-exchange of the world, employing 1,500 agents in all parts of the globe. chapter ii. round st. paul's. if there was a certain incongruity in the physicians having their special coffee-house in the heart of the city, there was none in clerics affecting the st. paul's coffee-house under the shadow of the cathedral of that name. this being the chief church of the metropolis, notwithstanding the greater historic importance of westminster abbey, it naturally became the religious centre of london so far as clergymen were concerned. but the frequenters of this house were of a mixed type. that historian of batson's who was quoted in the previous chapter, related that after leaving its dismal vicinity he was glad to "breathe the pure air in st. paul's coffee-house," but he was obliged to add that as he entertained the highest veneration for the clergy he could not "contemplate the magnificence of the cathedral without reflecting on the abject condition of those 'tatter'd crapes,' who are said to ply here for an occasional burial or sermon, with the same regularity as the happier drudges who salute us with the cry of 'coach, sir,' or 'chair, your honour.'" somewhat late in the eighteenth century st. paul's coffee-house had a distinguished visitor in the person of benjamin franklin, who here made the acquaintance of richard price, that philosophical dissenting divine whose pamphlet on american affairs is said to have had no inconsiderable part in determining americans to declare their independence. the fact that dr. price frequented the st. paul's coffee-house is sufficient proof that its clients were not restricted to clergymen of the established church. more miscellaneous was the patronage of child's, another resort in st. paul's church-yard. it is sometimes described as having been a clerical house like the st. paul's, and one reference in the spectator gives some support to that view. the writer told how a friend of his from the country had expressed astonishment at seeing london so crowded with doctors of divinity, necessitating the explanation that not all the persons in scarfs were of that dignity, for, this authority on london life continued, "a young divine, after his first degree in the university, usually comes hither only to show himself; and on that occasion, is apt to think he is but half equipped with a gown and cassock for his public appearance, if he hath not the additional ornament of a scarf of the first magnitude to entitle him to the appellation of doctor from his landlady and the boy at' child's." there is another allusion to the house in the spectator. "sometimes i"--the writer is addison--"smoke a pipe at child's, and while i seem attentive to nothing but the postman, overhear the conversation of every table in the room." apart from such decided lay patrons as addison, child's could also claim a large constituency among the medical and learned men of the day. notwithstanding its ecclesiastical name, the chapter coffee-house in paul's alley was not a clerical resort. by the middle of the eighteenth century it had come to be recognized as the rendezvous of publishers and booksellers. "the conversation here," to appeal to the connoisseur once more, "naturally turns upon the newest publications; but their criticisms are somewhat singular. when they say a good book, they do not mean to praise the style or sentiment, but the quick and extensive sale of it. that book in the phrase of the conger is best, which sells most; and if the demand for quarles should be greater than for pope, he would have the highest place on the rubric-post. there are also many parts of every work liable to their remarks, which fall not within the notice of less accurate observers. a few nights ago i saw one of these gentlemen take up a sermon, and after seeming to peruse it for some time with great attention, he declared that 'it was very good english.' the reader will judge whether i was most surprised or diverted, when i discovered that he was not commending the purity and elegance of the diction, but the beauty of the type; which, it seems, is known among printers by that appellation. we must not, however, think the members of the conger strangers to the deeper parts of literature; for as carpenters, smiths, masons, and all mechanics, smell of the trade they labour at, booksellers take a peculiar turn from their connexions with books and authors." could the writer of that gentle satire have looked forward about a quarter of a century he would have had knowledge on which to have based a greater eulogy of the congers. it should be explained perhaps that conger was the name of a club of booksellers founded in 1715 for co-operation in the issuing of expensive works. booklovers of the present generation may often wonder at the portly folios of bygone generations, and marvel especially that they could have been produced at a profit when readers were so comparatively few. many of those folios owed their existence to the scheme adopted by the members of the conger, a scheme whereby several publishers shared in the production of a costly work. such a sharing of expense and profit was entered into at that meeting at the chapter coffee-house which led to dr. johnson's "lives of the english poets." the london booksellers of that time were alarmed at the invasion of what they called their literary property by a scottish publisher who had presumed to bring out an edition of the english poets. to counteract this move from edinburgh the decision was reached to print "an elegant and accurate edition of ail the english poets of reputation, from chaucer down to the present time." the details were thoroughly debated at the chapter coffee-house, and a deputation was appointed to wait upon dr. johnson, to secure his services in editing the series. johnson accepted the task, "seemed exceedingly pleased" that it had been offered him, and agreed to carry it through for a fee of two hundred pounds. his moderation astonished malone; "had he asked one thousand, or even fifteen hundred guineas, the booksellers, who knew the value of his name, would doubtless have readily given it." but writers of books as well as makers and sellers of books could be found on occasion within the portals of the chapter coffee-house. two memories of goldsmith, neither of them pleasant, are associated with the house. one is concerned with his acceptance of an invitation to dinner here with charles lloyd, who, at the end of the meal, walked off and left his guest to pay the bill. the other incident introduces the vicious william kenrick, that hack-writer who slandered goldsmith without cause on so many occasions, shortly after the publication of one of his libels in the press, kenrick was met by goldsmith accidentally in the chapter and made to admit that he had lied. but no sooner had the poet left the house than the cowardly retractor began his abuse again to the company at large. chatterton, too, frequented the house in his brief days of london life. "i am quite familiar at the chapter coffee-house," he wrote his mother, "and know all the geniuses there." and five years later there is this picture of the democratic character of the resort from the shocked pen of one who had been attracted thither by the report of its large library and select company: "here i saw a specimen of english freedom. a whitesmith in his apron and some of his saws under his arm came in, sat down, and called for his glass of punch and the paper, both which he used with as much ease as a lord. such a man in ireland and, i suppose, in france too, and almost any other country, would, not have shown himself with his hat on, nor any way, unless sent for by some gentleman." perhaps the most interesting association of the chapter coffee-house was that destined to come to it when its race was nearly run. on a july evening in 1548 the waiter was somewhat startled at the appearance of two simply-dressed, slight and timid-looking ladies seeking accommodation. women guests were not common at the chapter. but these two were strangers to london; they had never before visited the great city; and the only hostelry they knew was the chapter they had heard their father speak about. so it was to the chapter that charlotte and anne bronté went when they visited london to clear up a difficulty with their publishers, smith and elder. mrs. gaskell describes the house as it was in those july days. "it had the appearance of a dwelling-house two hundred years old or so, such as one sometimes sees in ancient country towns; the ceilings of the small rooms were low, and had heavy beams running across them; the walls were wainscoted breast-high; the stairs were shallow, broad, and dark, taking up much space in the centre of the house. the gray-haired elderly man who officiated as waiter seems to have been touched from the very first by the quiet simplicity of the two ladies, and he tried to make them feel comfortable and at home in the long, low, dingy room upstairs. the high, narrow windows looked into the gloomy row; the sisters, clinging together in the most remote window-seat (as mr. smith tells me he found them when he came that saturday evening), could see nothing of motion or of change in the grim, dark houses opposite, so near and close, although the whole breadth of the row was between." if it were only for the sake of those startled sisters from the desolate yorkshire moors one could wish that the chapter coffee-house were still standing. but it is not. nor are there any vestiges remaining of the st. paul's or child's. nor will the pilgrim fare better in the adjacent thoroughfare of ludgate hill. not far down that highway could once be found the london coffee-house, which benjamin franklin frequented, and where that informal club for philosophical discussions of which dr. priestly was the chairman held its social meetings. the london continued in repute among american visitors for many years. when charles robert leslie, the artist, reached london in 1811 intent on prosecuting his art studies, he tells how he stopped for a few days "at the london coffee-house on ludgate hill, with mr. inskeep and other americans." further west, in the yard of that belle sauvage inn described in an earlier chapter, there existed in 1730 a coffee-house known as wills', but of which nothing gave one somewhat pathetic incident is on record. the memory of this incident is preserved among the manuscripts of the duke of portland in the form of two letters to the earl of oxford. the first letter is anonymous. it was written to the earl on february 8th, 1730, in the interests of william oldisworth, that unfortunate miscellaneous writer whose adherence to the stuart cause helped, along with a liking for tavern-life, to mar his career. this anonymous correspondent had learnt that oldisworth was in a starving condition, out of clothes likewise, and labouring under many infirmities. "though no man has deserved better of his country, yet is none more forgot." the letter also hinted at the fact that oldisworth would not complain, nor suffer any one to do that office for him. but the writer was wise enough to enclose the address of the man in whose behalf he made so adroit an appeal, that address being wills' coffee-house in the belle sauvage yard. edward harley, that earl of oxford who preferred above all things to surround himself with poets and men of letters, and whose generosity helped to bring about his financial ruin, was not the man to ignore a letter of that kind. some assistance was speedily on its way to will's coffee-house, for on february 2lst oldisworth was penning an epistle which was to "wait in all humility on your lordship to return you my best thanks for the late kind and generous favour you conferred on me." he sent the earl an ancient manuscript as token of his gratitude, explained that he was ignorant of the one who had written in his behalf, and for the rest was determined to keep his present station, low as it was, with content and resignation. the inference is that will's coffee-house was but a lowly and inexpensive abode and hence it is not surprising that it makes so small a showing in the annals of old london. at the western end of fleet street the passer-by cannot fail to be attracted by the picturesque, timbered house which faces chancery lane. this unique survival of the past, which has been carefully restored within recent years, has often been described as "formerly the palace of henry viii and cardinal wolsey." another legend is that the room on the first floor was the council-chamber of the duchy of cornwall under henry, the eldest son of james i. more credible is the statement that nando's coffee-house was once kept under this roof. in the days when he was a briefless barrister, thurlow was a frequent visitor here, attracted, it is said, as were so many more of the legal fraternity, by the dual merits of the punch and the physical charms of the landlady's daughter. miss humphries was, as a punster put it, "always admired at the bar by the bar." the future lord chancellor had no cause to regret his patronage of nando's. so convincingly did he one day prove his skill in argument that a stranger present bestirred himself, and successfully, to have the young advocate retained in a famous law case of the time, an apppointment which led to thurlow's becoming acquainted with the duchess of queensbury, with after important results. during those stirring days when the "wilkes and liberty" riots caused such intense excitement in london, one worthy merchant of the city found nando's a valuable place of refuge. arrangements had been made for a body of merchants and tradesmen of the city to wait on george iii at st. james's with a loyal address and as token of their sympathy with the position assumed by that obstinate monarch. but on the night before handbills had been scattered broadcast desiring all true and loyal subjects to meet on the following day and form a procession towards the city, taking particular care "not to interfere with the merchants going to st. james's" the handbill had the desired effect. the cavalcade of merchants was scattered in confusion long before it reached temple-bar, and isolated members of the party, few in number, did their best to reach the royal palace' by roundabout ways. even so they were a sorry spectacle. for the other loyal subjects of the king had liberally bespattered them with mud. nor was this the most disconcerting feature of their situation. having reached the presence of their sovereign it was certainly annoying that they could not present the address which had brought them into all this trouble. but the fact was the address was missing. it had been committed to the care of a mr. boehm, and he was not present. as a matter of fact mr. boehm had fled for refuge to nando's coffee-house, leaving the precious address under the seat of his coach. the rioters were not aware of that fact, and it seems that the document was eventually recovered, after his majesty had been "kept waiting till past five." there is a fitness in the fact that as thurlow's name is linked with nando's coffee-house so cowper's memory is associated with the adjacent establishment known as dick's. the poet and the lawyer had been fellow clerks in a solicitor's office, had spent their time in "giggling and making giggle" with the daughters of cowper's uncle, and been boon friends in many ways. the future poet foretold the fame of his friend, and extorted a playful promise that when he was lord chancellor he would provide for his fellow clerk. the prophecy came true, but the promise was forgotten. thurlow did not even deign to notice the poetical address of his old companion, nor did he acknowledge the receipt of his first volume of verse. "be great," the indignant poet wrote- "be great, be fear'd, be envied, be admired; to fame as lasting as the earth pretend, but not hereafter to the name of friend!" for thurlow the ungrateful, nando's was associated with his first step up the 'ladder of success; for cowper, dick's was the scene of an agony that he remembered to his dying day. for it was while he was at breakfast in this coffee-house that he was seized with one of his painful delusions. a letter he read in a paper he interpreted as a satire on himself, and he threw the paper down and rushed from the room with a resolve either to find some house in which to die or some ditch where he could poison himself unseen. reference has already been made to the rainbow as one of the famous taverns of fleet street, and also to the fact that it was a coffee-house ere it became a tavern. but somehow it was as a coffee-house that it was usually regarded. it is so described in 1679, in 1708, in 1710, and in 1736. under the earliest date it appears as playing a part in the astounding story of titus gates. one of the victims of that unrivalled perjurer was sir philip lloyd, whom oates declared had "in a sort of bravery presented himself in the rainbow coffee-house, and declared he did not believe any kind of plot against the king's person, notwithstanding what any had said to the contrary." this was sufficient to arouse the enmity of the wily oates, who had the knight haled before the council and closely examined. sir philip explained that he had only said he knew of no other than a fantastic plot, but, as a contemporary letter puts it, "oates had got ready four shrewd coffee-drinkers, then present, who swore the matter point blank." so the perjurer won again, and sir philip was suspended during the king's pleasure as the outcome of his rainbow coffee-house speech. but there is a pleasanter memory with which to bid this famous resort farewell. it is enshrined in a letter of the early eighteenth century, wishing that the recipient might, if he could find a leisure evening, drop into the rainbow, where he would meet several friends of the writer in the habit of frequenting that house, gentlemen of great worth and whom it would be a pleasure to know. chapter iii. the strand and covent garden. how markedly the coffee-houses of london were differentiated from each other by the opening of the eighteenth century is nowhere more clearly demonstrated than in steele's first issue of the tatler. after hoodwinking his readers into thinking he had a correspondent "in all parts of the known and knowing world," he informed them that it was his intention to print his news under "such dates of places" as would provide a key to the matter they were to expect. thus, "all accounts of gallantry, pleasure, and entertainment, shall be under the article of white's chocolate-house; poetry, under that of will's coffee-house; learning, under the title of the grecian; foreign and domestic news, you shall have from saint james's coffee-house, and what else i have to offer on any other subject shall be dated from my own apartment." several days elapsed ere there was anything to report from the grecian coffee-house, which was situated in devereux court, strand, and derived its name from the fact that it was kept by a greek named constantine. when it does make its appearance, however, the information given under its name is strictly in keeping with the character steele gave the house. "while other parts of the town are amused with the present actions, we generally spend the evening at this table in inquiries into antiquity, and think anything news which gives us new knowledge." and then follow particulars of how the learned grecians had been amusing themselves by trying to arrange the actions of the iliad in chronological order. this task seems to have been accomplished in a friendly manner, but there was an occasion when a point of scholarship had a less placid ending. two gentlemen, so the story goes, who were constant companions, drifted into a dispute at the grecian one evening over the accent of a greek word. the argument was protracted and at length grew angry. as neither could convince the other by mere words, the resolve was taken to decide the matter by swords. so the erstwhile friends stepped out into the court, and, after a few passes, one of them was run through the body, and died on the spot. that the grecian maintained its character as the resort of learned disputants may be inferred from the heated discussions which took place within its walls when burke confused the public with his imitation of the style and language of bolinbroke in his "vindication of natural society." all the critics were completely deceived. and charles macklin in particular distinguished himself by rushing into the grecian one evening, flourishing a copy of the pamphlet, and declaring, "sir, this must be harry bolinbroke; i know him by his cloven foot!" [illustration: grecian coffee-house.] even if it were not for that fatal duel between the two greek scholars, there are anecdotes to show that some frequenters of the house were of an aggressive nature. there is the story, for example, of the bully who insisted upon a particular seat, but came in one evening and found it occupied by another. "who is that in my seat?" "i don't know, sir," replied the waiter. "where is the hat i left on it?" "he put it in the fire." "did he? damnation! but a fellow who would do _that_ would not mind flinging me after it!" and with that he disappeared. men of science as well as scholars gave liberal patronage to the grecian. it was a common thing for meetings of the royal society to be continued in a social way at this coffee-house, the president, sir isaac newton, being frequently of the parties. hither, too, came professor halley, the great astronomer, to meet his friends on his weekly visit to london from oxford, and sir hans sloane, that zealous collector of curiosities, was often to be met at the grecian. nor did the house wholly lack patrons of the pen, for goldsmith, among others, used the resort quite frequently. goldsmith was also a faithful customer of george's coffee-house which was situated close to the grecian. this was one of the places to which he had his letters addressed, and the house figures in one of his essays as the resort of a certain young fellow who, whenever he had occasion to "ask his friend for a guinea, used to prelude his request as if he wanted two hundred, and talked so familiarly of large sums" that no one would have imagined him ever to be in need of small ones. it was the same young fellow at george's who, whenever he wanted credit for a new suit from his tailor, used to dress himself in laced clothes in which to give the order, for he had found that to appear shabby on such occasions defeated the purpose he had in view. most likely goldsmith sketched his certain young fellow from life. there was another frequenter of the place who would have provided an original for another character study. this was that sir james lowther, afterwards earl of lonsdale, of whom the story is told that having one day changed a piece of silver in the coffee-house, and paid twopence for his cup of coffee, he was helped into his carriage and driven home, only to return a little later to call attention to the fact that he had been given a bad halfpenny in his change and demand another in exchange. all this was in keeping with the character of the man, for despite the fact that he had an income of forty thousand pounds a year, he was notorious for his miserly conduct, and would not pay even his just debts. there was another legend connected with george's which horace walpole ought not to have destroyed. in telling a correspondent of the amusement with which he had been reading shenstone's letters, he took occasion to characterize as vulgar and devoid of truth an anecdote told of his father, lord orford. this was the story that his father, "sitting in george's, was asked to contribute to a figure of himself that was to be beheaded by the mob. i do remember something like it," walpole continued, "but it happened to myself. i met a mob, just after my father was put out, in hanover-square, and drove up to it to know what was the matter. they were carrying about a figure of my sister." walpole traded so largely in traditional stories himself that it was ungrateful of him to spoil so good a one. on the way to bedford street, where wildman's coffee-house was situated, the pilgrim will pass the site of the somerset coffee-house, which was notable in its day from the fact that some of the letters of junius were left here, the waiters being paid tips for taking them in. wildman's was notorious as being the favourite headquarters of the supporters of john wilkes, and hence the lines of churchill: "each dish at wildman's of sedition smacks; blasphemy may be gospel at almacks. peace, good discretion, peace,--thy fears are vain; ne'er will i herd with wildman's factious train." among the notable coffee-houses of covent garden were the bedford, king's, rawthmell's and tom's. the first was situated under the piazza, and could count among its patrons fielding, pope, sheridan, churchill, garrick, foote, quinn, collins, horace walpole and others. its characters, according to the connoisseur, 'afforded a greater variety of nearly the same type as those to be found at george's. it was, this authority asserts, crowded every night with men of parts. almost every one to be met there was a polite scholar and a wit. "jokes and _bon mots_ are echoed from box to box; every branch of literature is critically examined, and the merit of every production of the press, or performance at the theatres, weighed and determined. this school (to which. i am myself indebted for a great part of my education, and in which, though unworthy, i am now arrived at the honour of being a public lecturer) has bred up many authors, to the amazing entertainment and instruction of their readers." but the bedford coffee-house has a more sensational association. it was here, according to horace walpole, that james hackman spent his last few hours of freedom ere he murdered martha ray as she was leaving covent garden theatre on the night of april 17th, 1779. no tragedy of that period caused so great a sensation. miss ray had for some years been the mistress of the earl of sandwich, at whose house hackman first met and fell in love with her. there are good reasons for believing that his love was returned for a time, but that afterwards miss ray determined to continue in her irregular relation with the nobleman. on learning that his suit was wholly hopeless, hackman conceived the plan which had so fatal an ending. the question as to whether the fact that he provided himself with two pistols was proof that he intended to take his own life as well as that of miss ray was the theme of a warm discussion between dr. johnson and his friend beauclerk, the latter 'arguing that it was not, and the former maintaining with equal confidence that it was. king's coffee-house was nothing more than a humble shed, an early representative of the peripatetic coffee-stall which is still a common sight of london streets in the early morning. kept by a thomas king who absconded from eton because he feared that his fellowship would be denied him, it was the resort of every rake according to fielding, and, in the phrase of another, was "well known to all gentlemen to whom beds are unknown." on the other hand rawthmell's was an exceedingly fashionable house, and witnessed the founding of the society of arts in 1754. it had another claim to slight distinction as being the resort of dr. john armstrong, the poet of the "art of preserving health," and a man so generally unsociable that one acquaintance described him as having a rooted aversion against the whole human race, except a few friends, and they were dead! judging from a poetical allusion of 1703, tom's coffee-house was at that time a political resort. a little later it was distinguished for its fashionable gatherings after the theatre. a traveller through england in 1722 records that at tom's there was "playing at picket, and the best of conversation till midnight. here you will see blue and green ribbons and stars sitting familiarly, and talking with the same freedom as if they had left their quality and degrees of distance at home." but the most interesting picture of this house is given by william till. he writes: "the house in which i reside was the famous tom's coffee-house, memorable in the reign of queen anne; and for more than half a century afterwards: the room in which i conduct my business as a coin dealer is that which, in 1764, by a guinea subscription among nearly seven hundred of the nobility, foreign ministers, gentry, and geniuses of the age--was made the card-room, and place of meeting for many of the now illustrious dead, and remained so till 1768, when a voluntary subscription among its members induced mr. haines, the then proprietor, to take in the next door westward, as a coffee-room; and the whole floor _en_ suite was constructed into card and conversation rooms." it seems that the house took its name originally from the first landlord, a captain thomas west, who, driven distracted by the agony of gout, committed suicide by throwing himself from his own windows. interesting, as has been seen, as are the associations which cluster round the coffee-houses of this district already mentioned, their fame is slight compared with the glory of the houses known as will's and button's. macaulay has given us a glowing picture of the wits' room on the first floor at will's. through the haze of tobacco smoke with which he filled the apartment we can see earls, and clergymen, and templars, and university lads, and hack-workers. we can hear, too, the animated tones in which discussions are being carried on, discussions as to whether "paradise lost" should have been written in rhyme, and many another literary question of little interest in these modern days. but, after all, the eye does not seek out earls, or clergy, or the rest; nor does the ear wish to fill itself with the sound of their voices. there is but one face, but one voice at will's in which the interest of this time is as keen as the interest of the seventeenth century. that face and voice were the face and voice of john dryden. exactly in what year dryden first chose this coffee-house as his favourite resort is unknown. he graduated at cambridge in 1654, and is next found in london lodging with a bookseller for whom he worked as a hack-writer. by 1662 he had become a figure of some consequence in london life, and a year later his first play was acted at the king's theatre. then, in the pages of pepys, he is seen as the centre of that group of the wits which he was to dominate for a generation. "in covent garden to-night," wrote pepys under the date february 3rd, 1664, "going to fetch home my wife, i stopped at the great coffee-house there, where i never was before; where dryden, the poet, i knew at cambridge, and all the wits of the town, and harris the player, and mr. hoole, of our college. and, had i had time then, or could at other times, it will be good coming hither, for there, i perceive, is very witty and pleasant discourse." [illustration: john dryden.] with what persistence this tradition survived, the tradition of dryden as the arbiter of literary criticism at will's is illustrated by the story told by dr. johnson. when he was a young man he had a desire to write the life of dryden, and as a first step in the gathering of his materials he applied to the 'only two persons then alive who had known him, swinney and cibber. but all the assistance the former could give him was to the effect that at will's. coffee-house dryden had a particular chair for himself, which was set by the fire in winter, and removed to the balcony in summer; and the extent of cibber's information was that he remembered the poet as a decent old man, judge of critical disputes at will's. but happily a more detailed picture of dryden as the centre of the wits at will's has survived. on his first trip to london as a youth of seventeen, francis lockier, the future dean of peterborough, although an odd-looking boy of awkward manners, thrust himself into the coffee-house that he might gaze on the celebrated men of the day. "the second time that ever i was there," lockier said, "mr. dryden was speaking of his own things, as he frequently did, especially of such as had been lately published. 'if anything of mine is good,' says he, ''tis mac flecknoe; and i value myself the more upon it, because it is the first piece of ridicule written in heroics.' on hearing this, i plucked up my spirit to say, in a voice just loud enough to be heard, that 'mac flecknoe was a very fine poem; but that i had not imagined it to be the first that ever was writ that way.' on this, dryden turned short upon me, as surprised at my interposing; asked how long i had been a dabbler in poetry; and added, with a smile, 'pray, sir, what is it that you did imagine to have been writ so before? 'i named boileau's _lutrin_, and tassoni's secchia _rapita_, which i had read, and knew dryden had borrowed some strokes from each. ''tis true,' said dryden, 'i had forgot them.' a little after dryden went out, and in going spoke to me again, and desired me to come and see him next day. i was highly delighted with the invitation; went to see him accordingly, and was well acquainted with him after, as long as he lived." as a companion to this picture in prose there is the poetic vignette which prior and montague inserted in their "country mouse and the city mouse," written in burlesque of dryden's "hind and panther." "then on they jogg'd; and since an hour of talk might cut a banter on the tedious walk, as i remember, said the sober mouse, i've heard much talk of the wits' coffee-house; thither, says brindle, thou shalt go and see priests supping coffee, sparks and poets tea; here rugged frieze, there quality well drest, these baffling the grand senior, those the test, and there shrewd guesses made, and reasons given, that human laws were never made in heaven; but, above all, what shall oblige thy sight, and fill thy eyeballs with a vast delight, is the poetic judge of sacred wit, who does i' th' darkness of his glory sit; and as the moon who first receives the light, with which she makes these nether regions bright, so does he shine, reflecting from afar the rays he borrowed from a better star; for rules, which from corneille and rapin flow, admired by all the scribbling herd below, from french tradition while he does dispense unerring truths, 'tis schism, a damned offence, to question his, or trust your private sense." dryden appears to have visited will's every day. his rule of life was to devote his mornings to writing at home, where he also dined, and then to spend the remainder of the day at the coffee-house, which he did not leave till late. there came a night for the poet when this regularity of habit had unpleasant consequences. a newsletter of december 23rd, 1679, tells the story: "on thursday night last mr. dryden, the poet, comeing from the coffee-house in covent garden, was set upon by three or four fellows, and very soarly beaten, but likewise very much cutt and wounded with a sword. it is imagined that this has happened to him because of a late satyr that is laid at his door, though he positively disowned it." the compiler of that paragraph was correct in his surmise. the hired ruffians who assaulted the solitary poet on that december night were in the pay of lord rochester, who had taken umbrage at a publication which, although not written by dryden, had been printed with such a title-page as suggested that it was his work. a reward of fifty pounds was offered for the discovery of the perpetrators of this outrage, but to no effect. still it is some consolation to know that the cowardly rochester immediately fell under suspicion as the author of the attack. less reprehensible is the story told of a mr. finch, "an ingenious young gentleman," who, nearly a decade later, "meeting with mr. dryden in a coffee-house in london, publickly before all the company wished him joy of his _new_ religion. 'sir,' said dryden, 'you are very much mistaken; my religion is the old religion.' 'nay,' replied the other, 'whatever it be in itself i am sure 'tis new to you, for within these three days you had no religion at all.'" [illustration: joseph addison.] dryden died in 1700 and for a time will's maintained its position as the resort of the poets. did not steele say that all his accounts of poetry in the tatler would appear under the name of that house? but the supremacy of will's was slowly undermined, so that even in the tatler the confession had soon to be made that the place was very much altered since dryden's time. the change had been for the worse. "where you used to see songs, epigrams, and satires in the hands of every man you met, you now have only a pack of cards; and instead of the cavils about the turn of the expression, the elegance of the style, and the like, the learned now dispute only about the truth of the game." this is all confirmed by that traveller who took notes in london in 1722, and found there was playing at picket at will's after the theatre. addison was the chief cause of this transformation. and steele helped him. the fact is that about 1713 addison set up coffee-house keeper himself. that is to say, he was the means of getting one daniel button, once servant with the countess of warwick, to open such an establishment in close proximity to will's. for addison to remove his patronage from will's to button's meant the transference of the allegiance of the wits of the town also, consequently it soon became known that the wits were gone from the haunt of dryden to the new resort affected by addison. and a close scrutiny of the pages of the guardian will reveal how adroitly steele aided addison's plan. thus, the issue of the guardian for june 17th, 1713, was devoted to the habits of coffee-house orators, and especially to the objectionable practice so many had of seizing a button on a listener's coat and twisting it off in the course of argument. this habit, however, was more common in the city than in the west-end coffee-houses; indeed, steele added, the company at will's was so refined that one might argue and be argued with and not be a button the poorer. all that delightful nonsense paved the way for a letter in the next number of the guardian, a letter purporting to come from daniel button of button's coffee-house. [illustration: sir richard steele.] "i have observed," so ran the epistle, "that this day you made mention of will's coffee-house, as a place where people are too polite to hold a man in discourse by the button. everybody knows your honour frequents this house; therefore they will taken an advantage against me, and say, if my company was as civil as that at will's, you would say so: therefore pray your honour do not be afraid of doing me justice, because people would think it may be a conceit below you on this occasion to name the name of your humble servant, daniel button." and then there is this naïve postscript: "the young poets are in the back room, and take their places as you directed." nor did that end the plot. a few days later steele found another occasion to mention button's. his plan this time was to concoct a letter from one hercules crabtree, who offered his services as lion-catcher to the guardian, and incidentally mentioned that he already possessed a few trophies which, he wished to present to button's coffee-house. this lion business paved the way for addison's interference in the clever scheme to divert the wits from will's. hence that paper of the guardian which he wound up by announcing that it was his intention to erect, as a letter-box for the receipt of contributions, a lion's head in imitation of those he had described in venice, through which all the private intelligence of that commonwealth was said to pass. "this head," he explained, "is to open a most wide and voracious mouth, which shall take in such letters and papers as are conveyed to me by my correspondents, it being my resolution to have a particular regard to all such matters as come to my hands through the mouth of the lion. there will be under it a box, of which the key will be kept in my own custody, to receive such papers as are dropped into it. whatever the lion swallows i shall digest for the use of the public. this head requires some time to finish, the workman being resolved to give it several masterly touches, and to represent it as ravenous as possible. it will be set up in button's coffee-house in covent-garden, who is directed to shew the way to the lion's head, and to instruct young authors how to convey his works into the mouth of it with safety and secrecy." [illustration: lion's head at button's coffee-house.] that lion's head was no myth. a fortnight later the leonine letter-box was actually placed in position at button's, and, after doing service there for some years, was used by dr. hill when editing the inspector. it was sold in 1804, the notice of the sale in the annual register stating that "the admirable gilt lion's head letter-box, which was formerly at button's coffee-house, and in which the valuable original copy of the guardian was received, was yesterday knocked down at the shakespeare-tavern, cove & garden, to mr. richardson, for seventeen pounds ten shillings." it changed hands again in more recent times, and is now the property of the duke of bedford, who preserves it at woburn. for some months after the installation of the lion's head at button's, constant references are made in the guardian to that unique letter-box, addison being mainly responsible for the quaint conceits which helped to keep attention on the house where it was placed. in the final number of the guardian there is a lively letter in response to an attack on masquerading which had reached the public via the lion's head. "my present business," the epistle ran, "is with the lion; and since this savage has behaved himself so rudely, i do by these presents challenge him to meet me at the next masquerade, and desire you will give orders to mr. button to bring him thither, in all his terrors, where, in defenee of the innocence of these midnight amusements, i intend to appear against him, in the habit of signior nicolimi, to try the merits of this cause by single combat." but addison and his lion's head and steele were not the only notable figures to be seen at button's. pope was a constant visitor there, as he was reminded by cibber in his famous letter. those were the days when, in cibber's phrase, the author of the "dunciad" was remarkable for his satirical itch of provocation, when there were few upon whom he did not fall in some biting epigram. he so fell upon ambrose philips, who forthwith hung a rod up in button's, and let pope know that he would use it on him should he ever catch him under that roof. the poet took a more than ample revenge in many a stinging line of satire afterwards. pope was cut adrift from button's through the controversy as to which was the better version of the iliad, his or tickell's. as the latter belonged to the addisonian circle, the opinion at button's turned in favour of his version, especially as addison himself thought tickell had more of homer than pope. this ended pope's patronage of button's, and, indeed, it was not long ere the glory it had known began to wane. various causes combined to take away one and another of its leading spirits, and when the much-talked-of daniel button passed away in 1730 it was to a pauper's grave. yet farewell of so famous a house should not be made with so melancholy a story. there is a brighter page in its history, which dates three years earlier. aaron hill had been so moved by the misfortunes of his brother poet, richard savage, that he had penned an appeal on his behalf and arranged for subscriptions for a volume of his poems. the subscriptions were to be left at button's, and when savage called there a few days later he found a sum of seventy guineas awaiting him. hill may, as has been asserted, have been a bore of the first water, but that kindly deed may stand him in stead of genius. chapter iv. further west. several favourite coffee-houses might once have been found in the neighbourhood of charing cross. one of these bore the name of the cannon and was much frequented by john philpot curran, of whom it was said "there never was so honest an irishman," and sir jonas barrington, that other irish judge who was at first intended for the army, but who, on learning that the regiment to which he might be appointed was likely to be sent to america for active service, declined the commission, and requested that it might be bestowed on "some hardier soldier." evidently sir jonas desired no further acquaintance with cannon than was involved in visiting the coffee-house of that name. the legend is that he and curran affected one particular box at the end of the room, where they might be seen almost any day. [illustration: british coffee-house.] in the same vicinity, but close to the thames-side, was the coffee-house kept by alexander man, and known as man's. the proprietor had the distinction of being appointed "coffee, tea, and chocolate-maker" to william iii, which gave him a place in the vast army of "by appointment" tradesmen, and resulted further in his establishment being sometimes described as the royal coffee-house. this resort had a third title, old man's coffee-house, to distinguish it from the young man's, which was situated on the other side of the street. of greater note than any of these was the british coffee-house which stood in cockspur street. there is a record of its existence in 1722, and in 1759 it was presided over by the sister of bishop douglas, who was described as "a person of excellent manners and abilities." she was succeeded by a mrs. anderson, on whom the enoomium was passed that she was "a woman of uncommon talents and the most agreeable conversation." as the names of these ladies suggest, they were of scottish birth, and hence it is not surprising to learn that their house was greatly in favour among visitors from north of the tweed. that the scottish peers were sometimes to be found here in great numbers is the only conclusion to be drawn from an incident recorded by horace walpole. there was a motion before the house of lords for which the support of the scots was required, and the duke of bedford wrote to sixteen of their number to solicit their votes, enclosing all the letters under one cover directed to the british coffee-house. it was under this roof, too, that the scottish club called the beeswing used to meet, one of whose members was lord campbell, that legal biographer who shared with most of his countrymen the ability of "getting on." the club in question consisted of about ten members, and the agreement was to meet once a month at the british coffee-house to dine and drink port wine. the other members included spankie, dr. haslam, author of several works on insanity, andrew grant, a merchant of considerable literary acquirements, and george gordon, known about town as "the man of wit." the conversation is described as being as good as any to be enjoyed anywhere in the london of that day, and the drinking was voted "tremendous." the last-named fact is one illustration out of many that during the latter years of their existence the coffee-houses of london did not by any means confine their liquors to the harmless beverage from which they took their name. [illustration: slaughter's coffee-house.] among the earliest coffee-houses to be established in the west-end of london was that opened by thomas slaughter in st. martin's lane in 1692 and known as slaughter's. it remained under the oversight of mr. slaughter until his death in 1740, and continued to enjoy a prosperous career for nearly a century longer, when the house was torn down. the bulk of its customers were artists, and the famous men numbered among them included wilkie, wilson, and roubiliac. but the most pathetic figure associated with its history is that of abraham de moivre, that french mathematician who became the friend of newton and leibnite. notwithstanding his wonderful abilities he was driven to support himself by the meagre pittances earned by teaching and by solving problems in chess at slaughter's. in his last days sight and hearing both failed, and he finally died of somnolence, twenty hours' sleep becoming habitual with him. by the time of de moivre's death, or shortly after, the character of the frequenters of slaughter's underwent a change, for when goldsmith alluded to the house in 1758 it was to make the remark that if a man were passionate "he may vent his rage among the old orators at slaughter's coffee-house, and damn the nation, because it keeps him from starving." politics and literature were the topics most under discussion at the smyrna coffee-house which had its location on the north side of pall mall. it makes its appearance in an early number of the tatler, where reference is made to "that cluster of wise heads" that might be found "sitting every evening from the left hand side of the fire, at the smyrna, to the door." five months later steele entered into fuller particulars. "this is to give notice," he wrote, "to all ingenious gentlemen in and about the cities of london and westminster, who have a mind to be instructed in the noble sciences of music, poetry, and politics, that they repair to the smyrna coffee-house in pall-mall, betwixt the hours of eight and ten at night, where they may be instructed gratis, with elaborate essays, by word of mouth on all or any of the above-mentioned arts. the disciples are to prepare their bodies with three dishes of bohea, and purge their brains with two pinches of snuff. if any young student gives indication of parts, by listening attentively, or asking a pertinent question, one of the professors shall distinguish him, by taking snuff out of his box in the presence of the whole audience." and the further direction is given that "the seat of learning is now removed from the corner of the chimney on the left towards the window, to the round table in the middle of the floor over against the fire; a revolution much lamented by the porters and chairmen, who were much edified through a pane of glass that remained broken all last summer." that steele and addison knew their smyrna well may be inferred from their familiar references to the house, and there are equal proofs that swift and prior were often within its doors. the journal to stella has many references to visits from the poet and the satirist, such as, "the evening was fair, and i walked a little in the park till prior made me go with him to the smyrna coffee-house, where i sat a while, and saw four or five irish persons, who are very handsome, genteel fellows, but i know not their names." from prior's pen there is an allusion to be found in the manuscripts of the marquis of bath in a letter the poet addressed to lord harley from london in the winter of 1719. prior was lying low on that visit to town, for the main purpose of his presence was medicinal. "i have only seen brown, the surgeon," he writes, "to whom, i have made an _auricular confession_, and from him have received _extreme unction_, and applied it, which may soften the obduracy of my ear, and make it capable of receiving the impression of ten thousand lies which will be poured into it as soon as i shall take my seat at the smyrna." two other figures not unknown to fame haunt the shades of the smyrna, beau nash and thomson of the "seasons." it is goldsmith who tells of the first that he used to idle for a day at a time in the window of the smyrna to receive a bow from the prince of wales or the duchess of marlborough as they drove by; and of the second is it not on record that he in person took subscriptions at the smyrna for the "four seasons?" in the cocoa-tree club of to-day may be found the direct representative of the most famous tory chocolate-house of the reign of queen anne. it had its headquarters first in pall mall, but removed not long after to st. james's street, the mecca of clubland at the present time. perhaps the best picture of the house and its ways is that given by gibbon, who in his journal for november 24th, 1762, wrote: "i dined at the cocoa-tree with ------, who, under a great appearance of oddity, conceals more real humour, good sense, and even knowledge, than half those who laugh at him. we went thence to the play, the 'spanish friar,' and when it was over, retired to the cocoa-tree. that respectable body, of which i have the honour of being a member, affords every evening a sight truly english; twenty, or perhaps thirty, of the first men in the kingdom in point of fashion and fortune, supping at little tables covered with a napkin in the middle of a coffee room, upon a bit of cold meat or a sandwich, and drinking a glass of punch. at present we are full of king's councillors and lords of the bedchamber, who, having jumped into the ministry, make a very singular medley of their old principles and language with their modern one." it is easy to infer from gibbon's account, what was a fact, that by his time the house had been turned into a club, the use of which was restricted to members, as at the present time. the change was made before 1746, when the cocoa-tree was the rendezvous of the jacobites. one of the most curious features of the present premises is a carved palm-tree which is thrust up through the centre of the front rooms on the first and second floors. what its age is no one knows, nor who was responsible for the freak of botanical knowledge implied by utilizing a palm-tree as symbolical of cocoa. soon after the transformation of the house into a club it became notorious for the high play which went on under the shadow of the palm-tree. walpole, for example, tells the story of a gamble between an irish gamester named o'birne and a young midshipman named harvey who had just fallen heir to a large estate by his brother's death. the stake was for one hundred thousand pounds, and when o'birne won he said, "you can never pay me." but the youth replied, "i can, my estate will sell for the debt." o'birne, however, had some scruples left, so said he would be content with ten thousand pounds, and suggested another throw for the balance. this time harvey won, and it would be interesting to know that the lesson had not been lost. but walpole does not throw any light on that matter. another lively scene took place under the palm-tree of the cocoa-tree late in the eighteenth century. the principal figure on that occasion was henry bate, that militant editor of the morning post whose duel at the adelphi has already been recorded. it seems that mr. bate, who, by the way, held holy orders, and eventually became a baronet under the name of dudley, was at vauxhall one evening with a party of ladies, when fighting fitzgerald and several companions met them and indulged in insults. an exchange of cards followed, and a meeting was arranged for the following morning at the cocoa-tree to settle details of the inevitable duel. fitzgerald, however, was late, and by the time he arrived apologies had been tendered and accepted by mr. bate. when fitzgerald arrived on the scene with a captain miles he insisted on a boxing-match with the supposed captain, who, he affirmed, had been among the assailants of the previous night. mr. bate objected, inasmuch as he did not recognize mr. miles, and moreover scouted the indignity of settling such a matter with fists. he was willing to decide the dispute with sword or pistol. fitzgerald, however, roused bate's ire by dubbing him a coward. after that it did not take many minutes to form a ring under the shade of the palm-tree, and in less than a quarter of an hour the "coward" had pulverized captain miles in an eminently satisfactory manner. earlier and more sedate references to the cocoa-tree are in existence, there is, for example, a letter from general william stewart, of october 27th, 1716, addressed to the father of william pitt, placing this incident on record: "the other night, at the cocoa-tree, i saw colonel pitt and your brother-in-law chomeley. the former made me a grave bow without speaking, which example i followed. i suppose he is directed to take no notice of me." nor should the lively episode placed to the credit of a spark of the town in 1726 be overlooked. "the last masquerade," says a letter of that period, "was fruitful of quarrels. young webb had quarrelled at the cocoa-tree with oglethorp, and struck him with his cane; they say the quarrel was made up." but "young webb" was evidently spoiling that night for more adventures, for while still in his cups he went to the masquerade and, meeting a german who had a mask with a great nose, he asked him what he did with such an ornament, pulled it off and slapped his face. "he was carried out by six grenadiers," is the terse climax of the story. florio was, of course, a frequenter of the cocoa-tree. and that his manners there as elsewhere must have been familiar is illustrated by the fact that one of the waiters addressed an epistle to him in the following terms: "sam, the waiter at the cocoa-tree, presents his compliments to the prince of wales." the rebuke was characteristic: "you see, sam, this may be very well between you and me, but it would never do with the norfolks and arundels!" of course the house has its george selwyn story. an american captain began it by asserting that in his country hot and cold springs were often found side by side, which was convenient, for fish could be caught in the one and boiled in the other in a few minutes. the story was received as belonging to the "tall" order, until selwyn gravely accepted it as true, because at auvergne he had met a similar experience, with the addition that there was a third spring which supplied parsley and butter for the sauce. just as the tories were faithful to the cocoa-tree, so the whigs were stout in their loyalty to the st. james's coffee-house nearby. this was the resort named by steele as the origin of the political news served up in the tatler, and it was favoured with many references in the spectator of addison, the latter gives an amusing account of a general shiftround of the servants of the house owing to the resignation of one of their number, and in a later paper, devoted to coffee-house speculations on the death of the king of france, he gives the place of honour to the whig resort as providing the most reliable information. "that i might be as near the fountain-head as possible, i first of all called at st. james's, where i found the whole outward room in a buzz of politics. the speculations were but very indifferent towards the door, but grew finer as you advanced to the upper end of the room, and were so very much improved by a knot of theorists, who sat in the inner room, within the steams of the coffee-pot, that i there heard the whole spanish monarchy disposed of, and all the line of bourbon provided for in less than a quarter of an hour." politics, however, did not claim all the interest of the frequenters of the st. james's. verdicts were passed upon the literary products of the day in much the same manner as at button's, and it should not be forgotten that goldsmith's "retaliation" had its origin at a meeting at this house. [illustration: old palace yard, westminster] to judge from their present-day dignified appearance, no one would imagine that the old palace and the new palace yards at westminster ever tolerated such mundane things as coffee-houses and taverns within their precincts. the evidence of history, however, shows that at one time there were numerous establishments of both kinds situated under the shadow of westminster hall and the abbey. a drawing not more than a century old shows several such buildings, and the records of the city enumerate public houses of the sign of the coach and horses, and the royal oak, and the white rose as being situated in the old palace yard, while the coffee-houses there included waghorne's and oliver's. nor was it different with new palace yard. in the latter were to be found miles's coffee-house and the turk's head, both associated with james harrington, that early republican whose "oceana" got him into so much trouble. one story credits cromwell with having seized the manuscript of that work, and with its restoration having been effected by elizabeth clay-pole, the favourite daughter of the protector, whom harrington is said to have playfully threatened with the theft of her child if her father did not restore his. the author of "oceana" seems to have thought the occasion of cromwell's death a favourable one for the discussion of his political theories, and hence the rota club he founded, which used to meet at miles's. aubrey gives a vivid account of the room at the coffee-house where the club met, with its "large oval-table, with a passage in the middle for miles to deliver his coffee. about it sat his disciples and the virtuosi. here we had (very formally) a ballotting box, and ballotted how things should be carried by way of tentamens. the room was every evening full as it could be crammed." but when it became obvious that the restoration would soon be an accomplished fact the meetings at miles's came to a sudden end. and shortly after, harrington was committed to the tower to meditate upon ideal commonwealths amid less congenial surroundings. westminster hall itself had a coffee-house at the beginning of the last century. it was named alice's, presumably after the proprietor, and was on one occasion the scene of a neat version of the confidence trick. the coffee-house was used almost entirely by barristers engaged in the different courts of law then held in westminster hall, and they availed themselves of the house for robing before going to the courts, and as the storeroom of their wigs and gowns when the business of the day was ended. armed with this knowledge, a needy individual by the name of william lill applied to the waiter at alice's, and made a request for a mr. clarke's gown and wig, saying that he had been sent by a well-known lawyers' wig-maker and dresser. it happened, however, that mr. clarke's clerk had a little before fetched away the wig and gown mr. lill was so anxious to receive. but when the waiter imparted that information he did not lose his self-possession. he also wanted, he said, mr. ellison's wig and gown. taken with the man's knowledge of the barrister's names, the waiter not only handed over the wig and gown, but also informed the obliging mr. lill that when mr. ellison was last in court he had left his professional coat and waistcoat at the coffee-house; perhaps mr. lill would take those too. mr. lill readily obliged, and disappeared. later in the day the waiter's wits began to work. being, too, in the neighbourhood of the wig-maker's shop, it occurred to him to drop in. there he learnt that no mr. lill had been sent for any wigs or gowns. the alarmed waiter next proceeded to mr. ellison's office, to learn there that no messenger had been sent to alice's. at this stage the waiter, as he subsequently confessed, had no doubt but that mr. lill was "an impostor." mr. lill was more. he was courageous. having secured his prey so simply on the one day, he came back on another, trusting, no doubt, that his waiter friend would be as obliging as before. but it was not to be; a few questions confirmed the waiter's suspicions that mr. lill really was "an impostor;" and a police-officer finished the story. one feels rather sorry for mr. lill. of course it was wrong of him to annex those wigs and gowns, and sell them for theatrical "properties," but it is impossible not to admire the pluck of a man who stole from a lawyer in the precincts of a lawcourt. alice's deserves immortality if only for having been the scene of that unique exploit. by far the most curious of the coffee-houses of old london was that known as don saltero's at chelsea. there was nothing of the don really about the proprietor, whose unadorned name was james salter. the prefix and the affix were bestowed by one of his customers, vice-admiral munden, who, having cruised much upon the coast of spain, acquired a weakness for spanish titles, and bestowed a variant of one on the chelsea coffee-house keeper. that same mr. salter was an odd character. not content with serving dishes of coffee, nor with drawing people's teeth and cutting their hair, he indulged in attempts at fiddle-playing and set up a museum in his house. [illustration: don saltero's coffee-house.] steele's description of a visit to this manysided resort is by far the best picture of its owner and its contents. "when i came into the coffee-house," he wrote, "i had not time to salute the company, before my eye was diverted by ten thousand gimcracks round the room, and on the ceiling. when my first astonishment was over, comes to me a sage of thin and meagre countenance; which, aspect made me doubt, whether reading or fretting had made it so philosophic: but i very soon perceived him to be of that sect which the ancients call gingivistæ; in our language, tooth-drawers. i immediately had a respect for the man; for these practical philosophers go upon a very rational hypothesis, not to cure, but to take away the part affected." and then follows that delightful dissertation which linked mr. salter in the line of succession with the barber of don quixote. but steele could not forgive the chelsea barber and coffee-house keeper one thing. "i cannot allow the liberty he takes of imposing several names (without my license) on the collections he has made, to the abuse of the good people of england; one of which is particularly calculated to deceive religious persons, to the great scandal of the well-disposed, and may introduce heterodox opinions. he shews you a straw hat, which i know to be made by madge peskad, within three miles of bedford; and tells you, 'it is pontius pilate's wife's chambermaid's sister's hat.' to my knowledge of this very hat it may be added, that the covering of straw was never used among the jews, since it was demanded of them to make bricks without it." don saltero had a poetic catalogue of his curiosities, of which one verse ran: "monsters of all sorts here are seen, strange things in nature as they grew so; some relics of the sheba queen, and fragments of the famed bob crusoe." these treasures, however, could not avert the fate which was due to befall the house on january 8th, 1799, when the lease of the building and all within were disposed of by public sale. a philosophic journalist, not possessing steele's sense of humour, gravely remarked of the don's gimcracks that they, with kindred collections, helped to cherish the infancy of science, and deserved to be appreciated as the playthings of a boy after he is arrived at maturity. happily the don himself did not survive to see his precious treasures fetch less than ten shillings a-piece. iii. the clubs of old london. chapter i. literary. pending the advent of a philosophical historian who will explain the psychological reason why the eighteenth century was distinguished above all others in the matter of clubs, the fact is to be noted in all its baldness that the majority of those institutions which are famous in the annals of old london had their origin during that hundred years. one or two were of earlier date, but those which made a noise in the world and which for the most part survive to the present time were founded at the opening of the eighteenth century or later in its course. although the exact date of the establishment of the kit-cat club has never been decided, the consensus of opinion fixes the year somewhere about 1700. more debatable, however, is the question of its peculiar title. the most recent efforts to solve that riddle leave it where the contemporary epigram left it: "whence deathless kit-cat took his name, few critics can unriddle; some say from pastry-cook it came, and some from cat and fiddle. from no trim beaus its name it boasts, gray statesmen or green wits; but from this pell-mell pack of toasts of old cats and young kits." equally undecided is the cause of its origin. ned ward, however, had no doubts on that score. that exceedingly frank and coarse historian of the clubs of london attributed the origin of the club to the astuteness of jacob tonson the publisher. that "amphibious mortal," according to ward, having a sharp eye to his own interests, "wriggled himself into the company of a parcel of poetical young sprigs, who had just weaned themselves of their mother university" and, having more wit, than experience, "put but a slender value, as yet, upon their maiden performances." paced with this golden opportunity to attach a company of authors to his establishment, the alert tonson baited his trap with mutton pies. in other words, according to ward, he invited the poetical young sprigs to a "collation of oven-trumpery" at the establishment of one named christopher, for brevity called kit, who was an expert in pastry delicacies. the ruse succeeded; the poetical young sprigs came in a band; they enjoyed their pies; and when tonson proposed a weekly meeting of a similar kind, on the understanding that the poetical young sprigs "would do him the honour to let him have the refusal of all their juvenile products," there was no dissentient voice. and thus the kit-cat club came into life. some grains of truth may be embedded in this fanciful narrative. perhaps the inception of the club may have been due to tonson's astuteness from a business point of view; but at an early stage of the history of the club it became a more formidable institution. its membership quickly comprised nearly fifty nobles and gentlemen and authors, all of whom found a bond of interest in their profession of whig principles and devotion to the house of hanover, shortly to be established on the throne of england in the person of george i. indeed, one poetical epigram on the institution specifically entitles it the "hanover club." it seems that the earliest meetings of the club were held at an obscure tavern in shire lane, which no longer exists, but ran parallel with chancery lane near temple-bar. this was the tavern kept by christopher cat, and when he removed to the fountain tavern in the strand the club accompanied. its principle place of meeting, however, was at the mansion of tonson at barn elms, where a room was specially built for its accommodation. the dimensions of this room were responsible for the application of the term kit-cat to portraits of a definite size. thus, on the suggestion of tonson the portraits of the members were painted by sir godfrey kneller for the bookseller, but as the walls of the room at barn elms were not lofty enough to accommodate full-lengths, the painter reverted to a canvas measuring thirty-six by twenty-eight inches, a size of portrait which preserves the name of kit-cat to this day. apart from its influence on the nomenclature of art, the club is memorable for the additions it caused to be made to the poetic literature of england. one of the customs of the club was to toast the reigning beauties of the day regularly after dinner, and the various poets among its members were called upon to cast those toasts in the form of verse, which were afterwards engraved on the toasting-glasses of the club. addison was responsible for one of those tributes, his theme being the lady manchester: "while haughty gallia's dames, that spread o'er their pale cheeks an artful red, beheld this beauteous stranger there, in native charms divinely fair; confusion in their looks they show'd; and with unborrow'd blushes glow'd." but the earl of halifax and sir samuel garth were the most prolific contributors to kit-cat literature, the former being responsible for six and the latter for seven poetical toasts. for the duchess of st. albans, halifax wrote this tribute: "the line of vere, so long renown'd in arms, concludes with lustre in st. albans charms. her conquering eyes have made their race complete; they rose in valour, and in beauty set." to the duchess of beaufort these lines were addressed: "offspring of a tuneful sire, blest with more than mortal fire; likeness of a mother's face, blest with more than mortal grace; you with double charms surprise, with his wit, and with her eyes." next came the turn of lady mary churchill: "fairest and latest of the beauteous race, blest with your parent's wit, and her first blooming face; born with our liberties in william's reign, your eyes alone that liberty restrain." other ladies celebrated by halifax included the duchess of richmond, lady sutherland, and mademoiselle spanheime. to garth fell the task of singing the attractions of lady carlisle, lady essex, lady hyde, and lady wharton, the first three have two toasts each. perhaps the most successful of his efforts was the toast to lady hyde. "the god of wine grows jealous of his art, he only fires the head, but hyde the heart. the queen of love looks on, and smiles to see a nymph more mighty than a deity." whether the businesslike tonson derived much profit from his contract with the poetical young sprigs does not transpire; it is of moment, however, to recall that the members of the club did something to encourage literature. they raised a sum of four hundred guineas to be offered as prizes for the best comedies. it may be surmised that thomas d'urfey stood no chance of winning any of those prizes, for he was too much of a tory to please the kit-cat members. hence the story which tells how the members requested mr. cat to bake some of his pies with d'urfey's works under them. and when they complained that the pies were not baked enough, the pastrycook made the retort that d'urfey's works were so cold that the dough could not bake for them. for all their devotion to literature, the kit-cats did not forget to eat, drink, and be merry. that their gatherings were convivial enough is illustrated by the anecdote of sir samuel garth, physician to george i as well as poet. he protested at one meeting that he would have to leave early to visit his patients. but the evening wore on and still he stayed, until at length steele reminded him of his engagements. whereupon garth pulled out a list of fifteen patients, and remarked, "it matters little whether i see them or not to-night. nine or ten are so bad that all the doctors in the world could not save them, and the remainder have such tough constitutions that no doctors are needed by them." it is to be hoped that the bottle had not circulated so freely on that evening when the little girl who afterwards became lady mary wortley montagu was ushered into the presence of the members. her proud father, lord kingston, nominated her as a toast, but as the members protested that they did not know her, the child was sent for on the spot. on her arrival the little beauty was elected by acclamation. that triumph, she afterwards declared, was the happiest hour of her life. despite the fact that it had no formal constitution, and that membership therein depended upon a lady's favour, the blue-stocking club was too important a factor in the literary life of old london to be overlooked. it owed its existence to elizabeth robinson, who as the wife of edward montagu found herself in the possession of the worldly means essential to the establishment of a literary salon. it had its origin in a series of afflictions. mrs. montagu first lost her only child, and shortly after her mother and favourite brother. these bereavements put her on the track of distractions, and a visit to bath, where she made the acquaintance of the poet young, appears to have suggested that she would find relief from her sorrows in making her house in london a meeting-place for the intellectual spirits of the capital. at first she confined her enterprise to the giving of literary breakfasts, but these were soon followed by evening assemblies of a more pretentious nature, known as "conversation parties." the lady was particular to whom she sent her invitations. in a letter to garrick, inviting him to give a recital, she wrote: "you will find here some friends, and all you meet must be your admirers, for i never invite idiots to my house." unless when garrick or some famous french actor was invited to give a recital, no diversion of any kind was allowed at these gatherings; card-playing was not tolerated, and the guests were supposed to find ample enjoyment in the discussion of bookish topics. why mrs. montagu's assemblies were dubbed the blue-stocking club has never been definitely decided. on the one hand the term is supposed to have originated from the fact that benjamin stillingfleet, taking advantage of the rule which stipulated that full dress was optional, always attended in blue worsted instead of black silk stockings. but the other theory derives the name from the fact that the ladies who frequented the gatherings wore "blue stockings as a distinction" in imitation of a fashionable french visitor of the time. plenty of ridicule was bestowed upon mrs. montagu and her "conversation parties," but there seems some truth in the contention of hannah more that those "blue-stocking" meetings did much to rescue fashionable life from the tyranny of whist and quadrille. whether mrs. montagu really possessed any literary ability is a matter which does not call for discussion at this late hour, but it is something to her credit that she was able to attract under her roof such men as horace walpole, dr. johnson, burke, garrick, reynolds, and many other conspicuous figures of the late eighteenth century. the hostess may have wished her guests to credit her with greater knowledge than she really had; johnson said she did not know greek, and had but a slight knowledge of latin, though she was willing her friends should imagine she was acquainted with both; but the same authority was willing to admit that she was a very extraordinary woman, and that her conversation always had meaning. but, as usual, we must turn to a member of her own sex for the last word in the matter. fanny burney met her frequently, and made several recording entries in her diary. here is the first vignette: "she is middle-sized, very thin, and looks infirm; she has a sensible and penetrating countenance, and the air and manner of a woman accustomed to being distinguished, and of great parts. dr. johnson, who agrees in this, told us that a mrs. hervey, of his acquaintance, says she can remember mrs. montagu _trying_ for this same air and manner. mr. crisp has said the same: however, nobody can now impartially see her, and not confess that she has extremely well succeeded." and later there is this entry: "we went to dinner, my father and i, and met mrs. montagu, in good spirits, and very unaffectedly agreeable. no one was there to awaken ostentation, no new acquaintance to require any surprise from her powers; she was therefore natural and easy, as well as informing and entertaining." almost to the end of her long life mrs. montagu maintained her blue-stocking club. so late as 1791, when she had reached her seventy-first year, she gave a breakfast of which fanny burney wrote: "the crowd of company was such that we could only slowly make our way in any part. there could not be fewer than four or five hundred people. it was like a full ranelagh by daylight." that other breakfast-giver, samuel rogers, who only knew mrs. montagu towards the close of her life, described her as "a composition of art" and as one "long attached to the trick and show of life." but the most diverting picture of the queen of the blue-stockings was given by richard cumberland in a paper of the observer. in answer to one of her invitation cards he arrived at her salon before the rest of the company, and had opportunity to observe that several new publications, stitched in blue paper, were lying on the table, with scraps of paper stuck between the leaves, as if to mark where the hostess had left off reading. vanessa, for under that title did cumberland present mrs. montagu, entered the room shortly afterwards, dressed in a petticoat embroidered with the ruins of palmyra. the lady is made to mistake the author for the inventor of a diving-bell, and to address him accordingly, with delightful results. the various visitors are described in the same humourous manner, and then comes the climax. "vanessa now came up, and desiring leave to introduce a young muse to melpomene, presented a girl in a white frock with a fillet of flowers twined round her hair, which hung down her back in flowing curls; the young muse made a low obeisance in the style of an oriental salaam, and with the most unembarrassed voice and countenance, while the poor actress was covered with blushes, and suffering torture from the eyes of all the room, broke forth as follows." but the recorder of that particular meeting of the blue-stocking club could endure no more. he fled the house as hastily as though he had just learnt it was infected with the plague. although several lists are printed which profess to give the names of "the principal clubs of london," they may be searched in vain for that one which can rightly claim to be the club. nevertheless, ignorance of its existence can hardly be reckoned a reproach in view of the confession of tennyson. when asked by a member, the duke of argyll, to allow him to place his name in nomination, tennyson rejoined, "before answering definitely, i should like to know something about expenses. 'the club?' it is either my fault or my misfortune that i have never heard of it." when the poet made that confession he was in his fifty-sixth year, and up to that time, apparently, had not read his boswell. or if he had, he was not aware that the club reynolds had founded in 1764 under the name of the club, of which the title had subsequently been changed to the literary club, still existed under its original designation. another fact is likely to confuse the historian of this club unless he is careful. owing to the fact that dr. johnson was one of the original members, and dominated its policy after his usual autocratic manner, it is sometimes known as dr. johnson's club. however, there is no disputing the fact that the credit of its origin belongs to the "dear knight of plympton," as the great painter was called by one of his friends. the idea of its establishment at once won the approval of johnson, and it started on its illustrious career having as its members those two and edmund burke, dr. nugent, topham beauclerk, bennet langton, oliver goldsmith, anthony chamier and sir john hawkins. soon after its foundation, the number of members was increased to twelve, then it was enlarged to twenty, and subsequently to twenty-six, then to thirty, and finally to thirty-five with a proviso that the total should never exceed forty. to set forth a list of the members of the club from 1764 to the present year would be to write down the names of many of the men most eminent in english history. in boswell's time those who had been admitted to its select circle included david garrick, adam smith, edward gibbon, sir william jones, sir william hamilton, charles james fox, bishop percy, dr. joseph warton, and richard brinsley sheridan. in more modern days the members have included tennyson, macaulay, huxley, gladstone, lord acton, lord dufferin, w. h. e. lecky and lord salisbury. the limit of membership is still maintained; it is yet the rule that one black ball will exclude; and the election of a member is still announced in the stilted form which gibbon drafted by way of a joke: "sir, i have the pleasure to inform you that you had last night the honour to be elected as a member of the club." as the club had no formal constitution it was an easy matter to regulate its gatherings by the convenience of the members. thus, at first the meetings were held at seven on monday evenings, then the day was changed to friday, and afterwards it was resolved to come together once a fortnight during the sitting of parliament. although admission was so strictly guarded that its membership was accounted a rare honour, the club does not appear to have been in a flourishing condition in its second decade. otherwise beauclerk would hardly have written, "our club has dwindled away to nothing; nobody attends but mr. chamier, and he is going to the east indies. sir joshua and goldsmith have got into such a round of pleasures that they have no time." two or three years later edmund malone, the literary critic and shakesperian scholar, was moving heaven and earth to secure his own election. "i have lately," he wrote to a member, "made two or three attempts to get into your club, but have not yet been able to succeed--though i have some friends there--johnson, burke, steevens, sir j. reynolds and marlay--which in so small a society is a good number. at first they said, i think, they thought it a respect to garrick's memory not to elect one for some time in his room--which (in any one's case but my own i should say) was a strange kind of motive--for the more agreeable he was, the more need there is of supplying the want, by some substitute or other. but as i have no pretensions to ground even a hope upon, of being a succedaneum to such a man--the argument was decisive and i could say nothing to it. 'anticipation' tickell and j. townshend are candidates as well as myself--and they have some thoughts of enlarging their numbers; so perhaps we may be all elected together. i am not quite so anxious as agmondisham vesey was, who, i am told, had couriers stationed to bring him the quickest intelligence of his success." malone appears to have thought that it was a mere subterfuge to instance the death of garrick as a reason for not electing him. but it was nothing of the kind. the club did actually impose upon itself a year's widowhood, so to speak, when garrick died. and yet his election had not been an easy matter. that was largely his own fault. when reynolds first mentioned the club to him, he ejaculated in his airy manner, "i like it much; i think i shall be of you." of course reynolds reported the remark to johnson, with a result that might have been anticipated. "_he'll_ be of _us_," johnson repeated, and then added, "how does he know we will _permit_ him? the first duke in england has no right to hold such language." other recorders of johnson's conversation credit him with threatening to black-ball the actor, and with the expression of the wish that he might have one place of resort where he would be free of the company of the player. whatever johnson's attitude was, the fact remains that garrick's election was opposed for a considerable time, though when he was made a member he approved himself a welcome addition to the circle. unconsciously amusing is the account boswell gives of his own election. the club had been in existence some nine years when the fatal night of the balloting arrived. beauclerk had a dinner party at his house before the club-meeting, and when he and the other members left for the ceremony the anxious boswell was committed to the hospitality of lady di, whose "charming conversation" was not entirely adequate to keep up his spirits. in a short time, however, the glad tidings of his election came, and the fussy little scotsman hurried off to the place of meeting to be formally received. it is impossible to read without a smile the swelling sentences with which he closes his narrative. he was introduced "to such a society as can seldom be found. mr. edmund burke, whom i then saw for the first time, and whose splendid talents had long made me ardently wish for his acquaintance; dr. nugent, mr. garrick, dr. goldsmith, mr. (afterwards sir william) jones, and the company with whom i had dined. upon my entrance, johnson placed himself behind a chair, on which he leaned as on a desk or pulpit, and with humourous formality gave me a charge, pointing out the conduct expected from me as a good member of this club." there was probably more than "humourous formality" at the back of johnson's mind that night. he was responsible for boswell's election, and may well have had a doubt or two as to how that inconsequential person would behave in such a circle. as johnson had had his way in the case of boswell, he could not very well object when some were proposed as members with whom, from the political and religious point of view, he had little sympathy. but he had the grace to regard the matter with philosophy. when its numbers were increased to thirty, he declared he was glad of it, for as there were several with whom he did not like to consort, something would be gained by making it "a mere miscellaneous collection of conspicuous men, without any determinate character." the political difficulty was felt by other members. that fact is oppressively illustrated by an account of a meeting recorded by dr. burney, the father of the talented fanny, in a letter to his daughter, dated january 3lst, 1793, at a time, consequently, when excitement still ran high at the execution of louis xvi of france: "at the club on tuesday, the fullest i ever knew, consisting of fifteen members, fourteen all seemed of one mind, and full of reflections on the late transaction in france; but, when about half the company was assembled, who should come in but charles fox! there were already three or four bishops arrived, hardly one of whom could look at him, i believe, without horror. after the first bow and cold salutation, the conversation stood still for several minutes. during dinner mr. windham, and burke, jun., came in, who were obliged to sit at a side table. all were _boutonnés_, and not a word of the martyred king or politics of any kind was mentioned; and though the company was chiefly composed of the most eloquent and loquacious men in the kingdom, the conversation was the dullest and most uninteresting i ever remember at this or any such large meeting." there were evidently serious disadvantages then in the mixed nature of the club, as there have been since. for example, how did gladstone meet huxley after his gadarene swine had been so unmercifully treated by the man of science? when johnson reached his seventy-fourth year, and found himself the victim of infirmities which prompted him to seek his social intercourse near at hand, he conceived the idea of founding what was known as his essex street club. one of his first invitations was sent to reynolds, but the painter did not see his way to join. the members included the inevitable boswell, the hon. daines barrington, famous for his association with gilbert white, and others whom boswell noted as men of distinction, but whose names are no more than names at this distance. johnson drew up the rules of the club, which restricted its membership to two dozen, appointed the meetings on monday, thursday and saturday of each week, allowed a member to introduce a friend once a week, insisted that each member should spend at least sixpence at each gathering, enforced a fine of threepence for absence, and laid down the regulation that every individual should defray his own expense. and a final rule stipulated a penny tip for the waiter. the meeting-place was a tavern in essex street, known as the essex head, of which the host was an old servant of mr. thrale's. boswell, as in duty bound, seeing he was a member, declared there were few societies where there was better conversation or more decorum. and he added that eight years after the loss of its "great founder" the members were still holding happily together. but it was founded too late in the day to gather around it many notable johnsonian associations, and after his death it was, on boswell's showing, too happy to have any history. among the informal clubs of old london, a distinguished place belongs to that assemblage of variously-talented men, who, under the title of the wittenagemot abrogated to themselves the exclusive use of a box in the north-east corner of the chapter coffee-house. it found a capable if terse historian in one of its members, who explains that the club had two sections. the one took possession of the box at the earliest hour of the morning, and from their habit of taking the papers fresh from the news-men were called the wet paper club. in the afternoon the other section took possession, and were as keen to scan the wet evening papers as their colleagues to peruse those of the forenoon. among the members of the wittenagemot were dr. buchan, the author of a standard treatise on medicine, who although a tory was so tolerant of all views that he was elected moderator of the meetings; a mr. hammond, a manufacturer, who had not been absent for nearly forty-five years; a mr. murray, a scottish episcopal minister, who every day accomplished the feat of reading through at least once all the london papers; a "growling person of the name of dobson, who, when his asthma permitted, vented his spleen" upon both sides of politics; and mr. robison the publisher, and richard, afterwards sir richard, phillips, so keenly alert in recruiting for his monthly magazine that he used to attend with a waistcoat pocket full of guineas as an earnest of his good intentions and financial solvency. perhaps, however, the most original member of the wittenagemot was a young man of the name of wilson, to whom the epithet of "long-bow" was soon applied on account of the extraordinary stories he retailed concerning the secrets of the upper ten. just as he appeared to be established in the unique circle at the chapter he disappeared, the cause being that he had run up a bill of between thirty and forty pounds. the strange thing was, however, that the keeper of the coffee-house, a miss bran, begged that if any one met mr. wilson they would express to him her willingness to give a full discharge for the past and future credit to any amount, for, she said, "if he never paid us, he was one of the best customers we ever had, contriving, by his stories and conversation, to keep a couple of boxes crowded the whole night, by which we made more punch, and brandy and water, than from any other single customer." but the useful long-bow wilson was never seen again, and several years later the wittenagemot itself died of disintegration. it was more fortunate, however, than scores of similar clubs in old london, of which the history is entirely wanting. chapter ii. social and gaming. neither of the literary societies described in the previous chapter could claim to be a club in the present accepted meaning of that term. even dr. johnson's famous definition, "an assembly of good fellows, meeting under certain conditions," needs amplification. perhaps the most satisfactory exposition is that given in "the original" which was applied in the first instance to the athenæum. "the building," said walker, "is a sort of palace, and is kept with the same exactness and comfort as a private dwelling. every member is a master without any of the trouble of a master. he can come when he pleases, and stay away as long as he pleases, without anything going wrong. he has the command of regular servants without having to pay or to manage them. he can have whatever meal or refreshment he wants, at all hours, and served up with the cleanliness and comfort of his own house. he orders just what he pleases, having no interest to think of but his own. in short, it is impossible to suppose a greater degree of liberty in living." this is somewhat copious for a definition, but it would be difficult to put into smaller compass the various traits which marked the social and gaming clubs of old london. all those qualities, however, were not in evidence from the first. they were a matter of growth, of adaptation to needs as those needs were realized. the evolution of the club in that sense is nowhere better illustrated than in the case of white's, which can claim the proud honour of being the oldest among london clubs. it was established as a chocolate-house about 1698, and as such was a resort open to all. even in those days it was notorious for the high play which went on within its walls. swift has recorded that the earl of oxford never passed the building in st. james's street without bestowing a curse upon it as the bane of half the english nobility. and a little later it was frankly described as "a den of thieves." [illustration: st. james's street. (_showing white's on the left and brooks's on the right_.)] fire destroyed the first white's a little more than a generation after it was opened. its owner at that time was one named arthur, and the account of the conflagration tells how his wife leaped out of a window two stories high onto a feather bed and thus escaped without injury. george ii went to see the fire, accompanied by the prince of wales, both of whom encouraged the firemen with liberal offers of money. but royal exhortations did not avail to save the building; it was utterly consumed, with a valuable collection of paintings. two or three years after the opening of the new building white's ceased to be a public resort as a chocolate-house and became a club in the strict meaning of the word. it remained under the direction of mr. arthur till his death in 1761, and then passed into the control of robert mackreth, who had begun his career as a billiard-marker in the establishment. mackreth married arthur's only daughter a few months after her father's death, and thus gained an assured hold on the property, which he seems to have retained till his death, although managing the club through an agent. this agent was known as "the cherubim," and figures in the note mackreth addressed to george selwyn when he retired from the active oversight of the club. "sir," he wrote, "having quitted business entirely and let my house to the cherubim, who is my near relation, i humbly beg leave, after returning you my most grateful thanks for all favours, to recommend him to your patronage, not doubting by the long experience i have had of his fidelity but that he will strenuously endeavour to oblige." before this change took place the club had removed to its present premises, which, however, have been considerably altered both inside and out. the freehold of the house realized forty-six thousand pounds when offered for sale a generation ago. from a study of the club records, which extend back to 1736, it is possible to trace its evolution to the close corporation it has become. rules of a more and more stringent nature were gradually adopted, but at the same time its reputation for gambling was on the increase. there was hardly any probability upon which the members did not stake large sums of money. the marriage of a young lady of rank led to a bet of one hundred guineas that she would give birth to a child before a certain countess who had been married several months earlier; another wager was laid that a member of infamous character would be the first baronet hung; and when a man dropped dead at the door of the club and was carried into the building, the members promptly began betting whether he was dead or not, and protested against the bleeding of the body on the plea that it would affect the fairness of the wagers. well might young write in one of his epistles to pope: "clodio dress'd, danc'd, drank, visited, (the whole and great concern of an immortal soul!) oft have i said, 'awake! exist! and strive for birth! nor think to loiter is to live!' as oft i overheard the demon say, who daily met the loiterer in his way, 'i'll meet thee, youth, at white's:' the youth replies, 'i'll meet thee there,' and falls his sacrifice; his fortune squander'd, leaves his virtue bare to every bribe, and blind to every snare." another witness to the prevalent spirit of white's at this time is supplied by lord lyttelton in a private letter, wherein he wrote that he had fears, should his son become a member of that club, the rattling of a dice-box would shake down all the fine oaks of his estate. mackreth manifested great worldly wisdom in addressing himself to george selwyn when he retired from the active management of the club, for he knew that no other member had so much influence in the smart set of the day. selwyn was a member of brooks's as well, and for a time divided his favours pretty equally between the two houses, but in his latter years seems to have felt a preference for white's. the incidental history of the club for many years finds more lively chronicle in his letters than anywhere else, for he was constant in his attendance and was the best-known of its members. through those letters we catch many glimpses of charles james fox at all stages of his strange career. we see him, for example, loitering at the club drinking hard till three o'clock in the morning, and find him there sitting up the entire night preceding his mother's death, planning a kind of "itinerant trade, which was of going from horse-race to horse-race, and so, by knowing the value and speed of all the horses in england, to acquire a certain fortune." later, we see the brilliant statesman flitting about the club rooms, "as much the minister in all his deportment, as if he had been in office forty years." among the countless vignettes of club life at white's as they crop up in selwyn's letters it is difficult to pick and choose, but a few taken almost at random will revive scenes of a long-past time. here is one of a supper-party in 1781: "we had a pretty group of papists--lord petres at the head of them--some papists reformed, and one jew. a club that used to be quite intolerable is now becoming tolerating and agreeable, and scotchmen are naturalized and received with great good humour. the people are civil, not one word of party, no personal reflections." a few days later selwyn tells this story against himself. "on my return home i called in at white's, and in a minute or two afterwards lord loughborough came with the duke of dorset, i believe the first time since his admittance. i would be extraordinarily civil, and so immediately told him that i hoped lady loughborough was well. i do really hope so, now that i know that she is dead. but the devil a word did i hear of her since he was at your house in st. james's street. he stared at me, as a child would have done at an iroquois, and the duke of dorset seemed _tout confus_. i felt as if i looked like an oaf, but how i appeared god knows. i turned the discourse, as you may suppose." and here is a peep of a gambling party at faro. "i went last night to white's, and stayed there till two. the pharo party was amusing. five such beggars could not have met; four lean crows feeding on a dead horse. poor parsons held the bank. the punters were lord carmarthen, lord essex, and one of the fauquiers; and denbigh sat at the table, with what hopes i know not, for he did not punt. essex's supply is from his son, which is more than he deserves, but malden, i suppose, gives him a little of his milk, like the roman lady to her father." other glimpses might be taken such as would give point to rowlandson's caricature of a later day in which he depicted a scene in "the brilliants" club-room. the rules to be observed in this convivial society set forth that each member should fill a bumper to the first toast, that after twenty-four bumper toasts every member might fill as he pleased, and that any member refusing to comply with the foregoing was to be fined by being compelled to swallow a copious draught of salt and water. rowlandson did not overlook the gambling propensities of such clubs, as may be seen by his picture of "e o, or the fashionable vowels." by 1781 there were swarms of these e o tables in different parts of london, where any one with a shilling might try his luck. they had survived numerous attempts at their suppression, some of which dated as far back as 1731. [illustration: the brilliants. _(a rowlandson caricature of london club life in the 18th century.)_] all the characteristic features of white's were to be found at brooks's club on the opposite side of st. james's street, the chief difference between the two being that the former was the recognized haunt of the tories and the latter of the whigs. this political distinction is underlined in gillray's amusing caricature of 1796, in which he depicted the "promised horrors of the french invasion." the drawing was an ironical treatment of the evil effects burke foretold of the "regicide peace," and takes for granted the landing of the french, the burning of st. james's palace and other disasters. according to the artist, the invaders have reached the vicinity of the great clubs, and are wreaking vengeance on that special tory club--white's--while brooks's over the way is a scene of rejoicing. the figures hanging from the lamp-post are those of canning and jackson, while pitt, firmly lashed to the tree of liberty, is being vigorously flogged by fox. during the earlier years of its history brooks's was known as almack's, its founder having been that william almack who also established the famous assembly-rooms known by his name. the club was opened in pall mall as a gaming-salon in 1763, and it speedily acquired a reputation which even white's would have been proud to claim. walpole relates that in 1770 the young men of that time lost five, ten, fifteen thousand pounds in an evening's play. the two sons of lord holland lost thirty-two thousand pounds in two nights, greatly, no doubt, to the satisfaction of the hebrew money-lenders who awaited gamblers in the outer room, which charles fox accordingly christened the jerusalem chamber. while it still retained its original name, gibbon became a member of the club, and reynolds wished to be. "would you imagine," wrote topham beauclerk, "that sir j. reynolds is extremely anxious to be a member of almack's? you see what noble ambition will make men attempt." gibbon found the place to his liking. "town grows empty," he wrote in june, 1776, "and this house, where i have passed very agreeable hours, is the only place which still invites the flower of english youth. the style of living, though somewhat expensive, is exceedingly pleasant; and, notwithstanding the rage of play, i have found more entertainment and even rational society here than in any other club to which i belong." [illustration: promised horrors of the french invasion. _(from a caricature by gillray.)_] two years later almack's became brooks's. why the original proprietor parted with so valuable a property is not clear, but the fact is indisputable that in 1778 the club passed into the possession of a wine merchant and moneylender of the name of brooks, whose fame was celebrated a few years later by the poet tickell. "liberal brooks, whose speculative skill is hasty credit, and a distant bill; who, nursed in clubs, disdains a vulgar trade, exults to trust, and blushes to be paid." it was the new owner who built the premises in which the club still meets, but that particular speculation does not appear to have prospered, for the story is that he died in poverty. under the new regime the house kept up its reputation for high play. but there was a time soon after the change when its future did not look promising. thus in 1781 selwyn wrote: "no event at brooks's, but the general opinion is that it is _en decadence_. blue has been obliged to give a bond with interest for what he has eat there for some time. this satisfies both him and brooks; he was then, by provision, to sup or dine there no more without paying. jack townshend told me that the other night the room next to the supper room was full of the insolvents or freebooters, and no supper served up; at last the duke of bolton walked in, ordered supper; a hot one was served up, and then the others all rushed in through the gap, after him, and eat and drank in spite of brooks's teeth." a state of affairs which goes far to explain why the club was in a precarious condition. charles fox was of course as much at home at brooks's as white's. it was, naturally, more of a political home for him than the tory resort. this receives many illustrations in the letters of selwyn, especially at the time when he formed his coalition with lord north. even then he managed to mingle playing and politics. "i own," wrote selwyn, "that to see charles closeted every instant at brooks's by one or other, that he can neither punt or deal for a quarter of an hour but he is obliged to give an audience, while hare is whispering and standing behind him, like jack robinson, with a pencil and paper for mems., is to me a scene la plus _parfaitement que l'on puisse imaginer_, and to nobody it seems more risible than to charles himself." the farce was being continued a few days later. "i stayed at brooks's this morning till between two and three, and then charles was giving audiences in every corner of the room, and that idiot lord d. telling aloud whom he should turn out, how civil he intended to be to the prince, and how rude to the king." [illustration: gambling saloon at brooks's club.] notwithstanding his preference for white's, selwyn exercised his voting power at brooks's in a rigid manner. for some reason, probably because he could not boast a long descent, sheridan's nomination as a member provoked his opposition. fox, who had been enamoured of sheridan's witty society, proposed him on numerous occasions and all the members were earnestly canvassed for their votes, but the result of the poll always showed one black ball. when this had gone on for several months, it was resolved to unearth the black-baller, and the marking of the balls discovered selwyn to be the culprit. armed with this knowledge, sheridan requested his friends to put his name up again and leave the rest to him. on the night of the voting,--and some ten minutes before the urn was produced, sheridan arrived at the club in the company of the prince of wales, and on the two being shown into the candidates' waiting-room a message was sent upstairs to selwyn to the effect that the prince wished to speak to him below. the unsuspecting selwyn hurried downstairs, and in a few minutes sheridan had him absorbed in a diverting political story, which he spun out for a full halfhour. ere the narrative was at an end, a waiter entered the room and by a pre-arranged signal conveyed the news that sheridan had been elected. excusing himself for a few minutes, sheridan remarked as he left to go upstairs that the prince would finish the story. but of course the prince was not equal to the occasion, and when he got hopelessly stuck he proposed an adjournment upstairs where sheridan would be able to complete his own yarn. it was then selwyn realized that he had been fooled, for the first to greet him upstairs was sheridan himself, now a full member of the club, with profuse bows and thanks for selwyn's "friendly suffrage." happily selwyn had too keen a sense of humour not to make the best of the situation, and ere the evening was over he shook hands with the new member and bade him heartily welcome. far less hilarious was that evening when the notorious george robert fitzgerald forced his way into the club. as this bravo had survived numerous duels--owing to the fact, as was stated after his death, that he wore a steel cuirass under his coat--and was of a generally quarrelsome disposition, he was not regarded as a desirable member by any of the london clubs. but he had a special desire to belong to brooks's, and requested admiral keith stewart to propose him as a candidate. as the only alternative would have been to fight a duel, the admiral complied with the request, and on the night of the voting fitzgerald waited downstairs till the result was declared. when the votes were examined it was discovered that every member had cast in a black ball. but who was to beard the lion in his den below? the members agreed that the admiral should discharge that unpleasant duty, and on his protesting that he had fulfilled his promise by proposing him, it was pointed out, that as there was no white ball in the box, fitzgerald would know that even he had not voted for his admission. posed for a moment the admiral at length suggested that one of the waiters should be sent to say that there was one black ball, and that the election would have to be postponed for another month. but fitzgerald would not credit that message, nor a second which told him a recount had shown two black balls, nor a third which said that he had been black balled all over. he was sure the first message implied a single mistake, that the second had been the result of two mistakes instead of one, and the third convinced him that he had better go upstairs and investigate on his own account. this he did in spite of all remonstrance, and when he had gained the room where the members were assembled he reduced the whole company to perplexity by asking each in turn whether he had cast a black ball. of course the answer was in the negative in every case, and the triumphant bully naturally claimed that he had consequently been elected unanimously. proceeding to make himself at home, and to order numerous bottles of champagne, which the waiters were too frightened to refuse, he soon found himself sent to coventry and eventually retired. as a precaution against a repetition of that night it was resolved to have half a dozen sturdy constables in waiting on the following evening. but their services were not required. fighting fitzgerald never showed himself at the club again, though he boasted everywhere that he had been elected unanimously. perhaps it is hardly surprising that the national dish of england was laid under contribution for the name of a club, but it is somewhat confusing to find that in addition to the beef steak club founded in the reign of queen anne there was a beef steak society of which the origin is somewhat hazy. the former society is described with great gusto by ned ward, who had for it many more pleasant adjectives than he could find for the kit-cat club. the other society appears to have owed its existence to john rich, of covent garden theatre, and the scene-painter, george lambert. for some unexplained reason, but probably because of its bohemian character, the club quickly gained many distinguished adherents, and could number royal scions as well as plebeians in its circle. according to henry b. wheatley, the "room the society dined in, a little escurial in itself, was most appropriately fitted up: the doors, wainscoting, and roof of good old english oak, ornamented with gridirons as thick as henry vii's chapel with the portcullis of the founder. the society's badge was a gridiron, which was engraved upon the rings, glass, and the forks and spoons. at the end of the dining-room was an enormous grating in the form of a gridiron, through which the fire was seen and the steaks handed from the kitchen. over this were the appropriate lines:- "'if it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly." saturday was from time immemorial the day of dining, and of late years the season commenced in november and ended in june. the last elected member of the fraternity was known as boots, and, no matter how high his social rank, there were certain lowly duties he had to discharge until set free by another newcomer. there was another officer known as the bishop, whose duty it was to sing the grace, and to read to each new member, who was brought in blindfolded, the following oath of allegiance: "you shall attend duly, vote impartially, and conform to our laws and orders obediently. you shall support our dignity, promote our welfare, and at all times behave as a worthy member of this sublime society. so beef and liberty be your reward." although there is a beef steak club in existence to-day, it must not be identified with either of the two described above. another st. james's street club which can date back to the middle of the eighteenth century is that known as boodle's. the building was erected somewhere about 1765, but has been materially improved in more recent years. presumably it takes its singular and not euphonious name from its founder, but on that point no definite information is forthcoming. practically its only claim to distinction resides in the fact that gibbon, who was almost as fond of clubs as pepys was of taverns, was a member, as readers of his correspondence will recollect. in 1773 and the following year the great historian appears to have used the club as his writing-room, for many of his letters of those years are on boodle's note-paper. one of the epistles recalls the fact that the clubs of london were wont to hold their great functions, such as balls or masquerades, at the pantheon in oxford street, erected as a kind of in-town rival to ranelagh. it was opened in 1772, and on the fourth of may two years later gibbon wrote: "last night was the triumph of boodle's. our masquerade cost two thousand guineas; a sum that might have fertilized a province, vanished in a few hours, but not without leaving behind it the fame of the most splendid and elegant _fête_ that was perhaps ever given in a seat of the arts and opulence. it would be as difficult to describe the magnificence of the scene, as it would be easy to record the humour of the night. the one was above, the other below, all relation. i left the pantheon about five this morning." gibbon does not note that two "gentlemen," coming from that masquerade dressed in their costumes, "used a woman very indecently," and were so mauled by some spectators that they had difficulty in escaping with their lives. it is to be hoped they were not members of boodle's, who, on the whole, appear to have been somewhat inoffensive persons. at any rate they allowed gibbon ample quietude for his letter-writing. two other clubs of some note in their day are now nothing but a memory. the first of these, the dover house, was formed by george iv when prince of wales in opposition to brooks's, where two of his friends had been black-balled. he placed it in the care of one weltzie, who had been his house steward, and for a time it threatened to become a serious rival to the other establishments in st. james's street. there is selwyn's confession that the club began to alarm the devotees of brooks's, for it lived well, increased in numbers, and was chary in the choice of members. that, surely, was the club of which selwyn tells this vivid story. "the duke of cumberland holds a pharaoh bank, deals standing the whole night; and last week, when the duke of devonshire sat down to play, he told him there were two rules; one was, 'not to let you punt more than ten guineas;' and the other, 'no tick.' did you ever hear a more princely declaration? derby lost the gold in his pocket, and the prince of wales lent him fifty guineas; on which the duke of cumberland expressed some surprise, and said he had never lent fifty pounds in his whole life. 'then,' says the prince of wales, 'it is high time for you to begin.'" notwithstanding the promise it gave, weltzie's club does not seem to have had a protracted history. nor did the alfred club survive a half century. it was one of the earliest clubs to cater for a distinct class, and may have failed because it was born out of due time. this resort for men of letters, and members of kindred taste, does not appear to have been a lively place in its first years, for at that time lord dudley described it as the dullest place in the world, full of bores, an "asylum of doting tories and drivelling quidnuncs." nor was byron, another member, much more complimentary. his most favourable verdict pronounced the place a little too sober and literary, while later he thought it the most tiresome of london clubs. then there is the testimony of another member who said he stood it as long as he could, but gave in when the seventeenth bishop was proposed, for it was impossible to enter the place without being reminded of the catechism. because arthur's club is described as having been founded in 1811 that is no reason for overlooking the fact that its age is much more venerable than that date would imply. the word "founded" is indeed misleading; a more suitable term would be "reconstructed." for that is what happened in 1811. the club can really trace an ancestry back to 1756, when it was the "young club" at arthur's, the freedom of which selwyn desired to present in a dice box to william pitt. that the club has maintained the old-time spirit to a remarkable degree may be inferred from the fact that no foreigners are admitted as members, and from the further regulation which does not allow a member to entertain a friend at the club. there is a "strangers' room" in which visitors may wait for members, and where they may be served with light refreshments as a matter of courtesy, but none save members are allowed in the public rooms of the building. this rigid exclusiveness has not militated against the prosperity of the club. despite a high entrance fee and a considerable annual subscription, candidates have to wait an average of three years for election to its limited circle of six hundred. which goes to show that the old type of london club is in no danger of extinction just yet. iv. pleasure gardens of old london. chapter i. vauxhall. numerous and diversified as were the outdoor resorts of old london, no one of them ever enjoyed the patronage of the gardens at vauxhall. nor can any pleasure resort of the english capital boast so long a history. for nearly two centuries, that is, from about 1661 to 1859, it ministered to the amusement of the citizens. at the outset of its career it was known as new spring gardens, and it continued to be described as spring gardens in the official announcements, till 1786, although for many years previously the popular designation was vauxhall. the origin of that name is involved in obscurity, but it is supposed to have been derived from a family of the name of faux who once held the manor. for the earliest pictures of the resort we must turn to the pages of pepys, whose first visit to the gardens was paid in may, 1662. on this occasion he was accompanied by his wife, the two maids, and the boy, the latter distinguishing himself by creeping through the hedges and gathering roses. three years later pepys went to the gardens on several occasions within a few weeks of each other, the first visit being made in the company of several admiralty friends, who, with himself, were ill at ease as to what had been the result of the meeting between the english and dutch fleets. still, on this, the "hottest day that ever i felt in my life," pepys did not fail to find enjoyment in walking about the garden, and stayed there till nine o'clock for a moderate expenditure of sixpence. not many days later he was back again, this time alone and in a philosophic mood. the english fleet had been victorious, and the day was one of thanksgiving. so the diarist strolled an hour in the garden observing the behaviour of the citizens, "pulling of cherries, and god knows what." quite a different scene met his gaze on his third visit that year; the place was almost deserted, for the dreaded plague had broken out and london was empty. then came the year of the great fire, and pepys was in too serious a mood to wend his way to vauxhall. but he had recovered his spirits by the may of 1667, and gives us this record of a visit of that month: "a great deal of company, and the weather and garden pleasant: and it is very pleasant and cheap going thither, for a man may go to spend what he will, or nothing, all as one. but to hear the nightingale and other birds, and hear fiddles, and there a harp, and here a jew's trump, and here laughing, and there fine people walking, is mighty divertising. among others, there were two pretty women alone, that walked a great while, which being discovered by some idle gentlemen, they would needs take them up; but to see the poor ladies how they were put to it to run from them, and they after them, and sometimes the ladies put themselves along with other company, then the other drew back; at last, the last did get off out of the house, and took boat and away. i was troubled to see them abused so; and could have found in my heart, as little desire of fighting as i have, to have protected the ladies." but a time was to come, on a later visit, when pepys found himself in the company of a couple who were just as rude as the gentlemen he had a mind to fight. for on a may evening the next year he fell in with harry killigrew and young newport, as "very rogues as any in the town," who were "ready to take hold of every woman that comes by them." yet pepys did not shake their company; instead he went with the rogues to supper in an arbour, though it made his heart "ake" to listen to their mad talk. when sitting down to his diary that night he reflected on the loose company he had been in, but came to the conclusion that it was not wholly unprofitable to have such experience of the lives of others. perhaps he really enjoyed the experience; at any rate, he was back again the following evening, and saw the young newport at his tricks again. nor was that rogue singular in his behaviour. pepys had other illustrations on subsequent visits of the rudeness which had become a habit with the gallants of the town. by the numerous references which may be found in the comedies of the restoration period it is too obvious that vauxhall fully sustained its reputation as a resort for the "rogues" of the town. but, happily, there are not lacking many proofs that the resort was also largely affected by more serious-minded and respectable members of the community. it is true they were never free from the danger of coming in contact with the seamy side of london life, but that fact did not deter them from seeking relaxation in so desirable a spot. there is a characteristic illustration of this blending of amusement and annoyance in that classical number of the spectator wherein addison described his visit to the garden with his famous friend sir roger de coverley. as was usual in the early days of the eighteenth century, and for some years later, the two approached the garden by water. they took boat on the thames, at temple-stairs, and soon arrived at the landing-place. it was in the awakening month of may, when the garden was in the first blush of its springtime beauty. "when i considered," addison wrote, "the fragrancy of the walks and bowers, with the choirs of birds that sung upon the trees, and the loose tribe of people that walked under their shades, i could not but look upon the place as a kind of mahometan paradise. sir roger told me it put him in mind of a little coppice by his house in the country, which his chaplain used to call an aviary of nightingales. 'you must understand,' said the knight, 'there is nothing in the world that pleases a man in love so much as your nightingale. ah, mr. spectator, the many moon-light nights that i have walked by myself, and thought on the widow by the music of the nightingale!' he here fetched a deep sigh." but the worthy old man's fit of musing was abruptly broken by too tangible a reminder that this was indeed a kind of mahometan paradise. [illustration: tickets for vauxhall.] up to 1732 vauxhall appears to have been conducted in a haphazard way. that is, no settled policy had been followed in its management or the provision of set attractions. the owner seems to have depended too much on the nightingales, and the natural beauties of the place. from the date mentioned, however, a new regime began. at that time the garden passed into the control of jonathan tyers, who introduced many alterations and improvements. a regular charge was now made for admission, and season tickets in the shape of silver medals were instituted. several of these were designed by hogarth, in recognition of whose services in that and other ways mr. tyers presented him with a gold ticket entitling him to admission for ever. among the improvements dating from this new ownership was adequate provision of music. an orchestra was erected, and in addition to instrumental music many of the most famous singers of the day were engaged. the innovations of mr. tyers have left their impress on the literature of the place in prose and verse. a somewhat cloying example of the latter is found in an effusion describing the visit of farmer colin in 1741: "oh, mary! soft in feature, i've been at dear vauxhall; no paradise is sweeter, not that they eden call. "methought, when first i entered, such splendours round me shone, into a world i ventured, where rose another sun: "while music, never cloying, as skylarks sweet, i hear: the sounds i'm still enjoying, they'll always soothe my ear." ten years later mr. tyers was paid a more eloquent tribute by the pen of fielding. perhaps he took his beloved amelia to vauxhall for the purpose of heightening his readers' impression of her beauty, for it will be remembered that she was greatly distressed by the admiration of some of the "rogues" of the place; but incidentally he has a word of high praise for the owner of the garden. "to delineate the particular beauties of these gardens would, indeed," the novelist writes, "require as much pains, and as much paper too, as to rehearse all the good actions of their master, whose life proves the truth of an observation which i have read in some ethic writer, that a truly elegant taste is generally accompanied with an excellency of heart." but fielding does not quite dodge his responsibility to say something of the place itself, only he is adroit enough to accentuate his words by placing them in the mouth of the fair amelia. "the delicious sweetness of the place," was her verdict, "the enchanting charms of the music, and the satisfaction which appears on every one's countenance, carried my soul almost to heaven in its ideas." that her rapture should have been spoilt by the impertinents who forced themselves on the little party later, is a proof that the evils which pepys lamented were still in evidence at the middle of the eighteenth century. and another proof may be cited to show that vauxhall was at the time in high favour with the smart set. it occurs in a letter to lord carlisle of july, 1745. the correspondent of the peer thinks he will be interested in a piece of news from vauxhall. one of the boxes in the garden was, he said, painted with a scene depicting a gentleman far gone in his cups, in the company of two ladies of pleasure, and his hat lying on the ground beside him. this appealed so strongly to a certain marquis as typical of his own tastes that he appropriated the box for his own use, stipulating, however, that a marquis's coronet be painted over the hat. notwithstanding the high character attributed to him by fielding, mr. tyers agreed to the proposal, and the waiters were given authority to instruct any company that might enter that box that it belonged to the marquis in question, and must be vacated if he came on the scene. although changes were made from time to time, the general arrangement of vauxhall remained as it existed at the height of mr. tyers' tenancy. the place extended to about twelve acres, laid out in formal walks but richly wooded. the principal entrance led into what was known as the grand walk, a tree-lined promenade some three hundred yards in length, and having the south walk parallel. the latter, however, was distinguished by its three triumphal arches and its terminal painting of the ruins of palmyra. intersecting these avenues was the grand cross walk, which traversed the garden from north to south. in addition there were those numerous "dark walks" which make so frequent an appearance in the literature of the place. other parts of the garden were known as the rural downs, the musical bushes, and the wilderness. in the farthest removed of these the nightingales and other birds for which vauxhall was famous contributed their quota to the attractions of the place. [illustration: entrance to vauxhall.] in addition to the supper-boxes and pavilions, which were arranged in long rows or in curving fashion, the buildings consisted of the orchestra and the rotunda, the latter being a circular building seventy feet in diameter. it was fitted up in a style thought attractive in those days, was provided with an orchestra where the band played on wet evenings, and was connected with a long gallery known as the picture room. the amusements provided by the management varied considerably. even at their best, however, they would be voted tame by amusement-seekers of the twentieth century. fireworks took their place on the programme in 1798, and nearly twenty years later what was deemed a phenomenal attraction was introduced in the person of mme. saqui of paris, who used to climb a long rope leading to the firework platform, whence she descended to the accompaniment of a "tempest of fireworks." one of the earliest and most popular attractions was that known as the cascade, which was disclosed to view about nine o'clock in the evening. it was a landscape scene illuminated by hidden lights, the central feature of which was a miller's house and waterfall having the "exact appearance of water." more daring efforts were to come later, such as the allegorical transparency of the prince of wales leaning against a horse held by britannia, a submarine cavern, a hermit's cottage, and balloon ascents. the most glorious of these attractions presented a sordid sight by daylight, but in the dim light of the countless lamps hung in the trees at night passed muster with the most critical. [illustration: the citizen at vauxhall.] enough evidence has been produced to show how the "rogues" amused themselves at vauxhall, but the milder pleasures of sober citizens have not been so fully illustrated. yet there is no lack of information on that score. there is, for example, that lively paper in the connoisseur which gives an eavesdropping report of the behaviour and conversation of a london merchant and his wife and two daughters. the connoisseur took notes from the adjoining box. "after some talk, 'come, come,' said the old don, 'it is high time, i think, to go to supper.' "to this the ladies readily assented; and one of the misses said, 'do let us have a chick, papa.' "'zounds!' said the father, 'they are half-a-crown a-piece, and no bigger than a sparrow.' "here the old lady took him up, 'you are so stingy, mr. rose, there is no bearing with you. when one is out upon pleasure, i love to appear like somebody: and what signifies a few shillings once and away, when a body is about it?' "this reproof so effectually silenced the old gentleman, that the youngest miss had the courage to put in a word for some ham likewise: accordingly the waiter was called, and dispatched by the old lady with an order for a chicken and a plate of ham. when it was brought, our honest cit twirled the dish about three or four times, and surveyed it with a very settled countenance; then taking up the slice of ham, and dangling it to and fro on the end of his fork, asked the waiter how much there was of it. "'a shilling's worth, sir,' said the fellow. "'prithee,' said the don, 'how much dost think it weighs? an ounce? a shilling an ounce! that is sixteen shillings per pound! a reasonable profit truly! let me see, suppose now the whole ham weighs thirty pounds; at a shilling per ounce, that is, sixteen shillings per pound, why! your master makes exactly twenty-four pounds of every ham; and if he buys them at the best hand, and salts and cures them himself, they don't stand him in ten shillings a-piece.' "the old lady bade him hold his nonsense, declared herself ashamed for him, and asked him if people must not live: then taking a coloured handkerchief from her own neck, she tucked it into his shirt-collar (whence it hung like a bib), and helped him to a leg of the chicken. the old gentleman, at every bit he put into his mouth, amused himself with saying, 'there goes two-pence, there goes three-pence, there goes a groat. zounds, a man at these places should not have a swallow as wide as a torn-tit.'" but having been launched on a career of temporary extravagance, the honest citizen grew reckless. so he called for a bottle of port, and enjoyed it so much as to call for a second. but the bill brought him to his senses again, and he left vauxhall with the conviction that one visit was enough for a lifetime. so long as vauxhall existed the thinness and dearness of its plates of ham were proverbial. there is a legend to the effect that a man secured the position of carver on the understanding that he was able to cut a ham so thin that the slices would cover the entire garden. writer after writer taxed his ingenuity to find metaphors applicable to those shadowy slices. one scribe in 1762 declared that a newspaper could be read through them; pierce egan decided that they were not cut with a knife but shaved off with a plane; and a third averred that they tasted more of the knife than anything else. of course goldsmith made his philosophical chinaman visit vauxhall, the other members of the party consisting of the man in black, a pawnbroker's widow, and mr. tibbs, the second-rate beau, and his wife. the chinaman was delighted, and, by a strange coincidence, addison's metaphor crops up once more in his rapturous description. "the illuminations began before we arrived, and i must confess that, upon entering the gardens, i found every sense overpaid with more than expected pleasure; the lights everywhere glimmering through the scarcely moving trees; the full-bodied concert bursting on the stillness of the night; the natural concert of the birds, in the more retired part of the grove, vying with that which was formed by art; the company gaily-dressed looking satisfaction, and the tables spread with various delicacies, all conspired to fill my imagination with the visionary happiness of the arabian lawgiver, and lifted me into an ecstasy of admiration. 'head of confucius, cried i to my friend, 'this is fine! this unites rural beauty with courtly magnificence: if we except the virgins of immortality that hang on every tree, and may be plucked at every desire, i do 'not see how this falls short of mahomet's paradise!'" but the celestial rhapsody was interrupted by mr. tibbs, who wanted to know the plan of campaign for the evening. this was a matter on which mrs. tibbs and the widow could not agree, but an adjournment to a box in the meantime was accepted as a compromise. even there, however, the feminine warfare was continued, to the final triumph of mrs. tibbs, who, being prevailed upon to sing, not only distracted the nerves of her listeners, but prolonged her melody to such an extent that the widow was robbed of a sight of the water-works. no account of vauxhall however brief should overlook the attractions the place had to the sentimental young lady of the late eighteenth century. from the character of the songs which the vocalists affected it might be inferred that love-lorn misses were expected to form the bulk of their audience. perhaps that was so; for the dark walks were ideal places in which to indulge the tender sentiment. the elder daughter of the connoisseur's citizen confessed a preference for those walks because "they were so solentary," and tom brown noted that the ladies who had an inclination to be private took delight in those retired and shady avenues, and in the windings and turnings of the little wilderness, where both sexes met and were of mutual assistance in losing their way. smollett, however, made his impressionable lydia melford sum up the attractions of vauxhall for the young lady of the period. it is a tender picture she draws, with the wherry in which she made her journey, "so light and slender that we looked like so many fairies sailing in a nutshell." there was a rude awakening at the landing-place, where the rough and ready hangers-on of the place rushed into the water to drag the boat ashore; but that momentary disturbance was forgotten when miss lydia entered the resort. "imagine to yourself, my dear letty," she wrote, "a spacious garden, part laid out in delightful walks, bounded with high hedges and trees, and paved with gravel; part exhibiting a wonderful assemblage of the most picturesque and striking objects, pavilions, lodges, groves, grottos, lawns, temples, and cascades; porticos, colonnades, and rotundas; adorned with pillars, statues, and paintings; the whole illuminated with an infinite number of lamps, disposed in different figures of suns, stars, and constellations; the place crowded with the gayest company, ranging through those blissful shades, or supping in different lodges, on cold collations, enlivened with mirth, freedom, and good humour." lydia has a word, too, for the musical charms of the place, and seems pleased to have heard a celebrated vocalist despite the fact that her singing made her head ache through excess of pleasure. all this was enhanced, no doubt, by the presence of that mr. barton, the country gentleman of good fortune, who was so "particular" in his attentions, perhaps the best proof of the place vauxhall occupied in popular esteem is afforded by the number of occasions on which the garden was chosen as the scene of a national event. this was notably the case in 1813, when a pretentious festival took place in the grounds in celebration of the victory achieved at vittoria by the allies under wellington. an elaborate scheme of decoration, both interior and exterior, was a striking feature of the occasion, while to accommodate the numerous dinner guests a large temporary saloon became necessary. this was constructed among the trees, the trunks of which were adorned with the flags of the allies and other trophies. the duke of york presided over the banquet, and the company included, in addition to wellington, most of the royal and other notables of the day. dinner, whereat the inevitable ham appeared but probably not so finely cut, lasted from five to nearly nine o'clock, at which hour the ladies and general guests of the evening began to arrive. vauxhall outdid itself in illuminations that night. and the extra attractions included a transparency of the king, a mammoth picture of wellington, a supply of rockets that rose to a "superior height," and innumerable bands, some of which discoursed music from the forest part of the garden, presenting some idea of "soldiers in a campaign regaling and reposing themselves under the shade." in fact, the whole occasion was so unusual that the electrified reporter of the annual register was at his wit's end to know what to praise most. for a moment he was overpowered by the exalted rank of the leading personages, and then fascinated by the charms and costumes of the ladies, only to find fresh subjects for further adjectives in the fineness of the weather, the blaze of lights that seemed to create an artificial day, and the unity of sentiment and disposition that pervaded all alike. at this date, of course, the tyers of fielding's eulogy had been dead some years. he was succeeded by his two sons, one of whom, tom, was a favourite with dr. johnson. at the vittoria fete the resort was still controlled by the tyers family, but it passed out of their possession in 1821, and had many owners before the end came in 1859. another amelia, however, was to visit vauxhall before its gates were closed for the last time,--the amelia beloved of all readers of "vanity fair." naturally, she does not go alone. thackeray had too much affection for that gentle creature to make her face such an ordeal. no, there was the careless, high-spirited george osborne, and the ever-faithful dobbin, and the slow-witted jos sedley, and the scheming rebecca sharp. that vauxhall episode was to play a pregnant part in the destiny of becky. such an auspicious occasion would surely lead to a proposal from the nearly-captured jos. for a time it seemed as though such might be the case. becky and her corpulent knight lost themselves in one of those famous dark walks, and the situation began to develop in tenderness and sentiment. jos was so elated that he told becky his favourite indian stories for the sixth time, giving an opening for the lady's "horn i should like to see india!" but at that critical moment the bell rang for the fireworks, and at the same time tolled the knell of becky's chances of becoming mrs. jos sedley. for the fireworks somehow created a thirst, and the bowl of rack punch for which jos called, and which he was left to consume, as the young ladies did not drink it and osborne did not like it, speedily worked its disastrous effects. in short, as we all know, jos made a fool of himself, and when he came to himself the following morning and saw himself as osborne wished he should, all his tender passion for becky evaporated once and for all. perhaps these visitors to vauxhall who never had an existence are more real to us to-day than all the countless thousands of men and women who really trod its gravel walks. but the real and the unreal alike are of the past, a memory for the fancy to play with as is that of vauxhall itself. chapter ii. ranelagh. during the latter half of the eighteenth century vauxhall had a serious rival in ranelagh. no doubt the success of the former was the cause of the latter. it may have been, too, that as the gardens at vauxhall became more and more a popular resort without distinction of class, the need was felt of a rendezvous which should be a little more select. no doubt exists as to how ranelagh came by its name. toward the end of the seventeenth century the earl of ranelagh built himself a house at chelsea, and surrounded it with gardens which were voted the best in england for their size. this peer, who was paymaster-general of the forces, seems to have taken keen pleasure in house-planning and the laying out of grounds. among the manuscripts of the marquis of ormonde are many letters written by him to the bearer of that title in the early eighteenth century, which show that he assumed the oversight of building operations at ormonde's london house at that time. the minute attention he gave to all kinds of detail's proves that he had gained experience by the building of his own house not many years before. but ranelagh house and gardens had a short history as the residence and pleasance of a nobleman. the earl died in 1712, and in 1730 it became necessary to secure an act of parliament to vest his property at chelsea in trustees. three years later a sale took place, and the house and larger portion of the grounds were purchased by persons named swift and timbrell. it was at this stage the project of establishing a rival to vauxhall first took shape. the idea seems to have originated with james lacy, that patriotic patentee of drury lane theatre who raised a band of two hundred men at the time of the jacobite rebellion of 1745. he it was, also, who afterwards became a partner with david garrick. but, however successful he was to prove as an organizer of volunteers, lacy was not to shine as the founder of a rival to vauxhall. for some unexplained reason he abandoned his share in the ranelagh project, and eventually the matter was taken in hand by sir thomas robinson, who soon secured sufficient financial support to carry the plan to a successful issue. sir thomas provided a considerable share of the capital of sixteen thousand pounds himself, and took a leading part in the management of ranelagh till his death in 1777. his gigantic figure and cheery manners earned for him the titles of ranelagh's maypole and gardand of delights. as the gardens were already laid out in a handsome manner, the chief matter requiring attention was the planning and erection of a suitable main building. hence the erection of the famous rotunda, the architectural credit of which is given to one william jones. but that honour is disputed. it is claimed that no less a person than henry viii was responsible for the idea on which the rotunda was based. that king, according to one historian, caused a great banqueting-house to be erected, eight hundred feet in compass, after the manner of a theatre. "and in the midst of the same banqueting-house," continued the historian, "was set up a great pillar of timber, made of eight great masts, bound together with iron bands for to hold them together: for it was a hundred and thirty-four feet in length, and cost six pounds thirteen shillings and fourpence to set it upright. the banqueting-house was covered over with canvas, fastened with ropes and iron as fast as might be devised; and within the said house was painted the heavens, with stars, sun, moon, and clouds, with divers other things made above men's heads. and above the high pillar of timber that stood upright in the midst, was made stages of timber for organs and other instruments to stand upon, and men to play on them." such, it is asserted, was the model the architect of the rotunda at ranelagh had in view. and really there appears to be good ground for laying this charge of constructive plagiarism against the memory of william jones. it is true the building was on a scale somewhat smaller than that erected at the order of henry viii, for its circumference was limited to four hundred and fifty feet, while its greatest diameter was but one hundred and eighty-five feet. but the planning of the interior of the rotunda bore a suspicious likeness to the royal banqueting-house. the central portion of the building was a square erection consisting of pillars and arches, and seems to have been a direct copy of those eight great masts. nor did the parallel end there. in the rotunda at ranelagh as in the king's banqueting-house, this central construction was designed as the place for the musicians. and even the ceiling was something of a copy, for that of the rotunda was divided into panels, in each of which was painted a celestial figure on a sky-blue ground. on the general idea of the banqueting-house, however, mr. jones made a number of improvements. the entrances to the rotunda were four in number, corresponding with the points of the compass, each consisting of a portico designed after the manner of a triumphal arch. the interior of the building presented, save for its central erection, the aspect of a modern opera-house. around the entire wall was a circle of boxes, divided by wainscoting, and each decorated with a "droll painting" and hung with a candle-lamp. above these was another tier of boxes, similarly fitted, each of them, fifty-two in number, having accommodation for seven or eight persons. higher up was a circle of sixty windows. although the building itself was constructed of wood, it could boast of a plaster floor, which was covered with matting. scattered over that floor were numerous tables covered with red baize whereon refreshments were served. such was the general arrangement of the rotunda, but one alteration had speedily to be made. it was quickly discovered that the central erection was ill adapted for the use of the orchestra, and consequently it was transformed into four fireplaces, which were desirable locations in the cold months of the year. perhaps no surprise need be felt that ranelagh was not ready when it was opened. what public resort ever has been? the consequence was that there were at least two opening ceremonies. the first took the form of a public breakfast on april 5th, 1742, and was followed by other early repasts of a like nature. one of these, seventeen days later, provided horace walpole with the subject of the first of his many descriptions of the place. "i have been breakfasting this morning at ranelagh gardens;" he wrote, "they have built an immense amphitheatre, with balconies full of little ale houses; it is in rivalry to vauxhall, and costs above twelve thousand pounds. the building is not finished, but they get great sums by people going to see it and breakfasting in the house: there were yesterday no less than three hundred and eighty persons, at eighteen pence a piece." about a month later another inaugural ceremony took place, which walpole duly reported. "two nights ago ranelagh gardens were opened at chelsea; the prince, princess, duke, much nobility, and much mob besides were there. there is a vast amphitheatre, finely gilt, painted, and illuminated; into which everybody that loves eating, drinking, staring, or crowding is admitted for twelve pence. the building and disposition of the gardens cost sixteen thousand pounds. twice a week there are to be ridottos at guinea tickets, for which you are to have a supper and music. i was there last night, but did not feel the joy of it. vauxhall is a little better, for the garden is pleasanter, and one goes by water." in time, however, walpole was converted to the superior attractions of the new resort. two years later he confessed that he went every night to ranelagh, that it had totally beaten vauxhall, and that it had the patronage of everybody who was anybody. lord chesterfield bad fallen so much in love with the place that he had ordered all his letters to be directed thither. [illustration: venetian masquerade at ranelagh, 1749.] many red-letter days are set down in the history of ranelagh during the sixty years of its existence, but its historians are agreed that the most famous of the entertainments given there was the venetian masquerade in honour of the peace of aix-la-chapelle on april 26th, 1749. for the most spirited narrative of that festival, recourse must--be had to the letters of walpole. peace was proclaimed on the 25th, and the next day, walpole wrote, "was what was called a jubilee masquerade in the venetian manner, at ranelagh; it had nothing venetian in it, but was by far the best understood and prettiest spectacle i ever saw; nothing in a fairy tale even surpassed it. one of the proprietors, who is a german, and belongs to the court, had got my lady yarmouth to persuade the king to order it. it began at three o'clock, and about five people of fashion began to go. when you entered you found the whole garden filled with masks and spread with tents, which remained all night very commodely. in one quarter was a maypole dressed with garlands and people dancing round it to a tabor and pipes and rustic music, all masqued, as were all the various bands of music that were dispersed in different parts of the garden; some like huntsmen with french horns, some like peasants, and a troop of harlequins and scaramouches in the little open temple on the mount. on the canal was a sort of gondola adorned with flags and streamers, and filled with music, rowing about. all round the outside of the amphitheatre were shops filled with dresden china, japan, etc., and all the shopkeepers in mask. the amphitheatre was illuminated, and in the middle was a circular bower, composed of all kinds of firs in tubs, from twenty to thirty feet high; under them orange trees with small lamps in each orange, and below them all sorts of the finest auriculas in pots; and festoons of natural flowers hanging from tree to tree. between the arches, too, were firs, and smaller ones in the balconies above. there were booths for tea and wine, gaming tables and dancing, and about two thousand persons. in short it pleased me more than anything i ever saw." but there was another side to all this. vauxhall evidently looked on with envious eyes, and those who were interested in the welfare of that resort managed to engineer opposition to the venetian fete in the form of satirical prints and letterpress. perhaps they did more. at any rate it is a significant fact that shortly afterwards the justices of middlesex were somehow put in motion, and made such representations to the authorities at ranelagh that they were obliged to give an undertaking not to indulge in any more public masques. this, however, did not prevent the subscription carnival in celebration of a royal birthday in may, 1750, when there was "much good company but more bad company," the members of which were "dressed or undress'd" as they thought fit. ranelagh was evidently an acquired taste. it has been seen that walpole did not take to the place at first, but afterwards became one of its most enthusiastic admirers. and there was a famous friend of walpole who passed through the same experience. this was the poet gray, who, three years after the resort was opened declared that he had no intention of following the crowd to ranelagh. "i have never been at ranelagh gardens since they were opened," is his confession to a friend. "they do not succeed: people see it once, or twice, and so they go to vauxhall." "well, but is it not a very great design, very new, finely lighted?" "well, yes, aye, very fine truly, so they yawn and go to vauxhall, and then it's too hot, and then it's too cold, and here's a wind and there's a damp." perhaps it is something of a surprise to find the author of the "elegy" interested in public gardens at all, but given such an interest it would have been thought that ranelagh was more to his taste than vauxhall. and so it proved in the end. like his eton friend walpole, he became a convert and so hearty an admirer of the chelsea resort that he spent many evenings there in the august of 1746. other notable visitors to ranelagh included goldsmith and sir joshua reynolds, and dr. johnson and tobias smollett. it seems more than likely that ranelagh with the first couple figured largely in that round of pleasures which kept them from the meetings of the club to 'the disgust of beauclerk, but goldsmith might have justified his visits on the plea that he was gathering "local colour" for that letter by belinda which he introduced into the "citizen of the world." no doubt he saw many a colonel there answering to that ft irresistible fellow "who made such an impression on belinda's heart." so well-dressed, so neat, so sprightly, and plays about one so agreeably, that i vow he has as much spirits as the marquis of monkeyman's italian greyhound. i first saw him at ranelagh: he shines there: he is nothing without ranelagh, and ranelagh nothing without him. "perhaps sir joshua would have excused his idling at ranelagh on the ground of looking for models, or the hints it afforded for future pictures." with dr. johnson it was different. ranelagh was to him a "place of innocent recreation" and nothing more. the "_coup d'ceil_ was the finest thing he had ever seen," boswell reports, and then makes his own comparison between that place and the pantheon. "the truth is, ranelagh is of a more beautiful form; more of it, or rather, indeed, the whole rotunda, appears at once, and it is better lighted. however, as johnson observed, we saw the pantheon in time of mourning, when there was a dull uniformity; whereas we had seen ranelagh, when the view was enlivened with a gay profusion of colours." no small part of johnson's pleasure during his visits to ranelagh was derived from uncomplimentary reflections on the mental conditions of its frequenters. boswell had been talking one day in the vein of his hero's poem on the "vanity of human wishes," and commented on the persistence with which things were done upon the supposition of happiness, as witness the splendid places of public amusement, crowded with company. "alas, sir," said johnson in a kind of appendix to his poem, "these are all only struggles for happiness. when i first entered ranelagh, it gave an expansion and gay sensation, to my mind, such as i never experienced any where else. but, as xerxes wept when he viewed his immense army, and considered that not one of that great multitude would be alive a hundred years afterwards, so it went to my heart to consider that there was not one in all that brilliant circle, that was not afraid to go home and think; but that the thoughts of each individual there would be distressing when alone." smollett, like goldsmith, made good use of his visits to ranelagh. with the enterprise of the observant novelist, he turned his experiences into "copy." and with that ubiquity of vision which is the privilege of the master of fiction he was able to see the place from two points of view. to matt. bramble, that devotee of solitude and mountains, the chelsea resort was one of the worst inflictions of london. "what are the amusements of ranelagh?" he asked. "one half of the company are following one another's tails, in an eternal circle; like so many blind asses in an olive-mill, where they can neither discourse, distinguish, nor be distinguished; while the other half are drinking hot water, under the denomination of tea, till nine or ten o'clock at night, to keep them awake for the rest of the evening. as for the orchestra, the vocal music especially, it is well for the performers that they cannot be heard distinctly." but smollett does not leave ranelagh at that. lydia also visited the place and was enraptured with everything. to her it looked like an enchanted palace "of a genio, adorned with the most exquisite performances of painting, carving, and gilding, enlighted with a thousand golden lamps, that emulate the noon-day sun; crowded with the great, the rich, the gay, the happy, and the fair; glittering with cloth of gold and silver, lace, embroidery, and precious stones. while these exulting sons and daughters of felicity tread this round of pleasure, or regale in different parties, and separate lodges, with fine imperial tea and other delicious refreshments, their ears are entertained with the most ravishing music, both instrumental and vocal." if the management of ranelagh had been on the lookout for a press agent, they would doubtless have preferred smollett in his lydia mood. only occasionally was the even tenor of ranelagh amusement disturbed by an untoward event. one such occasion was due to that notorious dr. john hill who figures so largely in isaac disraeli's "calamities and quarrels of authors." few men have tried more ways of getting a living than he. as a youth he was apprenticed to an apothecary, but in early manhood he turned to botany and travelled all over england in search of rare plants which he intended drying by a special process and publishing by subscription. when that scheme failed, he took to the stage, and shortly after wrote the words of an opera which was sent to rich and rejected. this was the beginning of authorship with hill, whose pen, however, brought more quarrels on his head than guineas into his pockets. and it was his authorship which connected him with the history of ranelagh. one of hill's ventures was to provide the town with a daily paper called the inspector, in the pages of which he made free with the character of an irish gentleman named brown. usually the men hill attacked were writers, who flayed him with their pens whenever they thought there was occasion. hence the conclusive epigram with which garrick rewarded an attack on himself: "for physic and farces, his equal there _scarce_ is, his farces are physic, his physic a farce is." [illustration: the assault on dr. john hill and ranelagh.] but mr. brown was a man of action, not words. so he sought out his assailant at ranelagh on the night of may eth, 1752, and caned him in the rotunda in the presence of a large company. here was excitement indeed for ranelagh, and the affair was the talk of the town for many a day afterwards. of course hill did not retort in kind; on the contrary he showed himself to be an abject coward and took his thrashing without any bodily protest. that he made loud vocal protest seems likely enough. hence the point of the pictorial satire which was quickly on sale at the london print-shops. this drawing depicted hill being seized by the ear by the irate mr. brown, who is represented as exclaiming, "draw your sword, libeller, if you have the spirit, of a mouse." the only reply of hill was, "what? against an illiterate fellow that can't spell? i prefer a drubbing. oh, mr. p----, get me the constable, for here's a gentleman going to murder me!" mr. p----, who is seen hastening from behind a pillar of the rotunda, replies: "yes, sir, yes. pray young gentleman don't hurt him, for he never has any meaning in what he writes." hill took to his bed, raised an action against mr. brown for assault, and proclaimed from the housetops that there was a conspiracy to murder him. this brought forth a second print, showing hill in bed and attended by doctors, one of whom, in reply to the patient's plea that he had no money, responds, "sell your sword, it is only an encumbrance." another lively episode disturbed the peace of ranelagh on the night of may 11th, 1764. several years previously some daring spirits among the wealthier classes had started a movement for the abolition of vails, otherwise "tips," to servants, and the leaders of that movement were subjected to all kinds of annoyance from the class concerned. on the night in question the resentment of coachmen, footmen and other servants developed into a serious riot at ranelagh, special attention being paid to those members of the nobility and gentry who would not suffer their employees to take vails from their guests. "they, began," says a chronicle of the time, "by hissing their masters, they then broke all the lamps and outside windows with stones; and afterwards putting out their flambeaux, pelted the company, in a most audacious manner, with brickbats, etc., whereby several were greatly hurt." this attack was not received in the submissive spirit of dr. hill; the assaulted gentry drew their swords to beat back the rioters and severely wounded not a few. they probably enjoyed the diversion from the ordinary pleasures of ranelagh. how gladly the frequenters of the gardens welcomed the slightest departure from the normal proceedings of the place may be inferred from the importance which was attached to an incident which took place soon after 1770. public mourning was in order for some one, and of course the regular patrons of ranelagh expressed their obedience to the court edict by appropriate attire. one evening, however, it was observed that there were two gentlemen in the gardens dressed in coloured clothes. it was obvious they were strangers to the place and unknown to each other. their inappropriate costume quickly attracted attention, and became the subject of general conversation, and, such a dearth was there of excitement, lord spencer hamilton aroused feverish interest by laying a wager that before the night was out he would have the two strangers walking arm in arm. the wager taken, he set to work in an adroit manner. watching one of the strangers until he sat down, he immediately placed himself by his side, and entered into conversation. a few minutes later lord spencer left his new friend in search of the other stranger, to whom he addressed some civil remark, and accompanied on a stroll round the gardens. coming back eventually to the seat on which the first stranger was still resting, lord spencer had no difficulty in persuading his second new acquaintance to take a seat also, the conversation of the trio naturally became general, and a little later lord spencer suggested a promenade. on starting off he offered his arm to the first stranger, who paid the same compliment to stranger number two, with the result that lord spencer was able to direct the little procession to the vicinity of his friends, and so demonstrate that the wager was won. so simple an incident furnished ranelagh with great amusement for an entire evening! what the management provided by way of entertainment has been partially hinted at. music appears to have been the chief stand-by from the first and was provided at breakfast time as well as at night. many notable players and singers appeared in the rotunda, including mozart, who, as a boy of eight, played some of his own compositions on the harpsichord and organ, and dibdin, the famous ballad singer. fireworks were a later attraction, as also was the exhibition named mount etna, which called for a special building. occasional variety was provided by regattas and shooting-matches, and balloon-ascents, and displays of diving. no doubt ranelagh was at its best and gayest when the scene of a masquerade. but unfortunately those entertainments had their sinister side. fielding impeaches them in "amelia" by their results, and the novelist was not alone in his criticism. the connoisseur devoted a paper to the evils of those gatherings, deriding them as foreign innovations, and recalling the example of the lady who had proposed to attend one in the undress garb of iphigenia. "what the above-mentioned lady had the hardiness to attempt alone," the writer continued, "will (i am assured) be set on foot by our persons of fashion, as soon as the hot days come in. ranelagh is the place pitched upon for their meeting; where it is proposed to have a masquerade _al fresco,_ and the whole company are to display all their charms in _puris naturalibus._ the pantheon of the heathen gods, ovid's metamorphoses, and titian's prints, will supply them with sufficient variety of undressed characters." a cynic might harbour the suspicion that this critic was in the pay of vauxhall. even he, however, did not utter the worst about the amusements of ranelagh. the truth was known to all but confessed by few. the outspoken matt. bramble in the indictment cited above gave emphatic utterance to the fact that the chief recreation at ranelagh was worse than none at all. "one may be easily tired" of the place, was the verdict of a noble lord in 1746; "it is always the same." and to the same effect is the conclusion reached by a french visitor, who was delighted for five minutes, and then oppressed with satiety and indifference. when the visitor had made the promenade of the rotunda, there was practically nothing for him to do save make it again. hence the mill-round of monotony so aptly expressed by the suffolk village poet, robert bloomfield, who was lured to ranelagh one night shortly before its doors were finally closed. "to kanelagh, once in my life, by good-natur'd force i was driven; the nations had ceas'd their long strife, and peace beam'd her radiance from heaven. what wonders were there to be found, that a clown might enjoy or disdain? first, we trac'd the gay ring all around; aye--_and then we went_ round _it_ again. "a thousand feet rustled on mats, a carpet that once had been green, men bow'd with their outlandish hats, with corners so fearfully keen! fair maids, who, at home in their haste, had left all their clothes but a train, swept the floor clean, as slowly they pac'd, then.--walked round and swept it again. "the music was truly enchanting, right glad was i when i came near it; but in fashion i found i was wanting- 'twas the fashion to walk, and not hear it. a fine youth, as beauty beset him, look'd smilingly round on the train, 'the king's nephew,' they cried, as they met him. then-we _went_ round and met _him_ again. "huge paintings of heroes and peace seem'd to smile at the sound of the fiddle, proud to fill up each tall shining space, round the lantern that stood in the middle. and george's head too; heaven screen him; may he finish in peace his long reign: and what did we when we had seen him? why-went round and _saw him again_." that poem ought to have killed ranelagh had the resort 'not been near its demise at the time it was written. but there was to be one final flare-up ere the end came. on a june night in 1803 the rotunda was the scene of its last ball. the occasion was the installation of the knights of the bath, and produced, on the authority of the annual register, "one of the most splendid entertainments ever given in this country." the cost was estimated at seven thousand pounds, which may well have been the case when the guests ate cherries at a guinea a pound and peas at fourteen shillings a quart. that fête was practically the last of ranelagh; about a month later the music ceased and the lamps were extinguished for ever. and the "struggles for happiness" of sixty years were ended. chapter iii. other favourite resorts. prior to the eighteenth century the londoner was ill provided with outdoor pleasure resorts. it is true he had the paris garden at bankside, which donald lupton declared might be better termed "a foul den than a fair garden. it's a pity," he added, "so good a piece of ground is no better employed;" but, apart from two or three places of that character, his _al fresco_ amusements were exceedingly limited. it should not be forgotten, however, that the ale-houses of those days frequently had a plot of land attached to them, wherein a game of bowls might be enjoyed. but the object-lesson of vauxhall changed all that. from the date when that resort passed into the energetic management of jonathan tyers, smaller pleasure gardens sprang into existence all over london. by the middle of the eighteenth century they had grown so numerous that it would be a serious undertaking to attempt an exhaustive catalogue. as, however, they had so many features in common, and passed through such kindred stages of development, the purpose of this survey will be sufficiently served by a brief history of four or five typical examples. how general was the impression that vauxhall had served as a model in most instances may be seen from the remark of a historian of 1761 to the effect that the marylebone garden was to be "considered as a kind of humble imitation of vauxhall." had pepys' diary been in print at that date, and known to the proprietor, he would have been justified in resenting the comparison. for, as a matter of fact, the diarist, under the date of may 7th, 1668, had actually set down this record: "then we abroad to marrowbone, and there walked in the garden, the first time i ever was there, and a pretty place it is." at a first glance this entry might be regarded as disposing of the charge of imitation on the part of marylebone gardens. such, however, is not strictly the case. it is true there were gardens here at the middle of the seventeenth century, but they were part of the grounds of the old manor-house, and practically answered to those tavern bowling-alleys to which reference has been made. the principal of these was attached to the tavern known as the rose, which was a favourite haunt of the duke of buckingham, and the scene of his end-of-the-season dinner at which he always gave the toast: "may as many of us as remain unhanged next spring meet here again." what needs to be specially noted in connection with the history of this resort is, that it was not until 1737--five years after the opening of vauxhall under tyers--that the owner of marylebone gardens, daniel gough, sufficiently put the place in order to warrant a charge for admission. in the following year the place was formally advertised as a resort for evening amusement, that announcement marking a definite competition with vauxhall. the buildings at this time comprised a spacious garden-orchestra fitted with an organ, and what was called the great room, an apartment specially adapted for balls and suppers. many singers, some famous and other notorious, entertained the patrons of marylebone gardens. from 1747 to 1752 the principal female vocalist was mary ann falkner, who, after a respectable marriage, became the subject of an arrangement on the part of her idle husband whereby she passed under the protection of the earl of halifax. she bore two children to that peer, and so maintained her power over him that for her sake he broke off an engagement with a wealthy lady. another songstress, fair and frail, was the celebrated nan catley, the daughter of a coachman, whose beauty of face and voice and freedom of manners quickly made her notorious. she had already been the subject of an exciting law suit when she appeared at marylebone at the age of eighteen. miss catley had been engaged by thomas lowe, the favourite tenor, who in 1763 became the lessee of the gardens, and opened his season with a "musical address to the town," sung by himself, miss catley and miss smith. the address apologized for the lack of some of the attractions of vauxhall and ranelagh, but added- "yet nature some blessings has scattered around; and means to improve may hereafter be found." presuming that lowe kept his promise, that did not prevent failure overtaking him as a caterer of public amusement. he lacked enterprise as a manager, and a wet summer in 1767 resulted in financial catastrophe. more serious musical efforts than ballad concerts were attempted at marylebone from time to time. that this had been the case even before dr. samuel arnold became proprietor of the gardens is illustrated by an anecdote of dr. fountayne and handel, who often frequented the place. being there together on one occasion the great composer asked his friend's opinion of a new composition being played by the band. after listening a few minutes, dr. fountayne proposed that they resume their walk, for, said he, "it's not worth listening to--it's very poor stuff." "you are right, mr. fountayne," handel replied, "it is very poor stuff. i thought so myself when i had finished it." fireworks were not added to the attractions until 1751, and even then the displays were only occasional features for some years. in 1772, however, that part of the entertainment was deputed to the well-known torré, whose unique fireworks were the talk of london. he had one set piece called the forge of vulcan, which was so popular that its repetition was frequently demanded. according to george steevens, it was the fame of torré's fireworks which impelled dr. johnson to visit the gardens one night in his company. "the evening had proved showery," wrote steevens in his account of the outing, "and soon after the few people present were assembled, public notice was given that the conductors of the wheels, suns, stars, etc., were so thoroughly water-soaked that it was impossible any part of the exhibition should be made. 'that's a mere excuse,' says the doctor, 'to save their crackers for a more profitable company. let us both hold up our sticks, and threaten to break these coloured lamps that surround the orchestra, and we shall soon have our wishes gratified. the core of the fireworks cannot be injured; let the different pieces be touched in their respective centres, and they will do their offices as well as ever.' some young men who overheard him immediately began the violence he had recommended, and an attempt was speedily made to fire some of the wheels which appeared to have received the smallest damage; but to little purpose were they lighted, for most of them completely failed." [illustration: marylebone gardens.] apparently that was not the only occasion when the management failed to keep faith with the public. in july, 1774, the newspaper severely criticised the proprietors for having charged an admission fee of five shillings to a fête champètre, which consisted of nothing more than a few tawdry festoons and extra lamps, and another mentor of an earlier date had dismissed the whole place as "nothing more than two or three gravel roads, and a few shapeless trees." altogether, popular as torre's fireworks were when they went off, it is not improbable that they had a considerable share in terminating the existence of the gardens. houses were increasing fast in the neighbourhood, and the dwellers in those houses objected to being bombarded with rockets. at any rate, six years after the renowned torré began his pyrotechnics, the site of the gardens fell into the hands of builders and the seeker of out-door amusement had to find his enjoyment elsewhere. perhaps some of the frequenters of marylebone gardens transferred their patronage to the white conduit house, situated two or three miles to the north-east. here again is an example of a pleasure resort developing partially from an ale-house, for the legend is that the white conduit house was at first a small tavern, the finishing touches to which were given, to the accompaniment of much hard drinking, on the day charles i lost his head. [illustration: white conduit house.] unusual as is the name of this resort, it is largely self-explanatory. there was a water-conduit in an adjacent field, which was faced with white stone, and hence the name. the house itself, however, had its own grounds, which were attractively laid out when the whole property was reconstructed somewhere about 1745. at that time a long room was erected, and the gardens provided with a fish-pond and numerous arbours. the popularity of the place seems to date from the proprietorship of robert bartholomew, who acquired the property in 1754, and to have continued unabated till nearly the end of the century. mr. bartholomew did not overlook any of his attractions in the announcement he made on taking possession; "for the better accommodation of ladies and gentlemen," so the advertisement ran, "i have completed a long walk, with a handsome circular fish-pond, a number of shady pleasant arbours, inclosed with a fence seven feet high to prevent being the least incommoded from people in the fields; hot loaves and butter every day, milk directly from the cows, coffee, tea, and all manner of liquors in the greatest perfection; also a handsome long room, from whence is the most copious prospects and airy situation of any now in vogue. i humbly hope the continuance of my friends' favours, as i make it my chief study to have the best accommodations, and am, ladies and gentlemen, your obliged humble servant, robert bartholomew. note. my cows eat no grains, neither any adulteration in milk or cream." it is obvious that mr. bartholomew's enthusiasm made him reckless of grammar, and that some of his ladies and gentlemen might have objected to have their butter hot; but it is equally plain that here was a man who knew his business. and he did not fail of adequate reward. six years after the publication of that seductive announcement the resort had become so popular, especially as the objective of a sunday outing, that its praises were sung in poetry in so reputable a periodical as the gentleman's magazine. the verses describe the joy of the london 'prentice on the return of sunday, and give a spirited picture of the scene at the gardens. "his meal meridian o'er, with switch in hand, he to white conduit house hies merry-hearted. human beings here in couples multitudinous assemble, forming the drollest groups that ever trod fair islingtonian plains. male after male, dog after dog succeeding--husbands, wives, fathers and mothers, brothers, sisters, friends, and pretty little boys and girls. around, across, along, the gardens' shrubby maze, they walk, they sit, they stand. what crowds press on, eager to mount the stairs, eager to catch first vacant bench or chair in long room plac'd. here prig with prig holds conference polite, and indiscriminate the gaudy beau and sloven mix. here he, who all the week took bearded mortals by the nose, or sat weaving dead hairs, and whistling wretched strain, and eke the sturdy youth, whose trade it is stout oxen to contund, with gold-bound hat and silken stocking strut. the red arm'd belle here shows her tasty gown, proud to be thought the butterfly of fashion: and forsooth her haughty mistress deigns for once to tread the same unhallow'd floor.--`tis hurry all and rattling cups and saucers. waiter here, and waiter there, and waiter here and there, at once is call'd--joe--joe--joe--joe--joe- joe on the right--and joe upon the left, for ev'ry vocal pipe re-echoes joe. alas, poor joe! like francis in the play he stands confounded, anxious how to please the many-headed throng. but shou'd i paint the language, humours, custom of the place, together with all curts'ys, lowly bows, and compliments extern, 'twould swell my page beyond its limits due. suffice it then for my prophetic muse to say, 'so long as fashion rides upon the wings of time, while tea and cream, and butter'd rolls can please, while rival beaux and jealous belles exist, so long, white conduit house, shall be thy fame.'" more distinguished members of the community than the london 'prentice and the "red arm'd belle" frequented the gardens now and then. about 1762 the place was a favourite resort with oliver goldsmith, and was the scene of a typical episode in his life. while strolling in the gardens one afternoon he met the three daughters of a tradesman to whom he was under obligation, and of course must needs invite them to take tea as his guests. but when the time of reckoning came he found, characteristically enough, that his pocket was empty. happily some friends were near to rescue him from his difficulty, but the crucial moment of the incident was to be perpetuated in all its ludicrous humour by an artist of a later generation, who, in the painting entitled "an awkward position," depicted the poet at the moment when he discovered his pockets were empty. later in its history the white conduit house became known as the "minor vauxhall" and was the scene of balloon ascents, fireworks, and evening concerts. gradually, however, it fell on evil days, and in 1849 it passed permanently into the history of old london. no one traversing that sordid thoroughfare known as king's cross road in the london of to-day could imagine that that highway was the locality in the mid-eighteenth century of one of the most popular resorts of the english capital. such, however, was the case. at that time the highway was known as bagnigge wells road, and at its northern extremity was situated the resort known as bagnigge wells. the early history of the place is somewhat obscure. tradition has it that the original house was a summer residence of nell gwynne, where she frequently entertained her royal lover. it has also been stated that there was a place of public entertainment here as early as 1738. whatever truth there may be in both those assertions, there is no gainsaying the fact that the prosperity of bagnigge wells dates from a discovery made by a mr. hughes, the tenant of the house, in 1757. this mr. hughes took a pride in his garden, and was consequently much distressed to find that the more he used his watering-can, the less his flowers thrived. at this juncture a dr. bevis appeared on the scene, to whom the curious circumstance was mentioned. on tasting the water from the garden well he was surprised to find its "flavour so near that of the best chalybeates," and at once informed mr. hughes that it might be made of great benefit both to the public and himself. the next day a huge bottle of the water was delivered at dr. bevis's house, and analysis confirmed his first impression. before he could proceed further in the matter, dr. bevis fell ill, and by the time he had recovered notable doings had been accomplished at bagnigge wells. for mr. hughes was not wholly absorbed in the cultivation of flowers. visions of wealth residing in that well evidently captured his imagination, and he at once set to work fitting up his gardens as a kind of spa, where the public could drink for his financial benefit. a second well was sunk and found to yield another variety of mineral water, and the two waters were connected with a double pump over which a circular edifice named the temple was constructed. other attractions were added as their necessity became apparent. they included a spacious banqueting hall known as the long room, provided with an organ, and the laying out of the gardens in approved style. no doubt the curative qualities of the waters speedily became a secondary consideration with the patrons of the place, but that probably troubled mr. hughes not at all so long as those patrons came in sufficient numbers. that they did come in crowds is demonstrated by the literature which sprang up around the gardens, and by many other evidences. on its medicinal side the place was celebrated by one poet in these strains: "ye gouty old souls and rheumatics crawl on, here taste these blest springs, and your tortures are gone; ye wretches asthmatick, who pant for your breath, come drink your relief, and think not of death. obey the glad summons, to bagnigge repair, drink deep of its waters, and forget all your care. "the distemper'd shall drink and forget all his pain, when his blood flows more briskly through every vein; the headache shall vanish, the heartache shall cease, and your lives be enjoyed in more pleasure and peace obey then the summons, to bagnigge repair, and drink an oblivion to pain and to care." twenty years later the muse of bagnigge wells was pitched in a different key. the character of the frequenters had changed for the worse. instead of "gouty old souls," and "rheumatics," and "asthmaticks," the most noted cyprians of the day had made the place their rendezvous. so the poet sings of "thy arbours, bagnigge, and the gay alcove, where the frail nymphs in am'rous dalliance rove." [illustration: bagnigge wells.] concurrently with this change the gentlemen of the road began to favour the gardens with their presence, chief among their number being that notorious highwayman john rann, otherwise known as sixteen-string jack from his habit of wearing a bunch of eight ribbons on each knee. but he came to bagnigge once too often, for, after insisting on paying unwelcome attentions to a lady in the ball-room, he was seized by some members of the company and thrown out of a window into the fleet river below. notwithstanding this deterioration, the proprietor of the place in 1779 in announcing the opening for the season still dwelt upon the invaluable properties of the waters, not forgetting to add that "ladies and gentlemen may depend on having the best of tea, coffee, etc., with hot loaves, every morning and evening." but nothing could ward off the pending catastrophe. "bagnigge wells," wrote the historian of its decline, "sported its fountains, with little wooden cupids spouting water day and night, but it fearfully realized the _facilis descensus averni_. the gardens were curtailed of their fair proportions, and this once famous resort sank down to a threepenny concert-room." it struggled on in that lowly guise, for a number of years, but the end came in 1841, and now even the name of the road in which it existed is wiped off the map of london. more fortunate in that respect was the bermondsey spa, the name of which is perpetuated to this day in the spa road of that malodorous neighbourhood. this resort, which, like bagnigge wells, owed its creation to the discovery of a chalybeate spring, is bound up with the life-story of a somewhat remarkable man, thomas keyse by name. born in 1722, he became a self-taught artist of such skill that several of his still-life paintings were deemed worthy of exhibition at the royal academy. he was also awarded a premium of thirty guineas by the society of arts for a new method of fixing crayon drawings. but thirty guineas and the glory of being an exhibitor at the royal academy were hardly adequate for subsistence, and hence, somewhere about 1765, keyse turned to the less distinguished but more profitable occupation of tavern-keeper. having purchased the waterman's arms at bermondsey, with some adjoining waste land, he transformed the place into a tea-garden. shortly afterwards a chalybeate spring was discovered in the grounds, an event which obliterated the name of the waterman's arms in favour of the bermondsey spa gardens. the ground was duly laid out in pleasant walks, with the usual accompaniments of leafy arbours and other quiet nooks for tea-parties. the next step was to secure a music license, fit up an orchestra, adorn the trees with coloured lamps, organize occasional displays of fireworks, and challenge comparison with vauxhall if only on a small scale. one of the attractions reserved for special occasion was a scenic representation of the siege of gibraltar, in which fireworks, transparencies, and bomb shells played a prominent part. keyse himself was responsible for the device by which the idea was carried out, and the performance was so realistic that it was declared to give "a very strong idea of the real siege." hearty as were the plaudits bestowed upon the siege of gibraltar, there is not much risk in hazarding the opinion that keyse took more pride in the picture-gallery of his own paintings than in any other feature of his establishment. the canvases included representations of all kinds of still life, and, thanks to the recording pen of j. t. smith, that enthusiastic lover of old london, it is still possible to make the round of the gallery in the company of the artist-proprietor. mr. smith visited the gardens when public patronage had declined to a low ebb, so that he had the gallery all to himself, as he imagined. "stepping back to study the picture of the 'greenstall,' 'i ask your pardon,' said i, for i had trodden on some one's toes. 'sir, it is granted,' replied a little, thick-set man with a round face, arch looks, and close-curled wig, surmounted by a small three-cornered hat put very knowingly on one side, not unlike hogarth's head in his print of the 'gates of calais.' 'you are an artist, i presume; i noticed you from the end of the gallery, when you first stepped back to look at my best picture. i painted all the objects in this room from nature and still life.' 'your green-grocer's shop,' said i, 'is inimitable; the drops of water on that savoy appear as if they had just fallen from the element. van huysun could not have pencilled them with greater delicacy.' 'what do you think,' said he, 'of my butcher's shop?' 'your pluck is bleeding fresh, and your sweetbread is in a clean plate.' 'how do you like my bull's eye?' 'why, it would be a most excellent one for adams or dolland to lecture upon. your knuckle of veal is the finest i ever saw.' 'it's young meat,' replied he; 'any one who is a judge of meat can tell that from the blueness of its bone.' 'what a beautiful white you have used on the fat of that southdown leg! or is it bagshot?' 'yes,' said he, 'my solitary visitor, it is bagshot: and as for my white, that is the best nottingham, which you or any artist can procure at stone and puncheon's, bishopsgate street within.' 'sir joshua reynolds,' continued mr. keyse, 'paid me two visits. on the second, he asked me what white i had used; and when i told him, he observed, "it's very extraordinary, sir, that it keeps so bright. i use the same." "not at all, sir," i rejoined: "the doors of this gallery are open day and night; and the admission of fresh air, together with the great expansion of light from the sashes above, will never suffer the white to turn yellow."'" and then the enthusiastic artist and his solitary patron walked out to the orchestra in the gardens, sole auditors of the singer who had to sing by contract whether few or many were present. it is a pathetic record, portending the final closing of bermondsey spa but a few years later. on the return journey to southwark, the southwark of chaucer's tabard, the pilgrim among these memories of the past may tread the ground where finch's grotto gardens once re-echoed to laughter and song. they were established in 1760 by one thomas finch, who was of the fraternity of thomas keyse, even though he was but a herald painter. falling heir to a house and pleasant garden, encircled with lofty trees and umbrageous with evergreens and shrubs, he decided to convert the place into a resort for public amusement. the adornments consisted of a grotto, built over a mineral spring, and a fountain, and an orchestra, and an octagon room for balls and refuge from wet evenings. the vocalists included sophia snow, afterwards as mrs. baddeley to become notorious for her beauty and frailty, and thomas lowe, the one-time favourite of vauxhall, whose financial failure at marylebone made him thankful to accept an engagement at this more lowly resort. but finch's grotto gardens were not destined to a long life. perhaps they were too near vauxhall to succeed; perhaps the policy, of engaging had-been favourites was as little likely to bring prosperity in the eighteenth as in the twentieth century. whatever the cause, the fact is on record that after a career of less than twenty years the gardens ceased to exist. [illustration: finch's grotto, southwark.] as has been seen in an earlier chapter, the great prototype of the pleasure gardens of old london, vauxhall, outlived all its competitors for half a century. but upon even that favourite resort the changing manners of a new time had fatal effect. as knowledge grew and taste became more diversified, it became less and less easy to cater for the amusement of the many. to the student of old-time manners, however, the history of the out-door resorts of old london is full of instruction and suggestion, if only for the light it throws on these "struggles for happiness" which help to distinguish man from the brute creation. the end. index "a cup of coffee, or coffee in its colours," adam and eve tavern adam., the brothers addison, joseph adelphi hotel aix-la-chapelle, peace of alice's coffee-house alfred club almack, william almack's "amelia" anderson, mrs. anderton's hotel angel inn, fleet street angel inn, islington anne, queen annual register anstey's "pleaders' guide" apollo room at the devil tavern archer, mrs. mary argyll, duke of aristophanes armstrong, dr. john arnold, dr. samuel arthur's club arthur, mr. athenseum club bacon, anthony baddeley, mrs. bagnigge wells bailley, christian bailley, henry barrington, hon. daines barrington, sir jonas bartholomew fair bartholomew, robert bate, henry bath, installation of the knights of batson's coffee-house bear inn beauclerk, lady sydney beauclerk, topham beaufort, duchess of beaumont, francis becket, thomas à, bedford coffee-house bedford, duke of bedford head tavern beeswing club, the beef steak club bell tavern belle sauvage inn bermondsey spa gardens bevis, dr. bickerstaff, sir isaac bishopsgate street within, inns of bishopsgate street without, inns of blackmore, sir richard bloomfield, robert blount, sir henry blue boar inn blue posts tavern blue-stocking club boar's head inn, eastcheap boar's head inn, southwark boehm, mr. boileau's _lutrin_ bolinbroke, viscount boodle's club bordeaux, merchants of boswell, james bowen, william bowman, mrs. bramble, matt british coffee-house british institution broghill, lord brontë, anne brontë, charlotte brooks's club brown, tom buchan, dr. buckingham, duke of bull and gate inn bull head tavern bull inn burke, edmund burney, dr. burney, fanny burton's, thomas, "parliamentary diary" button's coffee-house buttony, daniel byron, lord byron, lord, the poet cade, jack "calamities and quarrels of authors" calf's head club campbell, lord campbell, thomas cannon coffee-house canterbury canterbury tales cambridge carriers carlisle, lord carlyle, thomas cat, christopher catley, nan chamier, anthony chapter coffee-house charnock, robert charing cross, coffee-houses of charing cross, inns of charles i charles ii charles v chatelaine's chatterton, thomas chaucer, geoffrey chaworth, william cheapside cross cheshire cheese chesterfield, lord child's coffee-house chinaman, goldsmith's, at vauxhall christ's hospital churchill, lady mary cibber, colley cicero cider cellars, "citizen of the world," claypole, elizabeth, club, definition of, clubs of old london, club, the, clutterback, james, cock tavern, fleet street, cock tavern, leadenhall street, cock tavern, suffolk street, cocoa-tree club, coffee, "coffee house, the character of," coffee-houses in london, first to be opened, subject of a play, pamphlets for and against, petition, against, proclamationl suppressing, influenced by locality, "coffee. women's petition against," "coffee house vindicated," coleridge, s. t., colin. farmer, collier's, jeremy, "short view," congers, connoisseur, the, cony, nathaniel, "country mouse and the city mouse," covent garden, coffee-houses of, covent garden, taverns of, coverley, sir roger de, cowley, abraham, cowper, william, craven head inn, crown and anchor, cromwell, oliver, cruikshank, george, cumberland, duke of, cumberland, richard, cupels gardens, curran, jolin philpot, cuthbert, captain, dagger tavern, "dark walks" of vauxhall. davidson, jobs, davies, thomais, "decline and fall of the roman empire," defoe, daniel, de moivre. abraham, devil tavern, devonshire, duke of, dibdin, charles, dickens, charles, dick's coffee-house, dolly's chop-house, don saltero's coffee-house, dorset, duke of, dorset. earl of. douglas, bishop, dover house club, drinkwater, thomas, drummond, william, drury lane, inns of, dryden, john, dudley, lord, d'urfey, thomas, dutton, john, edward vi, edwards; mrs., egan, pierce, elephant and castle tavern, elephant tavern elizabeth, queen england, john e o tables essex, lord essex street club ethrage, sir george evans, widow evelyn, john falcon tavern falkner, mary ann falstaff, sir john farr, james faslolfe, sir john fantom, captain feather's tavern fielding, henry finch's grotto gardens finch, thomas fireworks at vauxhall at ranelagh at marylebone at bermondsey spa gardens fitzgerald, edward "fitzgerald, fighting," fleece tavern fleet street, taverns of ford, parson foote, samuel fortune theatre fountain tavern fountayne, dr. fox, charles james franklin, beniamin froude, james anthony fuller, isaac fuller, thomas garrawav's coffee-house garraway, thomas garrick, david garth, sir samuel gaskell, mrs. gay, john gentleman's magazine george i george ii george iii george's coffee-house george inn gibbon, edward gibbons, grinling gibraltar, siege of gifford's, william, life of ben jenson gillray, james golden cross tavern golden eagle tavern goldsmith, oliver goose and gridiron gordon, george goueh, daniel grant, andrew gray, thomas grecian coffee-house green, j. r. green ribbon club gregorie, robert gresham, sir thomas grimes, jack guardian, the guildhall museum gwynne, nell hackman, james hal, prince hales, john hales, robert halifax, earl of hall, jacob halley professor hamilton, lord spencer hand and shears tavern handel, george frederick hanover club harley, edward, earl of oxford harper, bishop harrington, james harvard, john haslam, dr hawkins, sir john henry ii henry iii henry iv henry v henry vi henry viii herrick, robert hill, aaron hill, dr. john hobson, thomas hogarth, william holborn, inns of holland, lord horden, hildebrand horn tavern horseshoe tavern horseshoe tavern, covent garden howard, lord howard, major-general howard, sir john howell. james. "familiar letters" of hughes, mr hummums tavern humphries, miss "humphry clinker" hunt's, leigh, "the town" hyde, abbot of hyde, lady inspector, the irving, washington jacobites ja-mes i james iii jay, cyrus jerusalem coffee-house jessop's jonathan's coffee-house john's coffee-house johnson, dr. samuel jones, sir william jones, william jonson, ben keate, roger keats, john kenrick, william kensington, south, museum keyse thomas killigrew, harry king's coffee-house king, thomas king's head tavern, penchurch street king's head tavern, fleet street king john's palace kingston, lord king street, westminster, taverns of kit-cat club kit-cat portraits knapp, mrs. lacy, james laguerre, louis lamb, charles lambe, john lambert, george langton, bennet lee, sidney leg tavern leslie, charles robert lill, william lincolnshire, fens of lion's head at button's coffee-house "lives of the english poets" lloyd, charles lloyd's coffee-house lloyd, edward lloyd, sir philip locket's locket, adam locket, mrs. lockier, francis london bridge london coffee-house london, fire of london, plague of london tavern long's tavern lonsdale, earl of loughborough, lady loughborough, lord louis xvi lowe, thomas lowell, j. r. lowther, sir james lunsford, colonel lupton, donald lyttelton, lord macaulay, lord "mac fleoknoe" macklin, charles mackreth, robert maiden lane taverns malone, edmund man, alexander man's coffee-house manchester, lady marlborough, duchess of marvell, andrew marylebone gardens maxwell, dr. medici, mary de melford, lydia mermaid tavern, cheapside mermaid tavern, cornhill "mermaid tavern, lines on," miles's coffee-house mitre tavern, cheapside mitre tavern, fenchurch street mitre tavern, fleet street monmouth, duke of montagu, captain montagu, lady mary wortley montagu, mrs. more, hannah morris, captain mounsey, dr. mozart, w. a. nag's head tavern, cheapside nag's head tavern, drury lane nando's coffee-house nash, beau newport, young new spring gardens newton, sir isaac norfolk, duke of north, dudley north, lord northumberland, duke of nottinghamshire club oates, titus observer, the "oceana" october club oldisworth, william orford, lord ormonde, marquis of oxford, earl of pall mall taverns pantheon, the "paradise lost," paris garden paterson, james pellett, dr. pembroke, earl of pepys, mrs. pepys, samuel percy, dr. petres, lord philips, ambrose phillips, sir richard "pickmick papers," pierce, mrs. pie-powder court pindar, sir paul pindar, sir paul, tavern pindar, peter pitt, colonel pitt's head tavern pitt, william poins pontack's pope, alexander pope's head tavern porson, richard portland, duke of preston, robert price, dr. richard priestly, dr. "prince alfred," prior, matthew prior, samuel queen's arms tavern queensbury, duchess of quickly, dame quin, james rainbow tavern raleigh, sir walter ranelagh rotunda at, f&e at, amusements of, riot at, poem on, closing of ranelagh, earl of rann, john raw&son, 'dan rawlinson, mrs. rawthmell's coffee-house ray, martha red lion inn "retaliation" reynolds, sir joshua rich, john richard ii richardson, samuel richmond, duke of ridley, bishop robinson, sir thomas rochester, lord rock, richard rogers, samuel rosee, pasqua rose tavern rossetti, dante gabriel rota club rousseau, j. j. rowlandson, thomas rummer tavern st. albans, duchess of st. alban's tavern st. james's coffee-house st. james's palace st. paul's churchyard st. paul's coffee-house salter, james salutation tavern sam's coffee-house sanchy, mr. sandwich, earl of saqui, mme. saracen's head tavern, snow hill "sarrasin's head," westminster savage, richard scott; peter scott, sir walter sedley, sir charles sedley, jos. selden, john selwyn, george shadwell, thomas shakespeare, william sharp, rebecca sheffield, lord shepherd, george sheridan, r. b. ship and turtle tavern slaughter's coffee-house slaughter, thomas sloane, sir hans smith, adam smith, captain john smith, j. t. smollett, tobias smyrna coffee-house snow, sophia somerset coffee-house southey, robert south sea bubble southwark map of meaning of name inns of tabard inn bear inn fair of boar's head inn george inn white hart inn spectator, the spenser, edmund spotted dog inn staple inn star and garter tavern steele, sir richard steevens, george stella, journal to stevens, george alexander stewart, admiral keith stewart, general william stillingfleet, benjamin stony, captain stow, john strand, inns and taverns of strype, john stuart, frances suckling, sir john suffolk street taverns swan inn swift, jonathan tabard inn tarleton, richard tassoni's secchia rapita tatler, the tearsheet, doll temple bar tennyson, alfred, lord thackeray, w. m. thatched house tavern thomson, james three as sign of london taverns three cranes' lane three cranes in the vintry three nuns tavern three tuns tavern thurlow, lord chancellor tibbs, mr. and mrs. tickell thomas till, william tom's coffee-house, birchin lane tom's coff ke-house, covent garden "tom jones" tonson, jacob tooke, home torre totenhall court turk's head coffee-house turner, j. m. w. tyers, jonathan tyers, tom "vanity fair" vauxhall, plan of; rotunda at; attractions of; supper party at; closing of vernon, admiral vittoria, victory of voltaire wales, prince of (george iv) walker's "the original" walpole, horace walton's, isaac, "complete angler" ward, ned warren sir william warwick, countess of washington, george washington, purser waterman's arms tavern "webb, young" weller, sam wellington, duke of welteie's club west, captain thomas westminster taverns and coffee-houses "wet paper club" wheatley, henry b. white's chocolate-house white conduit house white hart inn white hart inn, bishopsgate street within white horse cellar "white, mary, or the murder at the old tabard" wildman's coffee-house "wilkes and liberty" wilkes, john william iii william, king, statue of, wilson, "long-bow" will's coffee-house, belle sauvage yard will's coffee-house, covent garden "will waterproofs lyrical monologue" windmill tavern wittengamot club wolcot, john, "peter pindar" wren, sir christopher wright, thomas wyatt, sir thomas yarmouth, lady york, duke of young, edward internet archive (https://archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 44240-h.htm or 44240-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/44240/44240-h/44240-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/44240/44240-h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/oldtavernsofnewy00bayl old taverns of new york by w. harrison bayles frank allaben genealogical company forty-second street building, new york copyright, 1915, by frank allaben genealogical company old taverns of new york contents page preface xv i dutch taverns 1 indian trade--first settlement--purchase of manhattan island--popular taverns in new amsterdam--sunday closing under stuyvesant--dutch festivities ii new york and the pirates 37 the english conquest--horse races--regulations for innkeepers--first merchants' exchange--famous taverns of the period--early buccaneers and their relations with government officials--efforts of the earl of bellomont to restrain piracy iii the coffee house 65 an exciting election in 1701--popularity of the coffee house--aftermath of the leisler troubles--political agitation under lord cornbury--trials of nicholas bayard and roger baker--conferences at the coffee house--festivals under the english rule--official meetings in taverns and coffee houses iv the black horse 91 the black horse tavern, scene of many political conferences in the early eighteenth century--rip van dam and governor cosby--lewis morris' campaign--zenger's victory for liberty of the press--old new york inns--privateering--the negro plot v the merchants' coffee house 127 the slave market, later the meal market--the merchants' coffee house, famous for more than half a century--clubs of colonial new york--the merchants' exchange--charter of king's college, now columbia university--french and indian war--the assembly balls--the press gang--some old inns--surrender of fort washington vi tavern signs 167 doctor johnson on the comforts of an inn--landlords of the olden time--some curious tavern signs--intemperance in the eighteenth century--sports and amusements vii the king's arms 191 the crown and thistle, meeting place of st. andrew's society and later called the king's head--the king's arms, formerly the exchange coffee house and the gentlemen's coffee house--broadway of the eighteenth century--the stamp act and the non-importation agreement--the liberty pole--recreation gardens viii hampden hall 227 the queen's head tavern, where was organized the new york chamber of commerce--pre-revolutionary excitement--battle of golden hill--hampden hall, meeting place of the sons of liberty and attacked by the british--list of members of the social club, 1775--other clubs and societies of the period--the moot, a lawyers' club and its charter members--the tax on tea, committee of correspondence and outbreak of the revolution ix the province arms 271 the continental congress--marinus willett's seizure of arms--flight of the tories--happenings at the coffee house--the province arms, resort of british officers--other taverns--the theatre royal--sports--the refugee club--social affairs under the british occupation x fraunces' tavern 307 the treaty of peace--celebration dinners at sam fraunces' house and other taverns--evacuation of new york--washington's farewell to his officers, at fraunces' tavern, 1783--first new york bank--re-organization of chamber of commerce--social, philanthropic, and learned societies of the day--the cincinnati--the new constitution--washington's inauguration--sam fraunces, steward of the president xi the tontine coffee house 351 the tammany society--tontine coffee house founded by prominent new york merchants--new york stock exchange in the tontine--marriner's tavern, later called the roger morris house and the jumel mansion--the tammany wigwam--brillât-savarin in new york xii the city hotel 385 club life after the revolution--the city hotel and the assembly balls--musical societies--second hudson centennial, 1809--st. andrew's society dinners and other feasts--tea gardens--the embargo of 1807--society of mechanics and tradesmen--new england society--political associations--tammany hall--the battery--the ugly club xiii the shakespeare tavern 417 the war of 1812--dinner to naval victors at the city hotel--dinners to captain lawrence, general harrison, commodores bainbridge and perry--news of peace--the shakespeare tavern, a musical and literary centre--cradle of the seventh regiment--a new york inn comparable to london's "mermaid tavern" and "turk's head"--visits of monroe and jackson--the erie canal--first new york savings bank--the price-wilson duel xiv road houses 445 prejudice against dancing--balls--debates and lectures--the city hotel--niblo's garden--road houses--trotting matches--upper third avenue--suburban drives and taverns--lafayette's visit--clubs--end of city hotel--era of hotels index 481 illustrations page "beer was the dutchman's drink" 5 the city tavern from the justin dancker's view, 1650 15 the white horse tavern 18 the damen house 19 water gate, foot of wall street 24 "they had discovered the toothsome terrapin" 31 "the man of the knight of st. george" 38 the earl of bellomont 56 "as genuine pirates as ever sailed the sea" 57 captain tew 59 the bayard punch bowl 74 viscount cornbury 78 old tankard 80 the black horse tavern 90 rip van dam 93 governor cosby 94 lewis morris 95 fac-simile news item from the new york weekly journal, november 5, 1733 99 andrew hamilton 102 the ball at the black horse 107 "which were all drank in bumpers" 109 "the violin and flute, by 'private hands'" 111 house at 122 william street 117 the royal exchange 136 sir danvers osborne, governor of new york 139 "the drumbeat was constantly heard in the streets" 145 sir charles hardy, governor of new york 147 colonel peter schuyler 150 the press gang 153 the bull's head tavern 157 the roger morris house 160 the blue bell tavern 161 the old time landlord 169 "hard drinking prevailed" 171 good old madeira 173 a racing trophy 180 bull baiting, from an old advertisement 184 the bowling green, from lyne's map 186 william alexander, earl of stirling 192 house built by cornelis steenwyck 197 the de lancey house 201 liberty boys 214 at ranelagh 220 corner of broadway and murray street, 1816 235 captain a. mcdougall 241 merchants' coffee house and coffee house slip 254 marinus willett stopping the transfer of arms 274 baroness de riedesel 298 in the coffee house 318 "gambling with cards was pretty general" 339 simmons' tavern 342 fac-simile receipt of sam fraunces, as washington's steward 343 the bowery theatre 348 tontine coffee house 356 old sleigh 365 the city hotel 373 martling's tavern 376 belvedere club house 382 fac-simile bill of the city hotel, 1807 384 anthelme brillât-savarin 387 white conduit house 398 robert r. livingston 404 washington hall 409 tammany hall 411 fraunces' tavern about 1830 412 the great naval dinner at the city hotel, december 29, 1812 416 commodore stephen decatur 418 commodore isaac hull 420 captain james lawrence 421 the shakespeare tavern 429 "as choice spirits as ever supped at the turk's head" 431 de witt clinton 438 contoit's garden 454 niblo's garden 457 reynolds' beer house 459 cato's house 461 the old hazzard house 462 burnham's mansion house 464 fitz-greene halleck 470 j. fenimore cooper 472 bunker's mansion house 477 preface much has been written about the old taverns of new york in a disconnected way, but heretofore there has been no connected story linking them with the current events of the early history of the city. this story i have attempted to tell from the dutch settlement down to the early part of the last century, when the growth of the city and extensive travel entirely changed their character. in doing this i have found myself at issue with many writers on the subject. in every such case the conclusions set down in this book rest i believe upon unquestionable documentary evidence, in part referred to in the text. before any newspapers appeared the tavern was a very important institution in the community. it was the medium of all news both political and social, the one place where people of all kinds met to exchange views on every subject of interest to the general public. in this way it exercised an influence second only to the church. the connection of the taverns with the history of the city was very close. there was hardly an event of importance but had its inception in the taverns, where all questions of interest to the public were discussed as in no other place. they were frequented by all classes and the influence of each one of them on the community depended entirely on the character of those who patronized it. the merchants, the politicians and the men of letters each had their places of rendezvous. following the history of the city chronologically i have endeavored to link with it the influence of the taverns on current events, and at the same time show up the interesting features of tavern life by details of happenings at these places. i have made no attempt to increase interest by any means except the plain, unvarnished truth, which i have considered sufficiently attractive. tales of the old taverns are enhanced in interest by a glamour of antiquity surrounding the subject by which few can fail to be charmed. nothing exists at the present day in any way resembling an old tavern of the first class in colonial times. it was the place for political discussion, for social clubs and for meetings of all kinds. every one went to the tavern and from no other source could a person gain so much knowledge of public affairs. w. harrison bayles old taverns of new york i dutch taverns [sidenote: trading with the indians] on the return of hendrick hudson from his voyage of discovery in 1609, his reports were so favorable, especially, as to the abundance of valuable furs which were to be had at very little cost, that several merchants of amsterdam, without delay, fitted out trading vessels and sent them to trade with the indians in the territory he had visited. the returns were satisfactory, and they formed themselves into a company under the name of the united netherland company and established a trading post on the southern part of manhattan island. the exclusive privilege of trade, which had been granted them by holland, expired in the year 1618, and they endeavored to have the grant renewed or extended, but succeeded only in obtaining a special license, expiring yearly, which they held for two or three years longer. in the meantime a more extensive association had been formed by some merchants and capitalists of holland, who in the year 1621 received a charter under the title of the west india company, which gave to them the exclusive privilege of trade on the whole atlantic coast, so far as the jurisdiction of holland extended. powers of government were conferred upon the company and the right to make treaties with the indians. in 1623, they sent out a vessel which carried thirty families to begin the colony. the vessel landed her passengers and freight near the present site of albany and a settlement was there established. the return cargo of skins and other freight was valued at about twelve thousand dollars. [sidenote: first settlement] it having been determined to fix the headquarters of the company in new netherland on manhattan island, two ships cleared from holland in 1625 with a large number of settlers for this place. with these was sent out peter minuit, as director-general, to superintend the interests of the company. on board the vessels were carried more than a hundred head of cattle, besides other domestic animals, such as would be needed by the people in a permanent settlement. this was the first real settlement on manhattan island. the few huts and storehouses, surrounded by a stockade for protection against the indians, although it appears they were very friendly, which had been located here for many years, was not a settlement; it was only a trading post; no attempt had been made to cultivate the land. unlike the new england settlers and the swedes upon the delaware the dutch did not make use of the log house, so well adapted by economy, ease of construction and comfort, as a temporary home. it is said that dutch traders built huts very much like those of the indian tribes of the neighborhood. the indian house or hut was made by placing in the ground two parallel rows of upright saplings adjoining each other and bringing their tops together, lapping them over each other in a curve. on this were fastened boughs and reeds, as a protection against wind and rain, the inside being lined with bark nicely joined together. if such skill were used in joining the bark on the inside as is displayed by some of the north american indians in building their canoes, it must have presented a very neat and smooth appearance. there was no floor, the fire, in winter, being built upon the ground, the smoke escaping through an opening in the roof. the width of the house was invariably twenty feet, the length being regulated by the number of families occupying it. if the dutch traders used such huts they undoubtedly modified them somewhat as to fireplace and chimney and probably made many other improvements to suit their needs. [sidenote: manhattan island purchased] peter minuit, the director-general, to obtain title to the island, purchased it from the indian proprietors, and the settlers commenced their town by staking out a fort, under the direction of kryn frederick, an engineer sent out for that purpose, and set about the erection of their temporary homes, which were little better than those of their predecessors, the traders. the next year, 1626, the machinery for a saw mill arrived from holland and a mill worked by wind power was erected on what is now governor's island, which was then covered with a fine growth of forest trees, which after being cut up, could be easily floated to the little town. the settlers were thus supplied with lumber which enabled them to erect buildings more conformable to their needs. they built, as a rule, houses of only one story in height, with two rooms on the ground floor and a garret above. the roof was reed or straw thatch, and this material continued to be so used for about thirty years after the first settlement of new amsterdam. the fireplace was built of stone to the height of about six feet, having an oven of the same material by the side of it, extending beyond the rear of the house. the chimney above the stone work was made of boards plastered inside with mortar. the average value of these houses was about one hundred and fifty dollars. the dutchman did not come to america for the sake of religious or political freedom or to escape persecution. he was lured by the profits of trade and the prospect of finding a better and more extensive home for himself and for his children. in the little village or town that had been formed by the first settlers on the southern point of manhattan island no puritanical laws or regulations prevented him from dealing in beer or strong drink, or in drinking as much as he had a mind to. beer was the dutchman's drink, and the west india company very early erected the company's brewery on the north side of bridge street, between the present whitehall and broad streets, to supply the little town with its usual beverage. [illustration: "beer was the dutchman's drink"] the dutch trader bartered with the indians for furs, and as the little cluster of houses near the fort grew in population some of the traders also sold, when they could, a little beer and other strong drink which their furs enabled them to obtain from the ships coming into port. for many years, except with the indians, there does not appear to have been any restraint on this trade in liquor, but, although there were many houses where it was kept on tap for sale, no provision seems to have been made for the lodging of strangers. [sidenote: the city tavern] the dutch from up the river or from the nearby settlements, which were very scanty until the time of stuyvesant, were, no doubt, always able to find relatives or friends with whom they could lodge; but the english skippers who stopped over on their trips between virginia and the new england colonies were not only strangers but spoke a strange language, unknown to most of the inhabitants, and it is not difficult to understand the reluctance of having them as guests in the small houses where the accommodations were very limited. governor kieft says that he was put to great inconvenience in taking care of them, and so, in 1641 built a large stone house to accommodate and care for them and other strangers, which was known as the stadt herbergh or city tavern. there must have been urgent need for such a house, for it was the most costly building that had been erected up to this time. the expenditure was much greater than for the building of a new and substantial church in the fort, a short time after. it was, no doubt, intended to impress and increase the respect of strangers and was an object of the admiration and pride of the citizens of new amsterdam. it was located in a very conspicuous place, with one of its sides facing the east river, apart from the other houses of the town. it was two stories high with a basement underneath and spacious lofts above. in the rear was an extension or addition, a long, narrow structure which was apparently used for kitchen purposes and probably for other uses. early in the year 1643 the stadt herbergh, or city tavern, was leased to philip gerritsen, its first landlord, at a rental of three hundred guilders, or about one hundred and twenty dollars, per annum and opened for the entertainment of the public; afterwards to adriaen gerritsen, down to the beginning of the year 1652, when the tavern was being conducted by abraham delanoy. according to agreement, gerritsen was to sell the company's wine, brandy and beer, and no other, the company agreeing not to allow any wine to be sold out of their cellar to the injury of the lessee. the director-general also promised that a well should be dug near the house and that a brew-house should be erected in the rear or that gerritsen should be permitted the use of the company's brew-house. shortly after the opening of the tavern it was put to good use in sheltering the fugitives who came to it for protection. among these were the settlers from achter col, across the kills from staten island, on the mainland, who, driven from their homes, which were destroyed by the indians, were lodged for a time at the city tavern, at the expense of the west india company. the tavern seems to have been in frequent use as a place of detention of persons obnoxious to the director and his council and of persons suspected of offenses against the orders of the director-general, and it is probable that some part of the building was set apart for that purpose. sometimes the prisoners were quite numerous, as when, in 1651, the crew of the ship "nieuw nederlandsche fortuyn" were quartered here, and also when in 1656, after it had become the city hall, were brought here the twenty-three englishmen who had attempted to make a settlement in the present westchester, hostile to the dutch claim. notwithstanding this, the tavern came to be patronized by many of the best people of the place and by the officers of the west india company. it became a place where a great deal of business was transacted, both public and private, and was one of the places where all public notices were posted, the others being the fort and the barn of the west india company. it was, too, before it became the city hall, the place where the court frequently sat for the trial of minor cases. here was held in the fall and winter of 1653 the landtdag, or diet, consisting of representatives from each of the dutch towns, for the purpose of providing means of defence against the indians. this was the most important popular convention that had ever been held in new amsterdam. [sidenote: the city tavern becomes the city hall] in 1652 new amsterdam was incorporated as a city under the government of a schout, two burgomasters and five schepens, and was allowed a separate magistracy, although not independent of governor and council. this made it necessary to have a city hall or town house, and soon after the city tavern was ceded to the city and henceforth was known as the "stadt huys" or city hall. [sidenote: captain underhill makes trouble] in the first settlement of new england the laws and regulations as to the sale of strong drink and as to restraint in indulgence were very rigid, but afterwards much relaxed. in new amsterdam there was little restraint; so that when the notorious puritan captain john underhill came down to new amsterdam, however exemplary may have been his behavior while at home among his new england friends (although there had been some complaint), he let himself loose and became, as some would say, "gloriously drunk." on the night of the 15th of march, 1644, in the parlor of philip gerritsen of the city tavern, doctor hans kiersted, dominie bogardus, gysbert opdyck and several others, with their wives, were having a supper and spending an agreeable evening. some time after the supper, while they were enjoying themselves, captain underhill, with lieutenant baxter and a drummer, who had evidently made the rounds of the town and were in an advanced state of intoxication, appeared at the door. gerritsen could not forbid entrance to the worthy captain, but told him that he was entertaining a party of friends with their wives and requested him to take a separate room where he would serve them. they were finally induced to do this after much talk. they invited some of the company to drink with them and they complied. baxter invited opdyck to join them but he refused. thereupon underhill and his companions drew their swords and cut in pieces the cans on the shelves in the tavern, hacked the door-posts and endeavored by force to get into the room where the supper party was. this was for some time resisted by the landlady with a leaden bolt and by the landlord trying to keep the door closed; but, in spite of all opposition, they succeeded in forcing their way in. underhill was in such a state that it was quite uncertain at what moment he might take a notion to flesh his sword in any dutchman who stood in his way. with his sword half drawn he cried: "clear out of here, for i shall strike at random." the fiscal and a guard from the fort were sent for, but they did not succeed in quieting the drunken englishmen. in reply to some remarks of the dominie, who suggested that the director-general himself be sent for, underhill said, as deposed by witnesses: "if the director come here, 'tis well. i had rather speak to a wise man than a fool." to prevent further and more serious mischief, fearing that at any moment underhill might pink the dominie, the supper party withdrew, leaving underhill in possession of the field. thus the gallant captain scored another victory. when wouter van twiller came out, in 1633, as director-general, the pressing claims of england to the control of the whole territory on the atlantic coast, induced the west india company to send out with him a military force of one hundred and four soldiers to garrison the fort. these were the first that had been sent over. [sidenote: sergeant peter cock's tavern] among the soldiers, some years later, was a man by the name of peter cock, who held the rank of sergeant. he built, or had constructed for him, a little house, such as were being put up at that time, northwest from the fort, on ground now occupied by no. 1 broadway. it was very likely the first house built on that side of the fort and was used as a tavern. it was no doubt more patronized by the soldiers than any other. sergeant cock was in command of several regular soldiers under la montagne in the expedition against the indians on staten island in 1643. on their return to new amsterdam, they were all immediately sent out to greenwich and stamford, where they scoured the country in search of the indians. in november of the same year governor kieft dispatched one hundred and twenty men, under the command of dr. la montagne, cock and underhill, to exterminate the canarsee indians. they brought back from this expedition some prisoners, who were afterwards barbarously treated, inhumanly tortured and finally killed in the public streets of new amsterdam. at sergeant cock's tavern the details of these expeditions and the part taken in them by each individual were, doubtless, thoroughly discussed by the soldiers as they drank their beer or other beverages served out to them. they talked over the quarrels of the dominie and the director-general and the last sermon in which the dominie fulminated his biting diatribes against the director; how the drummer beat up the drum and the gunner touched off one of the big guns when the dominie was in the midst of one of his harangues, which distracted the congregation and almost threw them into a panic. next to the lot on which sergeant cock had built his house martin crigier obtained the grant of a lot in 1643, on which a house appears to have already been built, probably by himself. crigier is said to have come out in the service of the west india company when a young man, after his separation or release from which he had engaged in the business of trader and sloop captain on the north river and became an active and conspicuous citizen. he was certainly a doughty dutchman, his name occupying a prominent place in the military annals of new amsterdam. the military expeditions in which he was engaged were numerous. in 1657 he went out in command of forty men to settle difficulties on the delaware. in 1659 he commanded a force of sixty men, sent out to the same region to repel a threatened invasion of the english. in 1663 he was in command of the force sent to esopus to punish the savages for their massacre of the dutch, and in this expedition he seems to have had the complete confidence of governor stuyvesant, himself a valiant soldier. with cornelis van tienhoven he was sent to new haven to treat with the english and he was burgomaster of new amsterdam in 1653, 1654, 1659, 1660 and 1663. [sidenote: burgomaster martin crigier, tavern-keeper] he was an innkeeper and we can easily imagine that his house must have been the resort of all the dutch politicians of his day, where were discussed not only plans of attack and defence, but also the policies of the little town in all its various aspects, both internally and in relation to the indians and the english. the english, no doubt, were thoroughly discussed, for there was constant trouble with them at this time. the house was near the fort, on ground now occupied by no. 3 broadway, and looked out on the open ground of the present bowling green, which was then the parade of the soldiers, being in front of the gate of the fort, the eastern side of it being used as a market field on appointed days, where were displayed all kinds of country produce brought in from the surrounding country. here, also, in this open space, in 1656 and subsequent years, was held, in the latter part of october and all through november, the cattle market for store and fat cattle, sheep, goats, hogs, bucks, and such like. it was promised that stalls and other conveniences would be erected for those who brought such animals to market. this cattle-market, notice of which, by letter, had been sent out to the dutch and english of connecticut and long island, no doubt brought to new amsterdam a great many from the surrounding country, even as far away as new haven. the taverns were full and the life and activity of the city was much increased. the young men drank in the conversations of the city burghers at the taverns, discussed with them the price of beaver skins and other articles of trade with the indians, and in turn told of the arts of the trapper and hunter, as well as adventures with the indians and with the wild animals of the forest. these visitors, for a time, made the taverns gay and lively, and sometimes there were, no doubt, heated talks and even quarrels and personal encounters. [illustration: the city tavern from the justin dancker's view, 1650] in front of the taverns of captain crigier and sergeant cock groups of men could be seen at such times bargaining and discussing prices and the news of the day. beer was to be had and there was plenty of talk, for the outlying settlers brought in the news of their own sections and were very anxious to learn all the news of the city and still more anxious to get news from the fatherland. those who visited the city to bring in cattle and attend this market made of it a pleasure trip long to be remembered. although new amsterdam could not furnish any amusement that would intoxicate a modern new yorker yet, to those who were passing their days in isolated homes, the gaiety of the little city was a source of great enjoyment; and in returning to their quiet homes they carried back with them all the little luxuries which they could afford and which the city could supply. they had also a great deal to tell their relatives and friends. there is no doubt that when peter cock and martin crigier built their taverns to catch the patronage of the soldiers at the fort, the ground in the neighborhood to the west of the fort and along the river was in a perfect state of nature, untouched by the hand of man. the authorities kept the space in front of the fort clear of building; which, without any preconceived plan or intention on their part, resulted in leaving a triangular open space, which became the parade for the soldiers, the market place for cattle, and, afterwards, in the time of the english, the bowling green. in september, 1659, transfer was made of a lot on the west side of the heere straat (broadway), which was described as bounded on the south by the _newly-built house and lot of burgomaster martin crigier_. it was about this time that improvements and a great advance were being made in the style of building, and as crigier was at this time and had been some years previous a burgomaster, and was besides a conspicuous man in the community, it is natural to suppose that he would put up a good and substantial house. on the other side of the fort, close under the shelter of its eastern wall, at the corner of the present whitehall and stone streets, where the produce exchange now stands, was a little tavern which had been built in the most economical manner in 1641, and was kept by a frenchman, philip gerard, called by the dutch geraerdy, who had left the gay city of paris for life among the dutch of new amsterdam. geraerdy probably had good reasons for the change; perhaps it was to escape conscription in the wars then raging in europe. riding the wooden horse in the fort was a common punishment of the soldiers, and philip geraerdy, we presume from a sense of humor, or for some other good reason, called his house the wooden horse, or at least it is so called in the dutch records. the soldiers no doubt much preferred the wooden horse (or bench) in philip's tavern to that in the fort. philip was himself at one time a soldier, and had ridden the wooden horse, for may 27, 1642, "philip geraerdy, a soldier, for having been absent from the guard without leave," was sentenced to ride the wooden horse during parade, with a pitcher in one hand and a drawn sword in the other. [sidenote: the white horse tavern] after a few years the name of philip's house underwent a change. this may have been the result of a sort of evolutionary process, induced by philip, who erected in front of his house a sign on which was painted a white horse on a dark background, very conspicuous. the house became known as the sign of the white horse or the white horse tavern. [illustration: the white horse tavern] some lively scenes were connected with the little tavern. one dark night in the spring of 1643, farmer jan damen, whose house was just beyond the present wall street near broadway, drank deep in philip's house, and was in such a condition that geraerdy thought it prudent to guide him home, which act of benevolence cost him dearly. damen must have been in a mood that threatened trouble, for geraerdy had taken the precaution to draw his sword from its scabbard and carry it himself. at the house damen's serving man, armed with a long knife, resisted his master's entrance. damen used the scabbard as a weapon and also secured a knife, and in the fight which ensued geraerdy was, as the surgeon declared, dangerously wounded, damen having struck him in the dark under the shoulder blade. [illustration: the damen house] it was a dramatic and semi-tragic scene when "black john," who hailed from the seaport town of monnikendam, near amsterdam, one morning, as they were at the house of philip geraerdy, addressed ensign hendrick van dyck, saying: "brother, my service to you," to which the ensign answered: "brother, i thank you." "black john" did not hand over the can, but instead struck the ensign with it on his forehead so that blood flowed, saying that that was his monnikendam fashion, and threw him over on his back. this, it is related, was done without having words or dispute of any kind. geraerdy became a sergeant in the burgher troops, and while keeping a tavern was also a trader and a man of business. besides his own language he could speak both dutch and english, acting occasionally as an interpreter. he succeeded so well that in a few years he built for himself a substantial house on that part of his lot fifty or sixty feet down from the corner on stone street. [sidenote: taverns regulated] when governor peter stuyvesant arrived, in may, 1647, he found new amsterdam, to use an expression of the present day, "a wide open town." before the close of the month he issued an order requiring that all places where liquor was sold should remain closed on sunday before two o'clock in the afternoon, and, in case of preaching in the fort, until four o'clock,--this, under penalty of the owners being deprived of their occupation, and besides being fined six carolus guilders for each person who should be found drinking wine or beer within the stated time, excepting only travellers and those who were daily customers, fetching the drinks to their own homes; and that all such places should be closed every night at the ringing of the bell about nine o'clock. in issuing this order he says: "whereas we have experienced the violence of our inhabitants, when drunk, their quarrelling, fighting and hitting each other, even on the lord's day of rest, of which we have ourselves witnessed the painful example last sunday, in contravention of law, to the contempt and disgrace of our person and office, to the annoyance of our neighbors, and to the disregard and contempt of god's holy laws and ordinances," etc. in march, 1648, he found that further action was necessary. he declared that one-fourth of the houses had been turned into taverns for the sale of brandy, tobacco and beer, and that they were detrimental to the welfare of the community; he therefore issued a set of rules for their regulation. no new tap-houses should be opened without the unanimous vote of the director and council. those who had been tapsters could continue as such for four years at least, but in the meantime, should seek some other means of livelihood, so as not to be dependent on it. orders as to closing at nine o'clock every night and on sundays were repeated. tapsters were to report all fights or disorderly conduct in their places, and physicians were to report all cases where they were called on to dress wounds received in such disturbances. this does not necessarily indicate that new amsterdam was at this time a disorderly place, for like new york of the present day, it was a cosmopolitan city. the population at that time was not over five hundred souls, and it has been declared that eighteen different languages were spoken by the inhabitants. [sidenote: litschoe's tavern] some time previous to the year 1648 daniel litschoe established an inn on what is now pearl street in the outskirts of the town, which became the resort of the country people coming in from long island. litschoe came out to new amsterdam with the earliest settlers as ensign in the military service of the dutch. he was with stuyvesant at beverwyck and on his order hauled down the lord's colors. he also went out with stuyvesant in the expedition against the swedes on the delaware as lieutenant. the tavern seems to have been a good-sized building, for it is spoken of as "the great house," but this is to be taken as in comparison with its neighbors. it had at least a quarter of an acre of ground attached to it, and stood back some little distance from the street. a part of the lot is now covered by no. 125 pearl street. in the spring of 1651, litschoe leased this house to andries jochemsen, who kept it as a tavern or ale house for many years and had lots of trouble with the authorities. he would tap on sundays and after nine o'clock, and his house was the resort of disorderly persons. after keeping tavern for some years in a house which he had built just outside the city wall, litschoe purchased a lot inside the wall between it and the house he had resided in some years before, and here he, and after his death in 1662, his wife, annetje, kept a tavern for many years. when sir henry moody came from virginia in 1660 to exchange ratifications of the treaty to regulate commerce between that colony and new netherland he was received with all the usual diplomatic honors. two members of the council, under escort of halberdiers, were sent "to compliment him in his lodgings," and moody, appearing in the fort, presented his credentials. he resided a considerable time at the house of daniel litschoe and when he left the city he failed to settle his score, for which his library left at the house was sold. more people came into the city over the river road from the long island ferry than from any other direction, and litschoe's tavern near the city gate was an inviting resting place. it was one of the stations where fire-buckets were kept for use in cases of emergency. [illustration: water gate, foot of wall street] the city wall, above mentioned, was a line of palisades straight across the island along the northerly side of the present wall street, passing through the present trinity churchyard. on the inside of the palisades was an embankment and a ditch. it was built in the year 1653, when england and holland were at war and new amsterdam was threatened by the new england colonists. through this line of defence there were two gates, the land-gate at the present junction of broadway and wall street and the water-gate at the river road or present pearl street. [sidenote: peter cock's troubles to obtain a wife] peter cock added much to the piquancy of the gossip of the taverns and the town when, in 1653, probably no longer a soldier, he brought suit against annetje cornelissen van vorst, claiming the fulfillment of a promise of marriage. the case occupied the time and attention of the court of burgomasters and schepens at a great many sessions, statements and counter-statements being presented to the court, who, considering the case too large for them, sent it, with the papers, to the director and council for their decision. it was sent back to the court of burgomasters and schepens, with a recommendation to appoint a committee to examine the papers and report. the final decision, pronounced may 18, 1654, was that the promise was a binding contract. from this decision annetje appealed, but it was confirmed. in some way annetje obtained a release, at any rate, she married november 11, 1656, claes jansen van purmerendt, a tobacco planter of paulus hook. peter consoled himself with another annetje, for on june 13, 1657, he married annetje dirks, of amsterdam. in 1661 annetje cock was a widow and in control of the tavern which peter cock had left. she asked permission to build a new house on the southeast corner of the lot, which request was refused, as it would be too near the fort. her husband had contracted for the building of a house on the lot, which she claimed was voided by his death, and wished to make a new contract with others, but the court decided that the old contract was binding. a new house was built which was kept by her as a tavern for many years. [sidenote: a dutch tavern] the taverns of new amsterdam were probably modeled somewhat after those of holland, for the dutch were a people who stuck to the customs of the fatherland. the description of a dutch tavern, from the journal of one of our citizens who visited a part of the netherlands where customs have not changed for centuries is here given. "it was the business of the good vrow or her maid to show up the traveller, and open the doors in the smooth partition of the box which was to receive his weary limbs for the night, and which otherwise he might not be able to discover, and after he crept into it, to come back again and blow out the candle, and in the morning to draw the curtains of the windows at the hour he fixed to rise. there was generally one room in which all the guests were received, and where there was a pleasant reunion in the evening, and all the visitors ate, drank and smoked. it had, in one corner, a closet, which, when opened (and, honestly, it was not unfrequently opened), disclosed sundry decanters, glasses and black bottles; and, on one side of the room, a rack in which were suspended by their bowls a score or two of very long pipes, each one inscribed with the name of a neighbor or owner. this was the room of mynheer the landlord. he had no care beyond this; mevrow was the head of the house; she attended to all the wants of the guests, and gave them the information which they might desire. she was always on the spot as when, with a 'wet te rusten,' like a good mother, she bade you good night, and when, with a 'hoo-y-reis,' like an old friend, she bade you good-by." in the contract for building the ferry house on the long island side of the east river for egbert van borsum in 1655, provision was made for bedsteads to be built in the walls as described above. thus an apartment could be made to accommodate several travellers at night and yet, in day time, present a neat appearance and be used as a public room. provision was also made for the closet or pantry, for it was a source of profit. a few years later the ferry tavern of van borsum had acquired such a reputation, to which the culinary art of annetje, his wife, greatly contributed, that it became the resort of the best citizens when they wished for something extra good, and of the officials of government, as we find that a bill rendered by van borsum in february, 1658, for wine and liquor furnished the director and other officers was ordered to be paid. [sidenote: a grand dinner] when, in 1658, captain beaulieu wished to give a fine dinner to his friends, he did not go to the tavern of the worshipful burgomaster martin crigier nor to that of lieutenant litschoe, who entertained the english ambassador a few years later, nor yet to the popular tavern of metje wessels; but was influenced, for some good reason, to go to the house of egbert van borsum, the ferry tavern on the long island side of the river. here the captain and his thirteen friends sat down to a dinner for which van borsum, if the record is correct, charged him three hundred and ten florins, or at the rate of nine dollars per plate; and it appears that it was worth the price, for although beaulieu was sued by van borsum for the bill, his defence was that he was to pay only one-half of the expense, the other half to be paid by a few of the other guests. no complaint was made that the amount charged was excessive. annetje van borsum testified before the court that she made the arrangement and bargain with beaulieu alone and looked to him for payment. the court took this view and gave a verdict against beaulieu for the full amount. annetje van borsum must certainly have been a fine cook, and the dinner must have been served with some expensive accessories, of the nature of which we can hardly surmise. it serves to show that new amsterdam, even at this early period, was not entirely devoid of expensive luxuries (for such must have been the case). after the death of egbert van borsum, his widow, annetje, continued the business for several years, she herself managing the tavern, and her son, hermanus, attending to the ferry. in her declining years she retired to the city of new amsterdam where she died at a green old age. in 1655 solomon peterson la chair, a gentleman of the legal profession, made his appearance in new amsterdam, and, as there was not a promising prospect in that line of business, he rented the house of teunis kray, on the graft, and petitioned the burgomasters and schepens for permission to keep it as a tavern, which could be managed by his wife in his absence on legal business, and would be of great assistance to him in gaining a livelihood. permission was granted. he afterwards bought the house of kray, agreeing to pay for it in instalments; but as kray had formerly sued him for the rent he had now to sue him for the very first instalment; and he never succeeded in paying for it, the money, even when he had it ready, as he says, slipping through his fingers. he did not pay anyone he owed until forced to. he used every means which his learning in the law and his own ingenuity could devise to avoid paying his just debts. he was impecunious and improvident and constantly in trouble; yet he was a man of considerable learning and ability, as evinced by his register of business as a notary, a volume of some three hundred pages, which was discovered in the county clerk's office some years ago. he obtained a license to practice as a notary in 1661. la chair, defaulting in payment, kray came again in possession of the house he had sold, and la chair moved to a house in hough street, where he continued to keep a tavern until his death, a few years later. there was much discussion in the little town on political matters, and la chair, as a man versed in the law, could probably attract many to his house, where, no doubt, such subjects were thoroughly discussed. november 26, 1656, a petition was presented to the burgomasters and schepens from metje wessels, requesting permission "to follow the trade of an eating house and to bring in and tap out wine and beer," which was granted. [sidenote: metje wessels' tavern] metje wessels' house was situated on the water, which was what is now the north side of pearl street, between whitehall and broad streets, in the busiest part of the little city, and not far from the city hall. it became a noted place for burgomasters' dinners, and was a popular place for festivities of all kinds, characteristic of the taverns of this period. the burgomasters and schepens of new amsterdam had discovered the toothsome terrapin, for which their successors, the aldermen of new york city, were, years ago, known to be particularly partial, and their dinners at the widow's tavern were no doubt supplied with this delicious viand. van der donck, writing in 1656, says: "some persons prepare delicious dishes from the water terrapin which is luscious food." here men went on the arrival of a ship, to meet the skipper and hear the news from the fatherland or from other foreign ports. here were discussed the tidings from up the river, where many young men were making adventurous excursions among the indians, in the far-off northern wilderness, in the profitable business of gathering furs. the trade in furs, the indian troubles, the military expeditions, the dominie's sermons and the director-general's proclamations,--these, and a great many more, both public and personal matters--were talked over. it was a sort of business and social exchange where were gathered and distributed news and gossip of all kinds. [illustration: "they had discovered the toothsome terrapin"] [sidenote: dutch festivities] the dutch of new amsterdam had a large capacity for enjoyment and in their holiday season of christmas and new year, gave themselves up to every kind of festivity and sport that the place could afford. we find from records that some of these were firing of guns, beating of drums, dancing, playing of tick-tack, bowling, playing of ninepins, sleighing parties or wagon rides, etc. the taverns and taprooms were full of life and there were likewise many family festivities and amusements, where the tables were loaded with all the good things to eat and drink that were obtainable. not only was it the season of the delight and enjoyment of the young and gay, but the older and graver citizens joined in the sports with enthusiasm and encouragement. even the burgomasters and schepens, with the other officials, when the season of festivity approached, closed the public offices temporarily. "whereas," it is recorded, "the winter festivals are at hand, it is found good, that between this date and three weeks after christmas the ordinary meetings of the court shall be dispensed with." gathered together to celebrate one of the anniversaries of the festive season, the flickering lights from oil lamps and tallow candles, reflected from the whitewashed walls of madame wessels' assembly room, shone on as happy and gay hearted a gathering as is found in the magnificent and brilliantly lighted halls of our present grand city. they shone on "fair women and brave men." notwithstanding the humorous caricatures of washington irving, the women were comely and the men were a sturdy and adventurous lot. here was the government official, with his sword at his side. here was the prosperous trader or merchant in his silk or velvet breeches and coat flowered with silver lace, with gold or silver buttons, lace neck cloth and silk stockings. he also wore a sword. the common burgher in his homespun breeches and kersey coat also took a part. handsome dresses, displayed on female forms were not numerous but there were some that indicated the success and prosperity of the heads of the families represented by the wearers. gowns of thick embroidered silk and petticoats of cloth and quilted silk graced the festive dance. may-day was also celebrated with great spirit and on this occasion the people were accorded by the city magistrates the greatest license. it was announced that "any damage which may come from the general rejoicing within the city on may-day shall be made known to the burgomasters at the city hall immediately thereafter when means shall be taken to furnish reparation." but governor stuyvesant had no sympathy for such "unprofitable customs," and such "unnecessary waste of powder." he forbade on new year and may-days, the firing of guns, the beating of drums or the planting of may-poles, and ordered that at these times there shall not be "any wines, brandy-wines or beer dealt out." it is supposed that this ordinance was not strictly enforced and that its restrictions were little observed. stuyvesant also, in february, 1658, forbade the farmers and their servants to "ride the goose" at the feast of bacchus and shrovetide, which brought a protest from the burgomasters and schepens, who felt aggrieved that the director general and council should have done so without their knowledge and consent. "riding the goose," or "pulling the goose," was a cruel sport, but it was not the fate of the goose that moved the tender heart of stuyvesant. he says in response to the protest that "in their time it has never been practiced here, and yet, notwithstanding the same may in some place of the fatherland _be tolerated and looked at through the fingers_, it is altogether unprofitable, unnecessary and criminal for subjects and neighbors to celebrate such pagan and popish feasts, and to practice such evil customs." he then gives the burgomasters and schepens a sound scolding for their presumption, and informs them "that the _institution of a little bench of justice under the title of schout, burgomasters and commissioners_ does in no wise interfere with or diminish aught of the power and authority of the director general and councellors in the enacting of any ordinance or making any particular interdict, especially such as tend to the glory of god and the best interests of the inhabitants." ii new york and the pirates [sidenote: the english in new york] when the english captured new amsterdam, the heart of the british soldier was no doubt cheered and gladdened by the sight of the sign of saint george and the dragon, which was boldly hung out in front of the house looking out on the river on the west side of the present pearl street just above maiden lane, kept by james webb, from london. it was a stone house which had been built more than fifteen years before by sander leendertsen (alexander lindsay), upon the site of the present 211 pearl street. when in march, 1665, the citizens were called upon to state how many soldiers they could lodge, the entry is made in the records that "the man of the knight of st. george will take one," which undoubtedly refers to the landlord of this house. webb, in 1665, married margaret radel, a widow, and probably kept the house for some years. it was on the road leading to the long island ferry, a favorite location for taverns. although colonel nicolls, the first deputy governor for his royal highness, james, duke of york, is said to have filled his purse from the proceeds of land grants and by compelling the holders of old grants to pay him for confirmation, and to have been active in adding to his profits in many other ways, and, although he was given despotic power, yet his rule was characterized by so much leniency and moderation, compared with the paternal, though arbitrary, rule of peter stuyvesant, that he became as popular with the inhabitants as, under the circumstances, could be expected. when, at the end of four years, he solicited and obtained his recall, a grand dinner was given him at the house of cornelis steenwyck, one of the most prominent dutch merchants of the city, and two militia companies, the dutch officers of which had received their commissions from him, escorted him to the ship which was to bear him to england. [illustration: "the man of the knight of st. george"] the english officials were naturally desirous of introducing english ways and customs. moved by this spirit, governor nicolls, to encourage the english sport of horse-racing, established a race-course at hempstead, long island, which was continued and kept up by his successors, who issued proclamations, directed to the justices, that races should be held in the month of may. new york, when it came into the hands of the english, was thoroughly dutch, and the englishman was not pleased by the ways and customs of the dutch in tavern life, so different from the english. in a tavern conducted in the dutch way, where the landlord and all the attendants spoke the dutch language, the government officials and the english officers did not feel that ease and comfort that they would in a truly english inn. the prominent dutch taverns continued to flourish, but in the course of time, there was a gradual change, produced by the english influence. the dutch tavern keeper differed much from the inn-keeper of england, and the newcomers, assuming the airs of conquerors, accustomed to the warm welcome of an english inn, chafed under the restrains which they found or fancied, and many broils occurred between the landlords and their dutch countrymen on one side and the english soldiers and sailors on the other. [sidenote: the governor builds a tavern] although previous to this time and some years subsequent, the records of public business transacted at taverns are numerous, for a long time after the english came into control, there is no indication that the taverns were thus much used by the english officials. the want of a tavern truly english, that would satisfy the officers of the government, may have been the cause which led governor lovelace to build, in 1672, on his own account, an inn or ordinary right next to the city hall, and to ask the magistrates for permission to connect the upper story of the house with the city hall by a door opening into the court's chambers. the proposition was agreed to by the magistrates, leaving it to the governor to pay what he thought fit for "the vacant strooke of ground" lying between the buildings and "not to cut off the entrance into the prison doore or common gaol." this door connecting the city hall and the tavern was meant to serve, in its way, a very useful purpose, but lacking reliable data in reference to the part it played in facilitating communication between the tavern taproom and the halls of justice, we leave each reader to supply the deficiency by his own opinions on the subject. [sidenote: tavern regulations] it was a uniform custom in the english colonies to make provision for the care of strangers and to regulate by law the taverns and the sale of strong drink. by the duke's laws, which were enacted, or rather accepted, by representatives of the people at the hempstead convention, in 1665, inn-keepers were not allowed to charge "above eight pence a meal with small beer," and were required to always have on hand a supply of "strong and wholesome" malted liquor. in january, 1676, it was ordered that "all persons who keep publick houses shall sell beere as well as wyn and other liquors and keep lodgings for strangers." it was proposed to the governor by the mayor and aldermen that six houses be appointed to sell "all sorts of wine, brandy and rum and lodgings," and eight to "sell beere, syder, mum and rum and to provide for strangers as the law directs," that two of "the wine houses be ordinaryes, and four of the beere-houses." prices were fixed at which the tapsters should sell. french wines and madeira were from one and three pence to two shillings per quart; brandy at six pence and rum at three pence per gill; beer and cider were three and four pence per quart. in the ordinary at the wine house the meal was one shilling and in that at the beer house it was eight pence; lodging at the wine house was four pence per night, and at the beer house it was three pence. thus a sharp distinction was drawn between the two classes of houses and there was in all probability as great a difference in their keepers. [sidenote: first merchants' exchange] broad street had become a desirable place of residence and many citizens of the better class made it their home. the canal or ditch through the middle of it, from the present exchange place to the river, would never have been there if new york had not been originally a dutch town. across the canal, near the river, between the present stone and bridge streets, was a bridge. this was a favorite lounging place for idlers, where, leaning over the railing of the bridge, they could watch the ebb and flow of the tide and the various small boats which went a little way up the canal to discharge their cargoes of oysters, fish and country produce brought over from long island or other nearby points. it was the center of probably more stir and activity than any other place in the little city. here the merchants had become accustomed to meet for trade and the transaction of business of various kinds. this induced governor lovelace, march 24, 1669-70, to issue an order establishing a sort of business exchange. this order specified that the meeting of the merchants should be between the hours of eleven and twelve on friday mornings, at present near the bridge, and the mayor was directed to take care that they should not be disturbed. the time of meeting and dispersing was to be announced by the ringing of a bell. it was the beginning of the merchants' exchange. this continued to be the meeting place of the merchants, and near this spot a building called the exchange was subsequently built. not far away, on the present northwesterly corner of broad and pearl streets, stood the tavern of james matthews, who, besides keeping a tavern, was a merchant and a man of considerable means. the meeting place for merchants being almost in front of his door his house was a very convenient place for them to retire to, to consummate their bargains over a social glass. in 1678 and in 1685 he was one of the farmers of the excise. he died in the latter part of the year 1685, or early in 1686, and his widow continued to keep the house for about two years, when she also died. the executors of her estate petitioned, in march, 1688, for an abatement of £20 excise money. in september, 1676, abraham corbett, "driven with his family from his home eastward of new england," petitioned for a license to distill strong liquors, which was granted him. he became a lieutenant in the militia in 1684; and was one of the farmers of the excise in 1688, which indicates that he was a man of respectability and deserving of public confidence. he was also a tavern keeper. when samuel leete, clerk of the court of mayor and aldermen, and an alderman of the city, died in 1679, he left to abraham corbett, "all my household goods in part payment of what i owe him for meat and drink." by governor dongan's charter of 1686, abraham corbett was appointed an assistant alderman. in 1680 he purchased for sixty pounds sterling a house and lot on the east side of broadway, two or three doors south of the present exchange place, and some years later on this lot he erected a fine tavern, which he called the "royal oak," where he spent his declining years in its management. considering the position which corbett held in the esteem of the people there is no doubt that his house received the patronage of the best class of the community. in these early days there were no parks, but the open country was near at hand with all the charms of nature. just south of the present trinity churchyard was the governor's garden. a large gateway led to it and to a charming spot--a piece of elevated ground covered with natural forest--called the "locust trees," which was a resort for those who enjoyed the open air, where they could look out on the broad expanse of the hudson. it was not then covered with that panorama of moving craft which it now presents. it was the same majestic river as now, but its surface was unbroken except by a lonely canoe or a small sail or two lazily drifting up or down the stream, with the green shores of staten island and pavonia in the distance. the road along the east river, beyond the "water gate," had a number of dwellings on its upper side. on the way to the ferry a road joined it called the "maadge poadge," or maiden lane, and a little way further another, the present john street, led up to vandercliff's orchard, which is said to have been a place of public resort, owned and kept by dirck vandercliff, who was also a merchant, and in 1687 was an assistant alderman. a singular incident occurred at this place in 1682. james graham, who was an alderman of the city in 1681, recorder in 1683, and afterwards attorney-general, had, according to evidence, expressed a desire to make the acquaintance of captain baxter, an english officer recently arrived in the province, and accordingly a party of several friends, including graham and baxter, met at the tavern of dirck vandercliff in "the orchard," to spend a social afternoon and evening. about nine o'clock, as the company was about to break up, graham, after paying the reckoning, was called aside by baxter, but not out of the sight of the company. those present saw baxter act as if to kiss graham, when the latter called out that he had been stabbed. he had been struck with a knife under the collar bone, the wound being about four inches deep. baxter was arrested and bound over to await his trial in case of graham's death, but the wound did not prove to be mortal. [sidenote: wolfert webber's tavern] on the hillside at the present chatham square, near the collect or fresh water pond and the sparkling stream that fed it with the purest water on manhattan island, in a charming retreat, then considered far beyond the city wall, stood the tavern of wolfert webber, built in the time of the dutch, and for a long time the farthest outlying dwelling on the eastern side. we find in the record that in 1655, a daughter of wolfert webber, tavernkeeper, had been returned to him from her captivity among the indians. notwithstanding the danger from attacks of the indians, webber continued to keep this house, and it was probably patronized by people who wished to enjoy the pleasures of the quiet and beautiful spot where it was located. in the marshes or swamps to the northwest, called the kripple bush, the sportsman could, in season, find woodcock in abundance, or he could enjoy the more gentle sport of angling in the collect. although the eastern side of the collect was very attractive, the western side, at one time, was the residence of the very poorest class of people, and, on account of the stagnant water of the nearby swamps, considered very unhealthy. when the dutch were in possession of the city for the second time and called it new orange, wolfert webber was made a magistrate for the outside people, or those beyond the fresh water, and under the english he was appointed by the dongan charter of 1686 an assistant alderman. he represented the out ward as assistant alderman in 1688, 1689, 1706 and 1707, and was still keeping the tavern at this same place. in april, 1715, "enjoying yet good health, but being ancient," he made his will, and died a year or two after. in 1660, on account of the repeated attacks of the indians on the outside settlements, an order was issued requiring the abandonment of isolated habitations, and the gathering of the people in hamlets or villages for mutual protection. in response to this order there came a petition from those living beyond the fresh water stream asking that their houses might be permitted to remain, and that encouragement be held out to others to build near them so as to form a village. this request was granted and a village was established near the bowery of governor stuyvesant. a tavern, a blacksmith shop and a few other buildings formed the settlement to which was added shortly after a small church, erected by the governor on a part of his farm. to this farm or bowery stuyvesant retired when the english had relieved him of the cares of office. the road leading to this village became known as the bowery road or lane. for a time this was the end of the road, but when the english came into possession of the city, they soon sought to open communication with the new england colonies by land and with the recently made settlement of new harlem. a road was laid out which, in time, was extended through the whole length of the island to king's bridge, and became the highway of travel for all going to the north or east. [sidenote: the two-mile tavern] the tavern which had been set up at the village, as travel increased became known as the two-mile stopping place, and is said to have been a famous place of resort. its situation was admirable, for the purpose, and it was, no doubt, visited by those making excursions of pleasure from the city, especially sleighing parties. at this time and for a great many years this was the only road of any great length on which such a sport could be enjoyed. for a long time the tavern was occupied by adriaen cornelissen, who was farmer and tavern-keeper. he was living here in 1674, when the dutch for the second time were in possession of new amsterdam, which they then called new orange, and was appointed one of the schepens or magistrates for the outside people or those beyond the wall. under the english rule he was assistant alderman in 1684 and in 1687. in 1689 he was made a captain of militia, his commission bearing date, december 16th of that year. when, in 1690, commissioners came down from the new england colonies to confer with those of new york and deliberate on proper steps to be taken against the french and indians, they declined to enter the city on account of the prevalence of small-pox, and governor leisler fixed upon this house as the place of meeting, describing it as a good, neat house, about two miles from the city, and kept by captain arian cornelis. here the commissioners met on the 1st of may, 1690. [sidenote: john clapp tavern-keeper] a few years later the landlord of this tavern was john clapp, the maker and publisher of the first almanac by a resident of new york city, which he says was "the product of my many spare minnits." it was not the first printed in new york, for bradford had, for several years, printed leed's almanac. clapp claims to have been the first person in new york to set up a hackney coach, and announces in his almanac that "about two miles without the city of new york, at the place called the bowery, any gentlemen travellers that are strangers to the city, may have very good entertainment, for themselves and horses, where there is also a hackney coach and good saddle horses to be hired." he was a promoter of social festivities, which well became him as a genial landlord. in the almanac, under june, is found the following: "the 24th of this month is celebrated the feast of st. john baptist, in commemoration of which (and to keep up a happy union and lasting friendship by the sweet harmony of good society), a feast is held by the _johns_ of this city, at john clapp's in the bowery, where any gentleman whose christian name is john may find a hearty wellcome to joyn in consort with his namesakes." he notes that john clapp's in the bowery, two miles from the postoffice, is generally the baiting place where gentlemen take leave of their friends going on a long journey, "where a parting glass or two of generous wine, if well apply'd, makes the dull horses feel, one spur i' th' head is worth two in the heel." seven miles from clapp's was the half way house, nine miles further was king's bridge, and from king's bridge to old shute's, at east chester, was six miles. excepting that of the governor, it is doubtful if there was a single equipage for pleasure in the city of new york at this time, and the ease with which a sled or sleigh could be constructed, which would smoothly and silently glide over the snow, made sleigh-riding a great sport during the period when it could be enjoyed. that john clapp's house, at the two mile station, was a great place of resort at such times, is no mere supposition. we have the testimony of madam sarah knight, who was in new york in 1704, that this was so. she had come from boston to new york on horseback, and the quaint and humorous way in which she has told the story of her travels has made her little book a gem for the antiquarian. she says of the new yorkers: "their diversion in the winter is riding sleys about three miles out of town, where they have houses of entertainment at a place called the bowery." on an excursion with mr. burroughs, she says that she believes that she met that day as many as fifty or sixty "sleys," which, she says, "fly with great swiftness, and some are so furious that they'll turn out of the path for none but a loden cart," which surely indicates the enthusiasm with which the sport was enjoyed, and john clapp, at such times, was, no doubt, a very busy man. john clapp seems to have received an education which made him a prominent man among the settlers. in the time of governor leisler he was a resident of flushing, when, "at a town meeting upon long island where divers of the freeholders of the towns of hamsted, jamaica, flushing and newtown wer mett and assembled, to consult on the lamentable state and condition that theire maj'ties liege subjects lay under; by the severe oppressions and tyranical usurpations of jacob leisler and his accomplices, it was desired by the freeholders aforesaid that capt. john clapp should write an humble letter to their maj'ties secr'ty of stat in all there behalves and signify to there maj'ties in what a sad condition we are all in.--nov. 7th, 1690." this is followed by a long letter. he was clerk of the new york assembly, in session in new york during the year 1692. he was also a tavern keeper at that time, and must have been a man to win the esteem and good will of those who became his guests. lucas santen, who was at one time collector of the port of new york, and a member of governor dongan's council, when he died, in 1692, left "to my landlord, captain john clapp, £40 to buy him a mourning ring, in consideration of the trouble i have given him." the next year clapp succeeded cornelissen as landlord of the tavern in the bowery village. here all the travel to the north and east passed his door and we can hardly believe that any traveler would, without stopping, pass the door of such a genial and jovial landlord as we are convinced was john clapp, and we have reason to believe that his house was a favorite resort for the people in the city. he was undoubtedly residing here in 1703, and at some time between this date and 1710 removed to rye, in westchester county, for in the latter year john clapp made returns of the names of men from 16 to 60 in the county of westchester, and he was interested there in large grants of land. towards the close of the seventeenth century there were two features in the local history of new york city which attract attention. for many years before the close of the century it was regarded by the maritime countries of europe as a protecting port for pirates, and the political disturbances which resulted in the execution of jacob leisler and jacob minhorne continued to divide the community into two contending factions composed of many bitter partisans. [sidenote: trade with pirates] respected merchants from new york sent out ships to the coast of africa for slaves, loaded with liquors, arms, ammunition and other articles, just such as would be desired by pirates, which they exchanged at tremendous advance in prices for the plunder of these robbers of the seas, and returned to new york with slaves and the valuable goods they had thus obtained. one successful voyage was often sufficient to make the owners of the vessel wealthy, and they claimed that they were doing nothing wrong; that they had a perfect right to buy goods of any kind wherever they could purchase them to the best advantage. with some this trade in the plunder of pirates was, no doubt, incidental, but it was profitable, although they ran the risk of being the victims of pirates themselves. pirates came into port and were received not only in a friendly manner, but were even honored by unusual attentions from the governor, who was apparently interested in their ventures. william mason went out of the harbor of new york in 1689 with a commission as a privateer. he turned pirate, made war on east india commerce, and reaped a rich harvest of gold and east india goods, with which he filled his ship. when the ship returned under the command of edward coats, she put in on the east end of long island, where coats and his crew found a friendly reception, and learning that they might be favorably received in new york, came into this port. coats and his crew, by making valuable presents to the governor and his family, and also to members of the council, were unmolested. the ship was presented to the governor, who sold it for £800. coats said that his exemption from prosecution cost him £1,800. captain thomas tew, who was known as a pirate, and had been the subject of complaint from the east india company, came to new york in november, 1694, and was received by governor fletcher on terms of intimate companionship; was invited to his table, and rode by his side in his coach and six. he gave elegant presents to the governor and his family, and left with a commission as privateer against the french, agreeing to discharge his cargo in this port. he went directly to his former field of activity and made his name still more notorious by his depredations upon the east india commerce. [sidenote: bellomont's difficulties] about this time, john hoare came to new york and received the usual commission from governor fletcher to act against the french. he openly avowed that his destination was for the african coast and recruited for that purpose. from the sequel we can not avoid the conclusion that there was some kind of an understanding with some of the merchants of new york, for after he had been absent about a year they sent out the ship fortune to madagascar, loaded with goods suitable for pirates, where she was met by hoare's ship, filled with valuable plunder. the goods were transferred to the fortune, and with a part of hoare's crew she returned to new york. at this time governor fletcher, whose dealings with pirates had been brought to the attention of the british government, had been superseded by the earl of bellomont, whose instructions were to put a stop to this illegal trade. the cargo of the fortune, when she arrived in new york, was secretly gotten ashore in the night, and stored. by order of bellomont the goods were seized and officers were about to remove them, when a large number of merchants interfered to prevent them from doing it, using violence and locking the officers in the house, who, after three hours, were only released by the appearance of the lieutenant-governor and three files of men. the ship fortune was forfeited. [illustration: bellomont] frederick phillipse, one of the governor's council, and reported the richest man in new york, expected a ship from madagascar and to prevent her arrival in the port of new york with goods that might subject her to forfeiture, sent out his son adolphus, on a vessel ostensibly bound for virginia, which laid off the port until the expected vessel arrived, when the east india goods on board were transferred to her and carried to the delaware, leaving the madagascar ship to enter with only slaves as her cargo. the east india goods were sent to hamburg, where they were seized. [illustration: "as genuine pirates as ever sailed the sea"] in taverns of medium and even in some of the better class, could have been met at this period men who had taken part in captures on the african coast, and who, over their mugs of ale, entertained their companions with stories of their adventures, modified somewhat as suggested by prudence. they were not men of swarthy complexion and ferocious features, with knife and pistol in belt, as pictured by the imagination of writers of tales of the sea, yet they were, nevertheless, as genuine pirates as ever sailed the sea. for some time, in the latter part of the year 1694, thomas tew, the notorious pirate, was a well known and picturesque figure on the streets and in the taverns of new york, where he spent money lavishly, ordering brandy, ale and other beverages for whoever would drink with him. he was a man about forty years of age, of slight figure and dark complexion; richly and strikingly dressed. he wore a blue cap with a band of cloth of silver, and a blue jacket bordered with gold lace and ornamented with large pearl buttons. loose trunks of white linen extended to his knees, where they were joined by curiously worked stockings. from his neck hung a rich chain of gold, and in his belt, curiously knit, he carried a dagger, its hilt set with the rarest gems. the exciting events of the leisler period had left in the body politic a festering sore that would not heal. the leislerians believed that the execution of jacob leisler and his son-in-law, jacob minhorne, had been nothing less than murder, and their relatives and friends were active in england in endeavors to revive the honor of their names and to reverse the attainder of their estates. in this situation of affairs it can readily be seen that there was much uneasiness and excitement in the community, and the taverns were the centers of all this boiling and agitated disturbance in the mercantile and political life of new york. [illustration: captain tew] the bitter opposition which bellomont received from the merchants and the wealthiest of the people of new york compelled him to look to the leislerians for support and to appoint to office members of that party. he seems besides to have been moved to take this step from a conviction that great injustice had been done. a few extracts from his letters will tend to show the situation as he viewed it. from a letter of the earl of bellomont to the board of trade, dated september 21, 1698: "the jacobite party in this towne have a clubb commonly every saturday (which was colonel fletcher's clubb day). last saturday was seaven night, there mett twenty seaven of them, their ringleaders are colonel bayard, colonel minviele, both of the councill, mr. nicolls, late of the councill, and wilson, late sheriff of this towne; there is so great a rancor and inveterancy in these people that i think it by no means proper for me to leave this province till i have your lordship's orders upon the representations i made to your lordships by the richmond frigatt, and since by mr. weaver; for i do verily believe if i should goe from hence, the people would fall together by the ears, besides, should i goe away, it would give the faction great advantage, and would tend very much to the revenue ceasing, and the measures i have proposed to myself for the obtaining the continuance of this present revenue would be thereby frustrated. this the faction know very well, and therefore are very free in their wishes that i were gone to my other governments." to mr. popple, secretary of the board of trade, he writes: "this day another instance happen'd of the brutishness of some of the people here. the master of the ship that carries this packet, was with me last tuesday and promised to call on me on thursday for the king's packetts, but it seems intended to disappoint me and leave my letters behind and begon his voyage. i refer you for an account of this man's behavior to the inclosed certificate and warrant, only this i must tell you, i sent yesterday the commissioner of the customes mr. hungerford to pray him to come to me and receive the king's packetts, and he swore he would not for all the governours in christendom, and he would not be post boy to carry letters for any body; which refusal of his made me send a warrant to bring him by force. the angry merchants of this town had without doubt encouraged this man to be thus insolent, or he durst not have refused to carry the letters, after promising me faithfully, he would call for and carry them. this is another specimen of the rage and malice of these people, who i am satisfied nothing but fear keeps from rebelling against the government; unlawful trade and arabian gold brought in by pirat ships from the red sea are the things they thirst after." on october 18, 1700, he wrote to secretary vernon, as follows: "the lords of the councill of trade direct me to make an experiment in working some navall stores here, with the soldiers. i cannot go about it with such officers who i believe would rather traverse me in such a design than further it; and would i fear stir up a mutiny among the sould'rs, if i should propose to 'em the working of navall stores for the king. i am not for breaking those lieut's, but exchanging them for honest, good lieut's in some of the regiments in england. my first lieut's name is peter matthews, bred up from a child with coll. fletcher & 'tis at his house that the angry people of this town have a club and hold their cabals; my second lieut's is john buckley; there is also another lieut, in maj'r ingoldesby's company whose name is matthew shank, a most sad drunken sott, and under no good character for manhood. i desire also he may be exchanged for a better man from england." colonel fletcher, on his return to england, asked for an examination, which was accorded him by the lords of trade. plausible explanations were made of his conduct, but they were not convincing, and the lords of trade recommended that the charges be referred to the attorney-general for further action. the king, however, seems to have interposed, as there is no evidence of further proceedings against him. of his subsequent career nothing is known. iii the coffee house [sidenote: an exciting election] in september, 1701, a very exciting election took place in the city. thomas noell, the mayor, was commissioned and sworn into office on the 14th day of october, 1701. the returns of the election for aldermen and assistant aldermen, which gave the leislerians a majority in the board, were contested in some of the wards and a scrutiny was ordered by the mayor, who appointed committees, composed of members of both parties, to examine the votes in the contested wards. some of the leislerians, who were appointed on these committees, refused to serve, claiming that it was irregular; nevertheless, the scrutiny was completed, and those declared elected, after much excitement and disturbance, finally took their seats at the board. among those who were declared elected was john hutchins, landlord of the coffee house or king's arms, situated on the west side of broadway, next above trinity churchyard, where the trinity building now stands. he had represented the west ward as alderman in 1697. in 1698 he was returned as elected, but his election was contested, and his opponent, robert walters, was declared elected. he was now again alderman of the west ward. he had come out with governor sloughter as a lieutenant in the regular service and had since then, for the most part of the time, made his residence in new york city. he was one of the signers of a petition stating grievances at new york in 1692 and 1693, during fletcher's rule. in this paper it is stated that lieut. john hutchins was imprisoned at albany and sent to new york, and coming before governor fletcher, was suspended and kept out of his pay, because he had favored the cause of leisler, and had endeavored to persuade governor sloughter not to order the execution of leisler and minhorne, it being contrary to his letter to the king for their reprieve and contrary to his commission from his majesty. after being thus deprived by fletcher of his pay as an officer, he had to seek some means of livelihood and he turned to the occupation of keeping a tavern. previous to 1696 he was keeping a house on the southwest corner of broad and wall streets. in this year he purchased a lot on the west side of broadway, the deed bearing date, october 1, 1696, which is described as "lying and being next and adjoining to the north side of ye buriall without the north gate of the city." it had a frontage of sixty feet on broadway. at the western end of this lot, one hundred and thirty-five feet from broadway was a street running from the churchyard to crown street (now cedar street), called temple street, a portion of which has since been vacated. farther down, about ninety feet, was lombard street, where is now trinity place. the lot of land inclosed by temple street, crown street, lombard street and the churchyard, about ninety by one hundred and sixty feet, was also conveyed to hutchins in the deed. [sidenote: the king's arms tavern] on the broadway lot hutchins erected a house, which he opened as the king's arms, more generally known as the coffee house. it was not large, but for a time it was the most fashionable public house in the city, and was considered the headquarters of the anti-leislerians party. upon the roof was a balcony, arranged with seats, commanding a beautiful view of the bay, the river and the city. north of the tavern there were only a few scattered buildings on broadway, the principal of which was the store of alderman jacob boelen, north of liberty street. the extent of broadway was only to the present postoffice, the road thence continuing on the present line of park row, then the post road. the commons or the fields, originally the pasture ground for the cows of the dutch settlers, was at first nearly square, and this road cut off a triangular piece of land on the east side, a part of which, before the charter gave to the city all "waste, vacant and unpatented lands" on the island, was selected and appropriated by governor dongan to his own use, on which he built a house, with an extensive garden attached to it. this place, embracing about two acres of land, became known as the "governor's garden." after the governor left the province it is said to have been converted into a place of public resort, and became known as the "vineyard." we can find no record of details of any particular interest connected with it. during the latter part of the seventeenth century the use of coffee as a beverage had been introduced into england and on the continent of europe. the first coffee-house in paris was opened in 1672. previous to this time coffee-houses had been opened in london, and in 1663 they were placed on the footing of taverns and a statute of charles ii of that year required that they should be licensed. in the english coffee-house the guest paid a penny for a cup of coffee. this gave him the privilege of sitting by the fire and reading the journals of the day, which the coffee-houses made a point of keeping on hand as one of their attractions, and he had also the opportunity of hearing discussions on political topics or to take part in them, if so disposed, or if he could find listeners. the sober, religious puritan resorted to them in preference to the tavern. in the time of charles ii, they were places of political agitation-to such an extent that in 1675, the king, by proclamation, ordered that they should all be closed as "seminaries of sedition," but the order was a few days later rescinded. [sidenote: the coffee house] when john hutchins came to new york coffee-houses had become very popular and numerous in london and he was, no doubt, familiar with the way in which they were conducted, so that when he built his new house on broadway, in addition to its designation as the king's arms, he called it the coffee house. as it was the first and, in its day, the only coffee-house in new york, it had no distinguishing title, but was simply called the coffee house. in the bar-room was a range of small boxes, screened with green curtains, where guests could sip their coffee or enjoy their chops and ale or madeira in comparative seclusion. the upper rooms were used for special meetings. although hutchins had been favorable to the leislerians in fletcher's time, he seems to have gone over to the anti-leislerians, and had been elected alderman by the votes of that party. he had borrowed money from both gabriel minvielle and nicholas bayard, having mortgaged his house and lot in broad street to minvielle and his house and lot on broadway to bayard. these two men are named by bellomont as ringleaders in the party opposed to him. the mortgage to bayard covered also the lot of ground between temple and lombard streets, and the whole property subsequently came into the possession of bayard, although, no doubt, hutchins continued in charge of the house until his death or removal from the city. [sidenote: two rival taverns] in the election for aldermen there was great excitement in the east ward, the returns of which were contested. in this ward roger baker was well known as the landlord of the king's head, and gabriel thompson was equally well known as the landlord of the white lion. as revealed by the scrutiny of the votes, baker and thompson were on opposite sides. baker voted for william morris, the anti-leislerian candidate for alderman, and thompson voted for johannes depeyster, who was the leislerian candidate. baker had been commissioned by bellomont a lieutenant of militia and thompson had also been an officer in the militia. in 1664, gabriel thompson, as master of the sloop, hopewell, cleared from new york for places up the river seven times during the year. he was an ensign at albany in 1685, and a captain in the expedition against the french and indians in leisler's time, and since then had probably been a resident of new york city, where he had kept a tavern. he petitioned, in 1693, that the sub-collector repay to him £36 excise money, which indicated that he was a tavern-keeper, but where his house was then located we do not know. he was one of the signers of the petition showing to the home government the grievances existing in new york in 1692 and 1693. these were exciting times and the citizens who gathered at these two taverns in all probability had not a few hot discussions over the political situation. on august 29, 1701, a committee of the council was appointed to meet in conference a committee of the assembly at three o'clock in the afternoon at roger baker's, at the sign of the king's head. the conference accordingly met, and from thence adjourned to gabriel thompson's at the white lion. during the months of september and october, 1701, many conference committees of the council and the assembly met at the white lion, the house of gabriel thompson. there was a conference meeting here on september 4th and on september 11th we find record of another. on september 28, 1701, we find the following record in the journal of the house: "a message was sent to this house from the council, that a conference is desired by the council, with a committee of this house at 3 of the clock in the afternoon, at gabriel thompson's, at the white lion, which was agreed to and, ordered, that capt. provoost, col. rutsen, mr. hanjen, mr. sebring and mr. veghte, be a committee of this house, to confer with a committee of council this afternoon." a deed bearing date november 23, 1701, shows that gabriel thompson, tavern-keeper, purchased from nicholas bayard and abraham de peyster the lot on the northwest corner of the present wall and william streets, but whether or not he ever kept a tavern here we have not been able to determine. maps of this locality, of subsequent date, show no building between the city hall and bayard's sugar house. thompson's house was undoubtedly in this neighborhood and probably not far from the city hall, where the assembly held their sessions. it has been stated by some writers that the king's head, the house of roger baker, was at the corner of pearl street and maiden lane. henry coleman, butcher, mortgaged this property in february, 1701, to roger baker, vintner, for a loan of £348 10s. baker may have eventually come into possession of it, and he may have kept a tavern here, but we can find no evidence of it. in the mortgage deed it is described as _lying without the fortifications_ on the north side of a street called queen street and bounded on the east side by a street which leads to green lane. after the death of bellomont, during the brief rule of lieutenant-governor nanfan, who was a relative of the earl, the political agitation was active and aggressive. as soon as it became known in new york that lord cornbury had been appointed to succeed the earl of bellomont as governor of the province, measures were taken to secure the favor of that corrupt individual by the anti-leislerian party. in this procedure nicholas bayard took the lead, and procured addresses to be signed to the king, to parliament and to cornbury. to cornbury, a man very susceptible to flattery, they were profuse in their congratulations and in assertions calculated to prejudice him against those who had supported bellomont and to gain his favor for themselves, that they might again become the dominant party. not only were reflections freely cast on the earl of bellomont, but nanfan, the lieutenant-governor, was accused of bribing members of the house of assembly. [sidenote: the addresses signed at the coffee house] the addresses were signed at the coffee house, kept by john hutchins, and as soon as it was known, hutchins was summoned to appear before the lieutenant-governor and the council and ordered to produce the addresses. this he could not or would not do, and on the 19th of january, 1702, was arrested and committed to jail. two days after, bayard was also arrested and committed to prison on a warrant as a traitor. nanfan was aware that bayard had dug a pit for others that might be used for his own destruction. he had procured the passage of a law in 1691, when he was striving and hoping for the ruin of leisler and his friends, by which, "whatsoever person or persons shall, by any manner of ways, or upon any pretence whatsoever, endeavor, by force of arms or otherwise, to disturb the peace, good and quiet of their majesties' government, as it is now established, shall be deemed and esteemed as rebels and traitors unto their majesties, and incur the pains, penalties and forfeitures as the laws of england have for such offences, made and provided." the trial of bayard was hastened that it might be concluded before the arrival of cornbury. the prisoners petitioned that they might not be tried until the usual sitting of the supreme court. this, of course, was refused. all objections were overruled and bayard was ordered for trial on monday, the 2d of march. he was convicted and sentenced to death, and hutchins was tried and condemned in like manner. bayard was granted a reprieve until her majesty's pleasure might be known. hutchins was released on bail. bayard was held in confinement until the arrival of cornbury, when all was reversed. not very long after, by order of the government, bayard and hutchins were reinstated in all honor and estate, "as if no such trial had been." [illustration: the bayard punch bowl] in the trial of bayard, testimony was given that the addresses were signed in an upper room in the coffee house, and that nicholas bayard was present, "smoaking a pipe of tobacco." one of the signers was peter matthews, who was a lieutenant in the service, and the landlord of the tavern where bellomont declared the club met which was composed of men opposed to his administration. lieutenant matthews had come out with governor fletcher in 1692. he had previously been one of the household of the governor, and by him had been made a lieutenant in the garrison at the fort. he subsequently rose to the rank of colonel and was one of the commissioners of indian affairs in 1715. in 1703 his house was in the south ward. soon after, he removed to orange county, where he held a large grant of land. [sidenote: trial of roger baker] another tavern-keeper who became entangled in the meshes of the law and suffered from his boldness in expressing his opinions was roger baker, the landlord of the king's head. we give an account of his trial taken from a letter from new york, may 4, 1702, which is probably not altogether impartial. "the grand jury brought in presentments.--* * * one against roger baker saying the 5 november last the king was made a nose of wax and no longer king than the english please. * * * roger baker came upon tryal with a packt petty jury according to custome, whereof four happening to be absent, a tales was ordered, and although there were then spectators in court above 30 englishmen and he told so, yet the sheriffe went out and brought in three dutch men of their party, and finding no more he was forced to take one john ellis an englishman then in court. three witnesses were sworn the first said, he baker spoke the words; but that they were all very drunk it being holy-day. the other two said they were always present with them, but heard no such words nor nothing like it, that they were all drunk but the other witness to that degree he could not stand. judge atwood gave charge to the jury to bring baker in guilty; the jury went out and stayed all night then came into court and deliver'd their verdict not guilty; at which judge atwood was very angry refusing to the verdict, sent them out again, when after 6 hours they returned again with not guilty. at which the judge grew very passionate, and threatening them several times. they were sent out three several times more and persisted in not guilty. upon which the judge threatened to imprison and fine them. that so scared the 11 dutch, that in open court being sent for (it being about an hour before the court was to determine), were demanded why they were not agreed and who it was that would not agree to find guilty. answer was made john ellis upon which the judge fell upon him with such menacing language in open court and a considerable time hectoring and threatening him, he so managed him too that at last he gave his consent in open court where baker was recorded guilty and fined 400 pieces of eight and to remain in custody of the sheriffe till his fine was paid and after that until he made such acknowledgments as the governor should think fit." [sidenote: conferences at the coffee house] conferences of committees of the council and of the assembly were appointed at taverns during the years 1701-2-3, or at the great room in the fort, but after the passage of an act in 1703, declaring the proceedings against colonel bayard and alderman hutchins, for pretended high treason illegal, and the judgments null and void, the coffee house or the king's arms, kept by john hutchins, became the place appointed for these conferences and they continued to be held here for several years. the coffee house was the public house patronized by the wealthier class of citizens and by those in official life as well as by the military officers. lord cornbury, at this time governor of new york, is described by macauley as "a young man of slender abilities, loose principles and violent temper. he had been early taught to consider his relationship to the princess anne as the ground work of his fortunes, and had been exhorted to pay her assiduous court." he was cousin to the queen, and believing that he resembled her in features, was led by his vanity, it is thought, to dress in women's clothes and appear publicly on the ramparts of the fort and even in the street in that neighborhood. lord stanhope says that when lord cornbury was appointed governor of new york, and told that he should represent the queen he fancied that it was necessary to dress himself as a woman. still another reason is assigned for this silly behavior. it is said that in consequence of a vow he obliged himself for a month in every year to wear every day women's clothes. he otherwise prided himself on his erratic doings, and the town was, at times, amused and entertained, or shocked by the pranks of this kinsman of the queen. it is said that he once rode on horseback through the spacious front door of the coffee house, and was thus served with a drink at the bar. it is easy to credit this of such a man. [illustration: viscount cornbury] in the early part of the year 1709 there were several conferences held at the coffee house by committees from the council and assembly. on september 22d of that year a conference was appointed at the _new coffee house_. what was meant by the new coffee house, or where it was situated we are unable to state. the coffee house as a place of conference does not appear in the journal of the assembly again for many years. the conferences of the committees of the council and assembly were, no doubt, held at the best taverns in the city, at those frequented by the members, where at other times they talked of the affairs of state over their wine and spent a pleasant evening in social converse, changes being made as the quality of the taverns changed. at this period there were no clubs, such as exist today, no theatre, no newspaper. there was hardly a man in the community who did not habitually visit some tavern, where he met his friends and neighbors to talk over the news of the town. it was the place where he obtained all the knowledge he possessed of what was taking place in the world around him. the political unrest of the period made the taverns more particularly places of life and excitement. [illustration: old tankard] the history of a people consists not only in their wars and treaties with foreign nations, and in the political disturbances and struggles within; the manner in which they lived, and what were their interests and pleasures, are likely to interest us quite as much. if we can succeed in picturing them in our imagination, put ourselves in contact with them in their everyday walks, it is a matter of great satisfaction. the life and activities of the early colonial days, before there were any newspapers, were reflected in the tavern as in no other place in the community. here all classes met, and the good listener, could, by the conversations and talks of travelers and other visitors, gain more knowledge of the political and social condition of the neighboring country than in any other way. [sidenote: dinner to lord lovelace] in september, 1708, henry swift was a tavern-keeper in new york and rendered a bill to the authorities for boarding the french captain and company who came down from albany. he was one of a number of men who came out with lord cornbury and by order of the common council were made freeman of the city gratis. his house was on broadway, near the fort. when lord lovelace arrived as governor of the province a grand dinner was served in the fort, which was provided by henry swift at a charge of £40, 7s, 6d. almost four years afterwards he was still petitioning for the payment of this bill. on the 13th of november, 1707, the corporation gave a dinner "as a treat to his excellency the governor on his arrival here from his other government of new jersey." it was provided by henry swift and the wine and dinner cost the corporation £8, 5s. in 1710, henry swift was made collector of customs for perth amboy, although governor hunter was much opposed to the appointment. conference committees of the council and of the assembly met at his house on september 23, 1710; and again, on november 17 and 18, 1710, conference committees of the two houses were appointed to meet here. mrs. swift kept the house after her husband's death. it was owned by arent schuyler, of new barbadoes, new jersey, and when he died, by will dated december 17, 1724, he left the house and two lots of ground to his daughters, eva and cornelia. mrs. swift was then living in the house, as stated in the will. [sidenote: festivals] from the time of the english occupation, feast days and anniversaries had been observed with more or less spirit and display, which increased as the population of the city increased. the birthdays of the king and members of the royal family and the anniversaries of the coronation and the gunpowder plot were generally observed, and a new governor was always received with more or less enthusiasm, and his entry into the city was attended with imposing formalities. when governor andros came to new york, in 1688, he was accompanied by a large and brilliant retinue, and was received with great ceremony and escorted to the fort by the city guard--a regiment of foot and a troop of horse, in showy uniforms--where his commission was published, and later at the city hall. in august, 1692, the common council resolved that "a treat be made to welcome his excellency, benjamin fletcher, now arrived in this city to the value of £20 or thereabouts," and in december, 1697, they ordered that four barrels of powder be provided for saluting the earl of bellomont on his arrival; and after his arrival in the city, it was resolved by the common council that a dinner be given at the charge of the corporation for the entertainment of his excellency, earl of bellomont, captain-general, etc., etc.; that a committee be appointed to make a bill of fare (two aldermen and two assistants), "and that for the effectual doing thereof, they call to their assistance such cooks as they shall think necessary to advise." on the 15th of february, 1703, the treasurer of the city was ordered to repay to the mayor £9 10s 3d, which he had expended for a bonfire, beer and wine, on her majesty's birthday, the 6th of february, and on the 24th of this same month the common council ordered that a public bonfire be made at the usual place, and that ten gallons of wine and a barrel of beer be provided, at the expense of the city, to celebrate the success of her majesty's arms at vigo and in flanders, and the housekeepers were ordered to illuminate. much more deference was paid to the dignity of office two hundred years ago than at the present time. not only were governors received with great honor at their appearance to assume the office, but often, when they left the city to visit albany or new jersey, they were, on their return, entertained by the corporation. in november, 1704, lord cornbury, on his return from his other government of new jersey, was entertained at a dinner given by the corporation at the house of richard harris, which cost the city £10 18s 6d. this is the bill rendered, and which was ordered paid: 1704. the mayor, aldermen, &c., dr. £ s d dec. 19. to a piece of beef and cabbage 7 6 to a dish of tripe and cow-heel 6 0 to a leg of pork and turnips 8 3 to 2 puddings 14 6 to a surloin of beef 13 6 to a turkey and onions 9 0 to a leg of mutton and pickles 6 0 to a dish of chickens 10 6 to minced pyes 1 4 0 to fruit, cheese, bread, &c. 7 6 to butter for sauce 7 9 to hire 2 negroes to assist 6 0 to dressing dinner, &c. 1 4 0 to 31 bottles wine 3 2 0 to beer and syder 12 0 ------ 10 18 6 richard harris married the widow of roger baker, who had been the landlord of the well known king's head, not long after the latter's death, which occurred in 1702, and he may have continued this tavern, which is very likely, as it was probably being conducted by the widow when he married her. the year after his marriage, he was elected assistant alderman, and his house for many years was patronized by the officials of the province and the city. he was assistant alderman for several years. in 1707 he was one of a committee for leasing the long island ferry. on the 10th of october, of that year, the committee met at his house for that purpose, and for their expenses he was paid by the city £1 12s. five years after this, when he was no longer a member of the common council, the lease being about to expire, the committee for leasing the ferry met at his house on the 17th of december, 1712, and this time he charged the corporation £7 10s 9d. conference committees from the council and assembly met at his house several times in november, 1710, and in 1712. on the 6th of october, 1714, the governor gave notice of the death of queen anne, and on the 11th, king george was proclaimed in the city. the common council ordered seven or eight cords of wood for a bonfire and twenty gallons of wine for the people. the expenses of the common council on this occasion at the house of richard harris amounted to £8 4s, which was ordered to be paid. on november 7, 1717, the council requested a conference at the house of john parmyter on the subject matter of the bill for letting to farm the excise, and on october 20th of the same year a bonfire was ordered and a dinner was given by the corporation at his house in celebration of the anniversary of his majesty's coronation. the aldermen seem to have been ever ready to celebrate any of the usual anniversaries by eating a good dinner and drinking good wine. the bill for this dinner was as follows: corporation of new york, dr. 1717 to john parmyter £ s d oct. 20 to 32 bottles of wine 3 14 0 to beer and cyder 5 3 to eating 1 12 0 to dressing supper 6 ----- 5 17 3 as on most occasions a large portion consisted of liquor exhilarants. john parmyter had been a resident of new york since the time of bellomont and probably had been a tavern-keeper for some years previous to the date of this dinner. his house was on or near the corner of beaver and new streets. in 1712 an act was passed by the legislature of the province prohibiting all but john parmyter to make lamp-black, for five years, "this to encourage the first to set up that manufacture." he no doubt continued to keep tavern and had the monopoly of the manufacture of lamp-black until his death, and it also appears that his widow continued to carry on both lines of business. an act to prohibit all persons but susannah parmyter, widow, and her assigns, to make lamp-black during the space of ten years, was passed by the legislature in 1724. she continued to keep the tavern and rendered a bill to the authorities in august, 1727, for the "board of the governor of canada (sic) and fourteen men and wine." the custom of meeting in conference at the taverns continued and the names of the keepers of these houses are given in the journal of the assembly. in 1713 conference committees met several times at the house of bernard hardenbrook and in 1718, at the house of elizabeth jourdain, who was the widow of henry jourdain, captain of the sloop dolphin, who died at sea in the latter part of the year 1702. the dolphin was probably a slaver, for henry jourdain, in his will, evidently made at sea, directs that sixty-one elephants' teeth marked _h. j._, and some gold in bulk should be delivered to his wife in new york, which indicates that he had visited the african coast. his entire estate amounted to £426, which enabled his widow to set up a public house, where she entertained the committees from the council and assembly and "lodged his majesty's soldiers." [sidenote: the tavern of the widow post] the house of the widow post appears to have been a favorite place for members of assembly, where according to mr. isaac robin, secretary of council, they discussed matters of state over their wine, and committees met on business of various kinds. the popularity of her house seems to have continued for several years. in november, 1721, we have record of the examination of vincent pelow before the council at the house of the widow post, in relation to the small pox raging in boston, and on november 9, 1726, the assembly, "taking in consideration the conveniency and accommodation, which the members of this house have every sessions, as well at the meeting of committees as otherwise, at the house of the widow post, and that the trouble and expense, which is occasioned to her on such occasions far exceeds her gains. it is the opinion of this house that she ought to be exempted from paying any excise, from this time until the first day of november next," and it was ordered that the commissioners for letting to farm the excise take notice thereof accordingly. obadiah hunt was a tavern-keeper whose house seems to have been used both by the provincial and city officers as a place for conference on consultation. he was a member of the common council for several years, which may have been one cause of his house being used by that body. it was situated on dock street between whitehall and broad street, next door to the custom house. he owned the house and appears to have been a man of some property, but of little education. he was a popular landlord. in january, 1718, the corporation paid obadiah hunt £4 6s 9d, for expenses at his house by the corporation on the anniversary of the coronation, october 26th last, and on the anniversary of gunpowder treason day, november 5th. the dinner, wine, beer, cider and other expenses at the house of obadiah hunt on the occasion of the entertainment given to governor burnet, on september 20, 1720, shortly after his arrival in the province, cost the corporation £21 8s 6d. meetings were held at his house for the transaction of business of various kinds connected with the city, such as auditing accounts, leasing the ferry, leasing the docks and slips, etc., and on the arrival of a new governor, in april, 1728, his house was again the scene of an entertainment in his honor, which cost the city £15 6s 6d. iv the black horse [sidenote: the black horse tavern] in the early part of the eighteenth century, there stood on the southern corner of smith and garden streets, the present william street and exchange place, the black horse tavern, kept by john dehoneur, who seems to have been its landlord for many years. john or johannes dehoneur was recommended for the office of captain of militia in june, 1709. whether he was a tavern-keeper at this time, or how soon after he became one, we do not know, but on october 18, 1727, the assembly directed that the committee on grievances meet every tuesday and friday, during the sessions, at five o'clock in the afternoon, at the house of john dehoneur, and that the first meeting be on friday next. the next year the committee on grievances requested permission to meet at other place and time than at the place and time appointed for their meeting, and they were allowed by the assembly to meet at such other times and places as they should judge necessary, but they, nevertheless, must meet every thursday evening at the house of john dehoneur. it continued to be the meeting place of committees, and ten years after, in 1737, it was the meeting place, by appointment of the assembly, of the committee of privileges and elections. in the record it is sometimes named as the house of john dehoneur, and at other times as the black horse tavern. in the contest between cornelius van horne and adolph phillipse, they were ordered to exchange lists at the house of john dehoneur. [illustration: the black horse tavern] the assembly, like the common council, were inclined to meet at taverns for the transaction of public business, where they were evidently surrounded by a more cheerful atmosphere than in the cold halls of legislation and justice. where the room was warmed by a large and lively fire in the spacious fireplace, and the inner man warmed and exhilarated by good old wine, business was transacted with more cheerfulness and alacrity. the black horse tavern was the scene of many such meetings, and, no doubt, of some very exciting ones. in the contest over the votes for van horne and phillipse there were, very likely, some lively discussions. the black horse was for many years one of the most prominent taverns in the city. governor montgomerie, after being governor of new york about two years, died on the 1st of july, 1731, and rip van dam, as senior member of the council, and president of that body, became, _ex officio_, acting governor of the province. [illustration: rip van dam] governor cosby was appointed to succeed montgomerie, but did not arrive until the 1st of august, 1732, so that van dam was acting governor for a period of thirteen months. he had been invested with all the powers, duties, and rights of the office, and had been allowed to draw the full amount of the salary from the public funds. governor cosby, like almost all the governors sent out to the provinces, had a sharp eye to his own profit, and had obtained, before he left england, an order on van dam for one-half of the salary, emoluments and perquisites of the office during the time that the latter had exercised the chief authority; and, accordingly, made demand shortly after his arrival. van dam was willing to surrender one-half of the salary which he had received if cosby would pay to him one-half of the receipts, other than salary, and not otherwise, van dam resisting, cosby instituted suit by way of information in the equity side of the court of exchequer, where he was confident of a decision in his favor. the counsel for van dam excepted to the jurisdiction of the court as being illegal. great excitement ensued in consequence of a division in the court itself. chief justice morris supported the exception, the two associate judges, delancey and phillipse, voting against the plea. the decision of chief justice morris annoyed the governor, who demanded a copy of it. morris, to prevent misrepresentation, had it printed and sent it to the governor with a letter. both the decision and the letter were published in the gazette. this exasperated the governor beyond all bounds, and almost immediately morris was removed from the bench. shortly after james delancey, who afterwards became prominent, was appointed chief justice in his place. [illustration: w. cosby] [illustration: lewis morris] the contest between cosby and van dam, at first personal, soon involved the people, and divided them into two parties. those in office, and their following, supported the governor, while the party of the people, especially after the removal of the chief justice, were violently opposed to the arbitrary act of the governor in removing a judge because his decision was not as he wished, and to the favoritism which could, by an _ex post facto_ order, divest any of the colonial officers of salary earned and appropriated to individual use, and direct the amount to be paid to a stranger who had performed no service for it. if this were conceded, there would be little stability in the rights of british subjects. in the fall of 1733, lewis morris, being removed from the office of chief justice, offered himself as a candidate for representative for the county of westchester in the assembly. opposed to him was william forster, supported by the chief justice, james delancey, and the second judge, frederick phillipse, who both appeared in person on the ground, and exerted their influence to the utmost to defeat the election of morris. the account of this election, as told in the first number of the new york weekly journal, reads like a page from the history of feudal times, when the lords appeared upon the scene, followed by their retainers, ready for contests in the lists or on the field of battle. the high sheriff of the county, having, by papers affixed to the church of east chester and other public places, given notice of the day and place, without stating any time of day when the election was to take place, the electors for morris were very suspicious of some intended fraud. to prevent this, about fifty of them kept watch upon and about the green at east chester, the place of election, from twelve o'clock the night before until the morning of the appointed day. the electors of the eastern part of the county began to move on sunday afternoon and evening, so as to be at new rochelle by midnight. on their way through harrison's purchase, the inhabitants provided for their entertainment, there being a table at each house plentifully provided for that purpose. about midnight they all met at the home of william lecount, at new rochelle, whose house not being large enough to entertain so many, a large fire was made in the street, at which they sat till daylight, when they again began to move. on the hill, at the east end of town, they were joined by about seventy horsemen, electors of the lower part of the county, and then proceeded to the place of election in the following order: first, rode two trumpeters and three violinists; next, four of the principal freeholders, one of whom carried a banner, on one side of which was affixed in golden capitals, king george, and on the other side, in like golden capitals, liberty & law; next followed the candidate, lewis morris, formerly chief justice of the province; then two colors. thus, at sunrise, they entered the green of east chester, the place of election, followed by about three hundred horsemen, the principal freeholders of the county (a greater number than had appeared for one man since the settlement of the county). after riding three times around the green, they went to the houses of joseph fowler and mr. child, who were well prepared for their reception. about eleven o'clock appeared william forster, the candidate of the other side; after him came two _ensigns_, borne by two of the freeholders; then came the honorable james delancey, chief justice of the province of new york, and the honorable frederick phillipse, second judge of the province and baron of the exchequer, attended by about one hundred and seventy horsemen, freeholders, and friends of forster. they entered the green on the east side and rode round it twice. as they passed, the second judge very civilly saluted the former chief justice by taking off his hat, a salutation which the former judge returned in the same manner. after this, they retired to the house of mr. baker, who was prepared to receive and entertain them. about an hour after this the high sheriff came to town, finely mounted, with housings and holster caps of scarlet, richly laced with silver. upon his appearance the electors on both sides went into the green. after reading his majesty's writ the sheriff directed the electors to proceed to their choice, which they then did, a great majority appearing for morris. a poll was demanded and the sheriff insisted that a poll must be taken. a poll was taken, and did not close until about eleven o'clock at night. morris, although the votes cast for him by thirty-eight quakers were rejected, because they would not take the oath, was elected by a large majority. the indentures being sealed, the whole body of electors waited on the new representative, at his lodgings, with trumpets sounding and violins playing and then took leave of him. the foregoing follows the account which appeared in the new york weekly journal, which was friendly to morris. in the same number of this paper the only item of local news is the following, which we reproduce in fac-simile. [illustration: _new-york, nov. 5._ on _wednesday_ the 31st of _october_, the late chief justice, but new representative for the county of _westchester_, landed in this city, about 5 o'clock in the evening, at the ferry-stairs: on his landing he was saluted by a general fire of the guns from the merchants vessels lying in the road; and was receiv'd by great numbers of the most considerable merchants and inhabitants of this city, and by them with loud aclamations of the people as he walk'd the streets, conducted to the _black horse_ tavern, where a handsome entertainment was prepar'd for him, at the charge of the gentlemen who received him; and in the middle of one side of the room, was fix'd a tabulet with golden capitals, king george, liberty and law. on thursday last the house of representatives were adjourned to the third teusday in _april_ next.] thus the black horse tavern had become the rallying place and rendezvous for the party of the people, and was, from this time, we have every reason to believe, the place where they continued to meet to concert on measures against prerogative and favoritism and against the arrogance and arbitrary acts of the governor and his supporters. these sentiments were not new to the people, but had been lying dormant, like smoldering embers, which needed only a slight agitation to fan them into a flame. not since the time of bellomont had there been so much bitterness displayed in party strife. since 1725, a newspaper had been printed in new york, but william bradford, its printer, was in the pay of the government, and no item in opposition to the governor or his friends was to be found in its pages. in november, 1733, appeared the first number of the new york weekly journal, printed by john peter zenger, and devoted to the support of the party of the people, at the head of which were lewis morris and rip van dam. it soon began to make itself felt. it was eagerly read, its sarcastic, reflections on the government, and its biting criticisms, furnishing a weekly entertainment to the public, which drove the governor and his friends almost to madness. its effect was so keenly felt that it was resolved, in council, that zenger's papers, nos. 7, 47, 48 and 49, and also two certain printed ballads, as containing many things tending to sedition and faction, to bring his majesty's government into contempt, and to disturb the peace thereof, should be burned by the common hangman or whipper, and that the mayor and magistrates should attend the ceremony. this they refused to do and forbade the whipper, who was in the employ of the city, to obey the order. his place was supplied by a negro slave of the sheriff. attempts were made to have zenger indicted, but the grand jury refused to bring in a bill. in november, 1734, zenger was arrested and imprisoned, by order of the council, for printing seditious libels, and, for a time, was denied the use of pen, ink and paper. in january, 1735, the grand jury not having indicted him, the attorney-general filed an information against him. in the meantime he was editing his paper through a hole in the door of his cell. at the april term of court his counsel, james alexander and william smith, the two ablest lawyers of new york, filed exceptions to the legality of the commissions of the two judges. for this they were silenced, and john chambers was appointed by the court counsel for zenger. [illustration: a. hamilton] [sidenote: trial of john peter zenger] [sidenote: dinner at the black horse] when the trial came on, in july, 1735, andrew hamilton, of philadelphia, a lawyer of great reputation, who had been secretly engaged, unexpectedly appeared by the side of the prisoner. he was capable, eloquent and audacious, and, in conjunction with chambers, managed the case with so much ability and skill that the jury, after being out only ten minutes, returned with a verdict of _not guilty_, which was received with shouts and cheers. the judges threatened the leaders of the tumult with imprisonment, when a son of admiral norris, who was also a son-in-law of lewis morris, declared himself the leader and invited a repetition of the cheers, which were instantly repeated. andrew hamilton was hailed as the champion of liberty. the corporation of new york shortly presented him with the freedom of the city in a gold box, "for his learned and generous defence of the rights of mankind and the liberty of the press." zenger was released from prison, after having been confined for more than eight months. after the trial was concluded, the enthusiasm and demonstrations of satisfaction centered at the black horse tavern, where a splendid dinner was given to andrew hamilton in celebration of his great victory. at his departure, next day, "he was saluted with the great guns of several ships in the harbour as a public testimony of the glorious defence he made in the cause of liberty in this province." governeur morris stated to dr. john w. francis his belief that "the trial of zenger, in 1735, was the germ of american freedom--the morning star of that liberty which subsequently revolutionized america." the black horse tavern, therefore, if it was not the cradle of liberty, was certainly the nursery of those sentiments which ripened into the declaration of independence. no spot in new york is so closely identified with this victory for the rights of free speech and for the liberty of the press, as the site of the black horse tavern, which is now occupied by an office building called lord's court. lewis morris at this time was in london, where he had gone to lay his grievances before the home government. his case came before the committee of the council in november, 1735, "when the lords gave it as their opinion that the governor's reasons for removing him were not sufficient." he was not, however, restored to the office of chief justice, but was appointed governor of new jersey, where he had large interests, and where the people had long desired to have a government separate and distinct from new york. many writers have erroneously asserted that the black horse tavern was the resort of the friends of the governor, where balls were given by the aristocratic members of society, and that robert todd was its landlord; but all that is necessary to clear up this mistake is to pay careful attention to the files of the two rival newspapers of that day, bradford's gazette and zenger's journal. on broad street, near the corner of dock street (the present pearl street), robert todd, vintner, kept his house, which became, indeed, the favorite place for the balls and entertainments of the governor's party, as was the black horse tavern for the party of the people. on october 9, 1735, the governor was invited "to a very splendid entertainment provided for him at mr. todd's in order to congratulate his excellency upon his safe return from albany, where he had been to renew the treaty of peace and friendship with the six nations of indians." after dinner they drank the healths of the different members of the royal family and the health of his excellency and prosperity to his administration--"the music playing all the while." "his excellency was also pleased to drink prosperity to trade, and at the same time, in a very obliging manner, assured the gentlemen there, that if they could think of any methods to promote and encourage the trade and welfare of this province, he would heartily contribute every thing in his power thereto." in the evening the house was illuminated. [sidenote: anniversary of the coronation] two days after this, on the 11th of october, the anniversary of the coronation was celebrated at the fort, when the healths of the king and queen and the other members of the royal family were drank under the discharge of cannon, "the two independent companies posted there, being under arms all the time." in the evening the governor and his friends were entertained at the house of mr. freeman, which was handsomely illuminated. "the whole was concluded with dancing and all the demonstrations of joy suitable to the day." mr. thomas freeman was the son-in-law of governor cosby. at the same time, at the black horse tavern, the house of john dehoneur, was made "a very handsome entertainment in honour of the day for rip van dam esq. president of his majesty's council. matthias norris esq. commander of his majesty's ship, _tartar_, and capt. compton, commander of his majesty's ship _seaforth_." thus we see that the commanders of the two men-of-war lying in the harbor, honored with their presence and were honored by the party of the people at the black horse tavern; and this accounts for the salutes given by the guns of the ships in the harbor to honor andrew hamilton on his departure from the city the previous august. "at noon the company met, and while the great guns of his majesty's ship tartar were firing they drank the following healths, the king, the queen, the prince, duke and royal family, the prince and princess of orange, the glorious and immortal memory of king william the third, success to coll. morris, in his undertaking, to the speedy election of a new assembly, prosperity to the corporation, my lord wiloughton, duke of dorset, sir john norris and general compton, and then the company din'd, in the evening the city was illuminated, the afternoon and evening were spent with all the joy and dancing suitable to the occasion." [illustration: the ball at the black horse] the account of the celebration of the anniversary of the coronation at the fort is found in the new york gazette, which makes no mention of the celebration at the black horse tavern. the new york weekly journal gives an account of the celebration at the black horse tavern, but makes no mention of any celebration at the fort. in the same way, the account of the celebration of the birthday of the prince of wales, by the party of the people, is given by the new york weekly journal of january 26, 1736, as follows: "the 19th instant being his royal highness the prince of wales's birthday. it was celebrated at the black horse in a most elegant and genteel manner. there was a most magnificent appearance of gentlemen and ladies. the ball began with french dances. and then the company proceeded to country dances, upon which mrs. norris led up two new country dances upon the occasion; the first of which was called _the prince of wales_, and the second, the princess of saxe-gotha, in honour of the day. there was a most sumptuous entertainment afterward. at the conclusion of which the honourable rip van dam esq., president of his majesty's council, began the royal healths, which were all drank in bumpers. the whole was conducted with the utmost decency, mirth and cheerfulness." [illustration: "which were all drank in bumpers"] no mention is made of any celebration at the fort. the new york gazette has the following account of the celebration of the governor's party: "on the 20th instant, being the anniversary of his royal highness the prince of wales's birthday, the royal healths were drank at the fort, by the gentlemen of the council, and the principal merchants and gentlemen of the place. the continuance of the governour's indisposition hinder'd the celebration of the day with the usual solemnity at the fort; however there was a ball in the evening at mr. todd's, at which there was a very great appearance of gentlemen and ladies, and an elegant entertainment made by the gentlemen, in honour of the day." [illustration: "the violin and the german flute by 'private hands'"] at the black horse, committees of the assembly met for the transaction of public business, but the conferences of committees of the two houses were held at the house of robert todd. here, on the 4th of november, 1736, a conference was held of committees from the council and assembly, to prepare an address to his majesty on the nuptials of his royal highness the prince of wales. it seems also to have been a place for public entertainments. a concert of vocal and instrumental music was given here, january 21, 1736, for the benefit of mr. pachelbell, the harpsicord part performed by himself, the songs, violin and german flutes by "private hands." again on the 9th of march, 1736, this was repeated, when it was announced that tickets could be had at the coffee house, at the black horse and at mr. todd's; at 4 shillings each. mr. pachelbell was probably the music teacher, and was assisted in the concert by his pupils or friends. on the evening of january 6, 1745, a concert was given at the house of robert todd, for the benefit of mr. rice, which the newspaper affirms was "thought by all competent judges to exceed anything of the kind ever done here before." when samuel bayard died, in 1745, he left the house on broad street next adjoining the delancey house, which afterwards became the noted fraunces tavern, to his son, nicholas, which he states in his will, was in the tenure of robert todd. it had been occupied by him for at least eight years; earlier, his house is described as next to the exchange coffee house. among the last acts of governor cosby was that declaring rip van dam suspended from the council. this was to prevent van dam, as senior member of the council, from succeeding him and again becoming acting governor. after the death of cosby, van dam and his friends declared this suspension illegal, and van dam made an effort to obtain control, but george clarke, next in order, was supported by the council and also by the assembly, when it convened, and in the course of a few months received his commission from england as lieutenant-governor, which put an end to the claims of van dam. clarke received from cosby a legacy of trouble, but he was an astute politician and a much abler man than cosby. he is credited with the policy of making it appear that the governorship of new york was not a desirable post, and by this means held his office for many years, and then retired to england with a competency. the community continued to be divided by party strife. the government party were, in derision, called "courtiers," and they in turn characterized the opposition as a dutch mob. a visitor to new york in 1739 describes the different parties as courtiers, zengerites, the prudents and the no-party-men; and states that there was much bitterness displayed, and that the women were as zealous politicians as the men. [sidenote: exchange coffee house] from the time of the establishment of a coffee house on broadway, in 1696, until about 1738, there had been but one coffee house in new york, so far as we can ascertain. the first coffee house, called also the king's arms tavern, disappears from our view in 1709, and we hear no more of any coffee house until 1729, when we find that there was then a coffee house also called the king's arms supposed to be situated in broad street near the exchange, and called the exchange coffee house. it had probably had a continued existence during this interval. during the time of political excitement preceding and following the trial of zenger, it appears to have been, with the house of robert todd, the resort of the "courtiers," as the supporters of the governor and his party were called. in march, 1731, there was a sale of several lots of land by auction at this house, and after the death of governor montgomerie, his library, a collection of valuable books, was announced to be sold on the 1st of june, 1732, and notice was given that a catalogue of the books and conditions of sale might be seen at the coffee house. in october, 1732, the late governor's barge, which he had used in making visits to his government of new jersey, with awning, damask curtains, two sets of oars, sails and everything necessary for her, were sold by auction at the coffee house. it seems at this time to have become a place for public sales of all kinds and for the transaction of all kinds of business. in 1747 it was on the corner of broad and dock (now pearl) streets and its landlord was david cox, who gave it up in 1749, when andrew ramsay, who was then the landlord of a tavern in dock street, announced that he had opened the exchange coffee house next door to where mr. cox lately kept it. this was the house known some years before as the fighting cocks. when ramsay purchased the unexpired part of the lease of the long island ferry, in 1750, and moved to the ferry house on the long island side of the river, he was succeeded by richard clarke cooke, who describes his house as the gentlemen's and exchange coffee house and tavern at the sign of the king's arms. his occupancy was of short duration. anne stockton made an attempt to establish an ordinary in it, but at the end of about a month she gave notice that she "has declined, and is advised to teach young ladies to sew and embroider and millinery." george burns then became the landlord of the king's arms, which appears no longer to be known as a coffee house, and which was brought back to its former location on the corner. benjamin pain appropriated the name of "gentlemen's coffee house"--and carried it to broadway, where he opened a house in april, 1751. in january, 1753, a committee of the common council met at the house of george burns, the king's arms, for the purpose of letting to farm the ferry between new york city and long island, when they were furnished with the usual entertainment provided for such occasions. on monday, the 25th of june, 1753, in celebration of the anniversary of the festival of st. john the baptist, "the ancient and right worship society of free and accepted masons of this city assembled at the spring garden, and being properly cloathed made a regular procession in due form to the king's arms tavern in broad street, near the long bridge, where an elegant entertainment was provided." here, they drank his majesty's health and many other loyal healths and concluded the day in the most social and satisfactory manner. the king's arms tavern continued on or near the corner of broad and dock streets for many years and was a well known tavern under various landlords. in 1696, what was called the shoemakers' pasture was divided into building lots, and soon after on lot number 58, of the map of this property, on the southeast side of the present william street, about midway between john and fulton streets, was built a house which became a prominent and much frequented tavern, from its sign, known as the horse and cart. the part of william street near this tavern became known as horse and cart street. it has been said that this house was a tavern in the time of captain kidd, and that he was a frequent visitor to it before he went on his fateful voyage. this may be a mere tradition, but if true, the house, which is still standing, at no. 122 william street, must be over two hundred years old. it is, at any rate, we think, the oldest house now standing on manhattan island. in october, 1733, it was advertised as the meeting place of the proprietors of a tract of 50,000 acres of land, "for concerting matters necessary for their mutual defence in law," and again, in 1737, a meeting of these proprietors or their proxies was called at the same house. [illustration: house at 122 william street] george burns, who in 1750 was keeping a tavern opposite the merchants coffee house, moved to the noted sign of the horse and cart, where he announced that "to gratify his customers he takes in the boston, philadelphia and new york papers." he soon gave place to captain george edmonds. it seems to have been a tavern that was patronized by travelers, especially those coming in from the north and east and was a favorite of the new england people, as is shown by the announcement made by captain edmonds when its landlord in 1751, that it had "lately been very much balked, to the great disappointment of numbers of persons from new england that used to frequent that house." notice was given in march, 1752, that "the once noted horse and cart inn, in the city of new york, is now revived by edward willett." thus there are indications that the house had lost the popularity which it once enjoyed. throughout all its many vicissitudes it retained its name for a great many years. landlords came and landlords went, but the sign of the horse and cart remained, and was well known as a landmark by which the locations of other houses and places were designated. the house was still known as the horse and cart as late as 1765. the old sign was probably taken down about this time, or a little later, and during the decade preceding the revolution the house was known as the golden hill inn. in 1733 there was a tavern on broadway that hung out the sign of the coach and horses, kept by thomas welch, from london, where, it was announced, could be had "very good entertainment for man and horse," and where were "also horses to be let or stand at livery." in 1738 captain norris, commander of the ship tartar, then lying in the harbor of new york, was in need of men and made application to the mayor for permission to impress thirty seamen to man his ship. the governor and council ordered the mayor to comply with this request, but the mayor pre-emptorily refused to obey the order, and the governor and council prudently refrained from taking further action. thus it seems that it was difficult at that time to obtain a crew for a man-of-war in new york harbor, but a year or two later there was no difficulty in obtaining volunteers for privateering. [sidenote: privateering] as soon as england had declared war with spain the adventurous merchants of new york commenced fitting out privateers to prey upon the commerce of the enemy, and the taverns along the east river shore were all bustle and excitement. many of them became headquarters for recruiting seamen for these adventurous expeditions. the vessels were commanded and manned in part by young men of the best families of new york, who left off cock-fighting and horse-racing to go a-privateering. the appeals for volunteers to join these expeditions were made to "gentlemen sailors" and to "gentlemen adventurers." samuel bayard went out in the sloop ranger as its commander and soon returned with two prizes, taken at st. jago, in the west indies. these were offered to be sold, in june, 1740, and notice was given that the inventory could be seen at the coffee house. he seems to have been a successful commander and brought in other prizes. the sign of the pine apple on the new dock, kept by benjamin kierstede, was a place for recruiting seamen and also for enlisting men in the military companies then organizing to go out against the spanish colonies in the west indies. another place of the same kind was the tavern at the sign of the jamaica arms, on cruger's wharf, kept by benjamin pain. at both of these places there was great activity in making up crews for privateers about to sail. here the "articles" could be seen, and men were engaged. here also prizes and cargoes were sold. in august, 1740, five companies of soldiers had been enlisted, commanded by captains clarke, cosby, provost, cuyler and stevens, and were encamped on the common. in september the companies raised in rhode island were expected to join them. the new york weekly journal of august 4, 1740, contains the following: "an express arrived a few days since from the earl of waldegrave which occasioned the holding of a council which sat till 2 the next morning. the dispatch brought by the courier occasions great matter of speculation among the coffee house politicians and some since talk of peace while others say the french will no longer remain neuter." when, in 1744, war was declared with france an additional impulse was given to the privateering business. for the five years preceding 1748 no less than thirty-one vessels, each carrying from ten to twenty-four guns, are named in the newspapers, and there is continually mention made of prizes being brought in, of cases before the court of admiralty, of sales of the captured ships and their cargoes and of the adjustments of disputes over the division of the spoils. in 1745, we find that arbitrators were to meet at the house of robert todd every friday evening "for settling the differences between the four privateers formerly arrived here with six french prizes." this continued from january to may. in september, 1744, a new york newspaper stated that, "'tis computed there will be before winter 113 sail of privateers at sea, from the british american colonies, mostly stout vessels and well manned. a naval force equal (some say) to that of great britain in the time of queen elizabeth." in 1745 it was stated that at that time there were thirteen privateers at sea from the port of new york. the men for these vessels were not all supplied by new york city. the alluring promises of gain drew volunteers from all the neighboring country. governor hamilton, of new jersey, complained that the privateers-men were sweeping into their ranks the flower of the youth of his province. in 1745 captain bevan, of the privateer sloop clinton, brought into the port of new york a french prize, which he had taken after a short engagement, without the loss of a man. her cargo, consisting of sugar, indigo and cotton, was valued at £40,000, and each man of the crew received £160 prize money. as a reward for complying with his request not to plunder the passengers, officers and sailors of the captured ship, captain bevan gave his crew a handsome treat of a hogshead of punch and an ox roasted whole in the fields at dominie's hook, which was quite handsome in captain bevan. the cargo of the prize ship le pomone (la pomme), brought in by captain bevan, was sold at the house of widow thomas. the prize ship joseph of egypt and cargo were sold in april, 1746, at the house of the widow susannah lawrence, on the dock, near the meal market, at the lower end of wall street. when news came of the capture of louisburg the common council, to celebrate the victory, ordered that mr. dejancourt, whose house was near the meal market, be directed to prepare a handsome dinner for the board and that the governor, the members of the council, the assembly members of the city, with the field officers, be invited to dine with them and that a bonfire be made "without the spring garden" in the evening. they also ordered that twenty gallons of good wine be sent to the bonfire for the people. [sidenote: the negro plot] in 1741, during the spanish war, new york city was thrown into a panic of excitement by the so-called negro plot. each week the newspapers gave accounts of the numerous executions and of the trials resulting from the confessions of the victims, each one of whom was induced to accuse another in order to save himself. it seems to have seized on the inhabitants of new york in the same way that witchcraft overwhelmed the people of salem, massachusetts. in the intense excitement persons of better and better standing in the community were being accused until a halt was found necessary. thomas croker, at this time, was landlord of the fighting cocks in dock street, and it was at his house that john ury, who was tried for complicity in the plot, lodged. although ury, the most prominent victim, was, no doubt, innocent of any criminal act, he was, nevertheless, convicted on the evidence of those who had been urged to accuse somebody to save themselves or to gain a reward. he was a stranger and fell a victim to the panic which pervaded the community. the sign of the fighting cocks had hung in dock street, next door to the corner of broad street, for many years. in 1736, the tavern was kept by edward eastham, who met with the loss of a silver quart tankard, marked on the handle with an e, taken from his house, for the recovery of which he offered a reward of three pounds. the next year a silver watch was taken from this house, "of a size rather larger than midling, regmaiden at dublin the maker," for the return of which a reward of ten shillings was offered, "and no questions asked." although though the fighting cocks tavern, as its name implies, may have been the scene of many cock-fights, we do not think that at that time this would detract from its standing and respectability. [sidenote: the king's birthday] in march, 1748, in celebration of the king's birthday, it is stated that a jack was displayed all day from the flagstaff on the southwest bastion of fort george. the city regiment of militia and troops were under arms and were reviewed by the governor from the piazza of the city hall, as they passed from broadway, where they had been drawn up, and, it is said, made a very handsome appearance. the governor and some of the gentlemen of the council who attended him were entertained by the mayor, corporation, and officers of the militia with some extraordinary wine ("such as is rare to be met with in any private house") from hugh crawford's, ford's, near at hand, and there they drank the health of his majesty and other royal healths under the discharge of twenty-one guns at the fort. in honor of the day there were two halls, one at the fort and another at ramsay's tavern in dock street. we give an account of these two balls as it appeared in a newspaper of that period. "in the evening there was a private entertainment and ball at his excellency's, consisting of a snug select company of the _choicest fruits_ of the town, that were particularly invited for that purpose, the only entertainment of the kind that his excellency's leisure has admitted of upon such public occasions during his administration; the company was very sociable, and the night concluded there as usual. "the gentlemen that had not the honour to be invited to his excellency's ball resolved not to be behindhand in their demonstrations of loyalty on this occasion, and therefore ordered a public entertainment to be provided against the evening at mr. ramsay's tavern, where there was a very splendid and beautiful appearance of ladies, such as would have graced an assembly in england. there were several gentlemen of council and corporation, and most of the principal merchants and other gentlemen in the city, that made up a gay and numerous assembly. "the ball was opened about six o'clock, the city being illuminated from one end to the other, the supper was served up about ten and notwithstanding the short warning given, there was the greatest variety this town or country could produce, and the tables were decorated in so neat and elegant a manner as raised a general admiration and 'twas declared by good judges that never was a more magnificent entertainment in this country. the whole tables were taken up with ladies the length of two rooms laid into one, that the gentlemen's time was generally employed in waiting on them, and when they were done the gentlemen supplied their places. after supper, his majesty's, the prince and princess of wales, and the other royal healths were drank, and then prosperity to the province, a speedy exportation of its enemies, etc. "the whole affair was conducted with the utmost decency and decorum; there was the greatest gaiety, cheerfulness and complacency in every countenance. the ball was concluded about 5 a. m. and the night was passed in the general satisfaction, without the least incivility offered or offence taken by any one, which is scarce to be said on the like occasions. we are told this was distinguished by the title of the country ball." v the merchants' coffee house [sidenote: the meal market] trade had extended its territory along the east river shore until about the beginning of the eighteenth century it had reached and taken in wall street. in 1709 the first slave market was erected at the foot of this street, on the site of the half moon battery and block house of the dutch era, and for many years continued to be the established place where slaves were offered for sale and "stood for hire." a market house had been built, and in january, 1726-7, it was ordained by the common council of the city of new york that the market house at the lower end of wall street be appointed a public market for the sale of all sorts of corn, grain and meal, and a penalty was fixed for selling such in any public market elsewhere. from this time it was known as the meal market. in the course of time several taverns had been opened in the neighborhood of the market, and it had become the center of considerable business. in 1726 the only newspaper in new york gave notice of servants to be sold by john dunks at the sign of the jamaica pilot boat, on the dock. in 1750 the following appeared in the new york gazette or weekly post boy: "just imported, a parcel of likely negros, to be sold at public vendue to-morrow at ten o'clock at the merchants' coffee house." the tavern at the sign of the jamaica pilot boat stood on the northwest corner of the present wall and water streets, then wall and burnet streets. francis child, a wigmaker, owned it and advertised it for sale in 1736 and 1737, when he described it as the corner house near the meal market, "a well frequented tavern for several years past" and in good repair. daniel bloom, mariner, who as captain of the turtle dove had met with a very unfortunate experience in the west indies, his brig and all on board being stript of everything even to the clothing they wore, and who had lately arrived rived in new york, purchased the house and lot, in june, 1738, the consideration mentioned in the deed being five hundred pounds (£500). bloom was landlord of the house for more than a dozen years. while living here he, in december, 1747, took the lease of the ferry between the city and nassau (long) island for the term of five years, for which he agreed to pay the sum of four hundred and fifty-five pounds (£455) per annum, to be paid in quarterly installments, and the common council ordered that the neighborhood of the meal market have leave, at their own expense, to make and erect a dock and stairs, for the convenience of the ferry boat which was to land there, in such manner as shall be directed by the committee appointed for that purpose. bloom ran the ferry for about three years, when, in september, 1750, by permission of the common council, he transferred the lease to andrew ramsay, who at this time was the landlord of the exchange coffee house, from which he moved to the ferry house on the long island side of the river. soon after this bloom died. at the time of his death he was still indebted to the city for a portion of the rent of the ferry, and the corporation, in june, 1751, offered to take from the executors of his estate fifty pounds (£50) in settlement of all arrears due. [sidenote: the merchants' coffee house] long before daniel bloom purchased the house that hung out the sign of the jamaica pilot boat, it had been kept by john dunks. bloom did not retain the sign, for we find that a few years later, it was used by the widow of john dunks, who kept a house a little further up near the fly market. bloom had seen considerable of the world, and appears to have been a man of some property, owning real estate in the city and in westchester county. he probably had an acquaintance among the merchants, as sea captains generally had, and was able to make his house a resort for them. he called it the merchants' coffee house, and he was no doubt the first landlord of the house by that name, which, for more than half a century, was one of the most prominent houses of the city. as its name implies, it gradually became the place where the merchants of the city met and transacted business, and it became also the place where auctions, or vendues, as they were called, were held, especially such as were connected with the shipping business. the year after bloom's death, its landlord was captain james ackland. the price paid for the lease of the ferry indicates that there must have been considerable travel over it and that the house at the landing place should have been a profitable one. on the next corner below, on burnet's key and wall street slip, was the tavern of widow susannah lawrence, which at one time was called the red lion, and on the opposite side of wall street stood, in 1735, st. george and the dragon, which in 1750 was occupied by thomas leppers, from london, who hung out the sign of the duke of cumberland. he had succeeded george burns, who became prominent as a tavern-keeper and was in turn the landlord of many well known houses. in may, 1750, announcement was made that "thomas leppers, living at the sign of the duke of cumberland, opposite the merchants' coffee house, proposes to open an ordinary to-morrow, dinner will be ready at half an hour after one," and a few days later he gave notice that "whereas, i have often heard gentlemen strangers and single gentlemen of this city wish for a regular ordinary and since my removal to the duke of cumberland, opposite the merchants' coffee house, i have been frequently advised by gentlemen my friends to keep one. these are to give notice that i began to do so on tuesday last, which shall be continued every day. dinner shall be ready at one o'clock. per thomas leppers from london." [sidenote: an affair at leppers' tavern] in august, 1750, this house was the scene of a disturbance which must have caused much talk in the town, as an account of the affair occupies a whole page in one of the issues of the new york gazette revived in the weekly post boy, a very unusual attention given any local news. it was claimed that the article had been written by spectators of the affair to set to right reports that were current in the town. on tuesday evening, the 28th of august, several persons met as a club at leppers' tavern, and one or two of the company, signifying a desire to have mr. james porterfield join them, one of the members went out and in a short time returned and introduced him to the company, who, it seems, were mostly physicians or interested in that profession. after supper he begged the attention of the club, and stated that he had received many civilities from the gentlemen of the club, for which he returned them thanks; but a friend had told him that having lately asked a member if mr. porterfield were admitted to it, the answer was, that he was not, and that his loquacity was the cause of it. he said that he submitted to the judgment of the club whether he had ever behaved in such a manner at the club as to deserve that reflection. the members of the club declined to pass judgment upon the question, stating that as he was not a member, it would be to no purpose to give any judgment about it, since if they thought him too talkative it was not in their power to prevent it as his conduct could not be regulated by any of their rules. notwithstanding this definite answer, he still persisted in claiming a judgment whether he was faulty in being too talkative or not. the members of the club maintained their first position and begged him not to insist any further, as he was defeating the original intention of the meeting. he became violent, but was prevailed at length to be quiet while a paper was being read by one of the members. he seems to have worked himself up to a high state of resentment for he sneered and interrupted the reading, and after it was finished became so uncontrollable and insulting that he was threatened with expulsion. he then threw his glove upon the table as a challenge, and although no other person was armed, drew his sword. at this point the member, who had threatened to turn him out, took up the glove and threw it in his face, and being seated at the opposite side of a long table went round to him, and, with the assistance of some of the other members, disarmed him and broke his sword. they forced him to the door, but he used his cane, which was also broken by the company, who now went to another room, leaving him alone. he went down stairs and on his way out told mr. loppers that he would get another sword and return and run some of the members upstairs through the body, but mr. loppers told him that he could not again enter his house that night. he thereupon seated himself at the door with the stump of his sword in his hand waiting for revenge, but was induced by the member of the club who had introduced him to retire to his lodgings. this was not the end, for the next evening mr. porterfield came down to the merchants' coffee house, and at sight of doctor ayscough, drew his sword and shook it at the doctor, who stood in the door, calling him villain and scoundrel and challenging him to fight. after some abuse of this kind doctor ayscough seized a cane from a bystander and struck porterfield on the head, who immediately rushed towards him and made a pass at him. doctor ayscough, in retreating, fell down and porterfield, thinking that he had pricked him, very quickly and prudently disappeared, as the resentment of the spectators was apparent. doctor ayscough was not injured. [sidenote: clubs] it seems to have been quite usual at this period for men of like tastes and inclinations to form themselves into clubs. a writer, describing new york and its people in 1756, states that, "new york is one of the most social places on the continent. the men collect themselves into weekly evening clubs. the ladies, in winter, are frequently entertained either at concerts of music or assemblies, and make a very good appearance." the clubs, as well as the assemblies for dancing, were held at the taverns. the first club in the colony of new york, of which we have any knowledge, was formed at the instance of governor lovelace, in the winter of 1668-69, composed of ten french and dutch and six english families, to meet at each other's houses twice a week in winter and once a week in summer, from six to nine in the evening. it is said that the governor was generally present and made himself agreeable. this, no doubt, was a select circle, and the enjoyment derived consisted of the social pleasures and the good things to eat and drink, the beverages being madeira wine and rum and brandy punch served up in silver tankards. governor bellomont speaks of the men who were opposed to him meeting as a club and of governor fletcher's club night, which was saturday. the club opposed to bellomont met at the tavern of lieutenant matthews, which was in the south ward. in 1734 there was a club in new york called the hum drum club, which appears to have been honored by the presence of the governor on two succeeding saturdays. as we approach the period of the revolution, we find the number of clubs increasing; they were organized with different objects in view. there was the purely social club, the political club, the club for the lawyer and the club for the physician, etc. [sidenote: merchants' exchange] the growing commercial importance of new york induced the building of a new exchange for merchants in the middle of broad street, near the east river, which was commenced in 1752, on or near the site of one which had stood there since 1690. in june, permission for erecting it was given by the city and one hundred pounds appropriated towards its erection. the original intention was probably to build it like the old one, which was simply an open structure with nothing but roof above; but, in august, the corporation resolved that they would at their own expense, build or cause to be built a room twelve feet high over the exchange, for which an appropriation was made of twelve hundred pounds (£1,200). a cupola was erected on it, but it had no bell until 1769, when one was provided. the large room in the upper story was for many years used by societies for their annual meetings and elections, for concerts and for dinners and entertainments to persons of distinction, and by the common council for their regular meetings while the city hall was being repaired. it was leased to oliver de lancey for one year, from february 1, 1754. the next year it was let to keen and lightfoot, who opened in one end of it a coffee-room called the exchange coffee room, which was continued for many years. in march, 1756, a show was given here called the microcosm, or the world in miniature. in 1756 the partnership of keen and lightfoot was broken up. lightfoot continued the coffee room and keen opened a tavern nearby which he called the fountain inn. upon the death of lightfoot, in 1757, his widow, sarah, obtained a renewal of the lease and continued the business, but the following year, the rent being raised, it passed into the hands of roper dawson, and was opened as a mercantile store. [illustration: the royal exchange] business at the merchants' coffee house continually increased. it became the recognized place for public vendues or auctions of real estate, merchandise, negroes, horses, or any other article of sale. several sales of vessels, dining the year 1753, were made here, where the inventories were posted. in may the sloop, sea flower, late commanded by evert evertson, and one-fourth part of the ship john, richard coffee, master, were offered for sale; in august the sloop, catherine; and in september one-third part of the ship, fame, captain seymour. when the sloop catharine was offered for sale, notice was given that she could be seen in rotten row, almost opposite the merchants' coffee house. rotten row was a place on the east river shore which the extension of the dock to the north of wall street, and that at cruger's wharf, made into a sort of cove where the shipping received some protection. between these two points the river came up to the southeast side of the present water street, and the dock was known as hunter's keys. the new york _gazette_ of january 6, 1752, stated that the river was then full of ice and that many vessels had been detained from sailing, and, "with the rest of our shipping, squeezed into rotten row for shelter. it was a happy turn the corporation acted with that prudence in not consenting to the views of a few self-interested people, to get the only place for shelter of our shipping fill'd up." in 1753 governor clinton, who had had a long fight with the assembly during his administration, retired from the office of governor to a sinecure provided for him in england. he had accomplished the object of his mission as to his personal interests, and at his recommendation sir danvers osborne became his successor. on saturday, the 6th of october, 1753, the ship arundal, captain lloyd, arrived at sandy hook, with sir danvers osborne on board. he came up to the city the next day in the ship's barge, and landed at the whitehall slip, where he was received by the members of the council, the mayor and aldermen, the officers of the militia and most of the principal gentlemen of the city. governor clinton being at his country seat at flushing, long island, osborne was escorted to the governor's house in fort george, where an elegant entertainment was prepared for his reception, when the healths of his majesty and of all the members of the royal family were drank, as was usual on such occasions. on monday governor clinton came in from his country seat and sir danvers osborne was elegantly entertained at a public dinner given by the gentlemen of the council, and on tuesday the corporation voted him the freedom of the city, presented to him in a golden box. on wednesday the commission of sir danvers osborne was first published in council, and while the usual oaths were being taken, the corporation, the city representatives, the militia officers, the clergy and all the principal inhabitants assembled in the parade and, together with the council, wailed on his excellency, attended by a company of foot and a vast concourse of people, to the city hall, where his commission was a second time published. he then, amidst the shouts and acclamations of the people, attended in like manner, returned to the fort, where the usual royal healths were drank, the guns in the common and harbor firing, and the bells of all the churches of the city ringing. the corporation then waited on sir danvers with an address, to which he gave a short and agreeable reply. [illustration: danvers osborn] [sidenote: dinner to the new governor] at the tavern of george burns, opposite the long bridge, a grand dinner was ordered by the corporation. a committee had been appointed with instructions to invite his majesty's council, such members of the assembly as should be in town, the captain of the man-of-war, with such gentlemen as came over with the governor, the treasurer of the colony, the king's attorney, mr. rutledge, mr. gordon, mr. penn and mr. oliver de lancey to dine with his excellency, sir danvers osborn, bart. the committee were, besides, instructed to provide for a bonfire on the common near the workhouse, and to procure three dozen of wine to be sent to the fire, that the city hall, the alms-house and the ferry-house should be illuminated and that a half-barrel of cannon-powder be provided to discharge the cannon on the common near the bonfire. the newspapers state that the dinner was "an elegant and splendid entertainment. in the evening two and forty cannon were discharged in the common. two large bonfires were erected. some thousands of the populace crowded the common and the whole town was for several hours most bountifully illuminated." notwithstanding all this rejoicing, and the enthusiasm with which he was received, the new governor became despondent and, on the morning of friday, the 12th of october, his body was found hanging to the garden fence of mr. murray, at whose house he was staying. he had committed suicide. from the very fact that the house of george burns was selected as the place for the dinner given to the new governor, we may very confidently conclude that it was considered the best tavern in new york at that time. george burns was the landlord of the king's arms, which, until about this time, had also been called the exchange coffee house. the coffee house of this period was generally considered to be more a meeting place for the transaction of business than the tavern and until the merchants' coffee house was established the exchange coffee house had been the resort of merchants and the place where business transactions were made and where auctions were held for the sale of merchandise of all kinds. [sidenote: the province arms] before the year 1754 there had been no one tavern that had stood at the head and maintained a leading position for any length of time; but in this year edward willett, well known in new york as the landlord, at different times, of many prominent houses, opened a tavern in the house of james de lancey on broadway which from this time became the most prominent tavern in the city and so continued until after the revolution, when on the same site was built in 1794 the city hotel, which also for a long time held the lead as a public house. willett moved into it from the horse and cart and described it as "the house of the honorable james de lancey, esq., lieutenant governor, at the sign of the province arms in broadway, near oswego market." while willett was keeping the horse and cart, on thursday, october 25, 1753, the last day of the sitting of the supreme court, the justices of the court, the attorney-general, and the counsellors and attorneys attending the court, marched in a procession from the city hall to the house of the lieutenant governor and presented him with an address, after which, accompanied by the lieutenant governor, they all marched to the house of edward willett, where a grand dinner was served to them. the house that willett opened on broadway at the province arms, or the new york arms, as it was sometimes called, was one of the largest and finest in the city, and from the time it was opened as a tavern was patronized by the public societies and was the recognized place for giving all public entertainments of importance. it had been built by stephen de lancey about the year 1730 and, subsequently, came into the possession of his son, james de lancey, the lieutenant governor. it was two stories high, with windows opening to the floor. it stood on the west side of broadway, between the present thames and cedar streets, commanding from its windows a beautiful view of the bay, the river and the opposite shores. somewhat retired from the busy parts of the city, it was a beautiful and agreeable spot for a first-class public house. broadway was becoming the favorite promenade. the church walk, in front of trinity, near by, was the resort of the fashion of the town for the afternoon. on tuesday, april 29, 1755, soon after lieutenant governor de lancey had returned from a trip to the more southern colonies, where he had been received with all the honors due to his official station, and where he had met the other governors in consultation as to the situation on the french and indian frontier, governor william shirley, of massachusetts, and governor robert hunter morris, of pennsylvania, arrived in new york from the westward and were welcomed to the city with great formality. on landing at whitehall slip they were saluted by a discharge of cannon from fort george, and welcomed ashore by lieutenant governor de lancey, members of his majesty's council and many of the principal gentlemen of the city. the city militia had been ordered to muster and were drawn up so as to line the street as the gentlemen passed on to the fort, where they drank his majesty's and all the loyal healths with success to the english-american enterprises. they then proceeded through the lines still formed by the militia to the new york arms, on broadway. here a handsome entertainment was provided where the healths of his majesty and the royal family were repeated with "cheerfulness and alacrity." the newspaper account states that the doors, windows, balconies and the tops of the houses were decorated, red cloaks being largely used to brighten the scene and give it life and color. [sidenote: charter of king's college] on wednesday, the 7th of may, 1755, the gentlemen who had been appointed governors of the college of the province of new york (afterwards called king's college) met at the house of edward willett, at the sign of the new york arms, "when the deputy secretary attended with his majesty's royal charter of incorporation." lieutenant governor de lancey was pleased to order the charter read, and "after addressing himself to the governors in a very affectionate, genteel and suitable manner," delivered to them the charter, and they were qualified to exercise the important trust reposed in them by taking the oaths (to the government and that of office), and subscribing the declaration as prescribed by the charter. this was the birth of king's college, now columbia university. the next tuesday, the 13th of may, being the day appointed by the charter for the annual meeting of the governors, they accordingly met at the new york arms to proceed upon business, and the meetings of the governors of the college continued to be held here for many years. [sidenote: french and indian war] the year 1755 was a sad one in the english colonies. the defeat of braddock filled the land with gloom and depression which was only partially dispelled by the repulse of the french at lake george and the capture of their commander, dieskau. new york city was roused to exertion and the spirit of the colony rose to occasion. troops of soldiers were passing through to the seat of war, the drumbeat was constantly heard in the streets, recruiting offices were opened at the taverns, and the prominent citizens met at their usual resorts to discuss the news of war. no formal declaration of war had been made by either england or france, yet war, in its most distressing forms, was raging on all the frontiers of the english colonies. [illustration: "the drumbeat was constantly heard in the streets"] [sidenote: dinner at the new york arms] in the midst of this excitement his majesty's ship, the sphinx, arrived with the new governor, sir charles hardy. about ten o'clock on the morning of september 3, 1755, the people of new york heard the booming of cannon from the sphinx, which had arrived the night before and was lying in the harbor. sir charles was on his way to the city in the ship's barge and the discharge of cannon was in his honor on his leaving the ship. this was soon answered from fort george, when lieutenant governor de lancey, the members of the council and the assembly, the mayor and aldermen, the clergy and the principal gentlemen of the city, at the whitehall stairs, welcomed him to the province, and through lines of militia, mustered for the occasion, escorted him to the fort. after going through the usual ceremonies he was conducted to the city hall, where his commission was published. he then returned to the fort to receive the congratulations of the officials and the public. the new governor was then conducted to the new york arms, where, by invitation of lieutenant governor de lancey, he dined with the council and the assembly, and many other gentlemen, "and where repeated healths of loyalty, success to his majesty's arms, both in europe and america, prosperity to the english-american colonies, a speedy defeat of the french from off the borders, and a total extinction of their very name in america went round with great unanimity and dispatch." the newspapers state that "at night the windows in the city were ornamented with lights and two large bonfires were erected on the common where several hampers of good old madeira (which proved brisker than bottled ale) were given to the populace and where sir charles' presence, about eight o'clock in the evening closed the joyful and merry proceeding." the sphinx not only brought to the province a new governor but she brought also something that was very acceptable and very much needed, good hard money to the amount of twenty thousand pounds for the use of the forces in america. [illustration: chas. hardy] [sidenote: the assembly balls] while willett was landlord of the new york arms, the dancing assemblies, which for a great many years were a feature of the life of the city, were commenced at this house. these were not new, for meetings for dancing had been customary for many years, but no tavern before had been able to afford a room so well suited for the purpose. these assemblies were held fortnightly on thursday, during the winter season, and the subscription to each meeting was eight shillings. the ball was opened at eight o'clock and closed at midnight. in 1759 the managers were messrs. duane, walton, mcevers and banyer, names which convey to us the conviction that the company was quite select. notice was given that "strangers will not be admitted unless they apply for tickets before 5 o'clock of every assembly night at the directors houses." [sidenote: reception of colonel peter schuyler] colonel peter schuyler, of new jersey, who was taken prisoner at oswego, had distinguished himself by his generosity to his fellow prisoners in canada and by his kindness and assistance to all of his countrymen in distress, making no distinction between jerseymen and those from other provinces, spending money freely, which his captors were willing to supply on his personal drafts, knowing him to be wealthy. he had been released at montreal on his parole to return in six months, unless an exchange had in the meantime been settled for him. making his way through the forests to fort edward and thence to albany, he arrived in new york on saturday afternoon, november 19, 1757. he had many relatives and friends in the city and the people were so sensible of the services which he had rendered to the province of new york that, to honor him, the public buildings and most of the houses in town were illuminated, a bonfire was made on the common and at the king's arms tavern an elegant entertainment was given in celebration of his return from captivity and there was great rejoicing at his safe arrival. [illustration: peter schuyler] [sidenote: privateers] the profitable business of privateering, broken up by the peace of aix-la-chapelle in 1748, was resumed with renewed vigor by the adventurous merchants and ship-owners of new york at the commencement of the war. the whole coast, from maine to georgia, was soon alive with daring, adventurous, some among them, no doubt, unscrupulous privateers, who, failing of success against the enemy did not hesitate, when a good opportunity offered, to plunder the vessels of friendly nations. in 1756 there were over twenty ships from the port of new york carrying nearly two hundred and fifty guns and manned by nearly two thousand men scouring the seas, and before january, 1758, they had brought into new york fifty-nine prizes, besides those taken into other ports for adjudication. so popular was this business that lieutenant governor de lancey, in 1758, complained "that men would no longer enlist in the army," and "that the country was drained of many able-bodied men by almost a kind of madness to go a-privateering." the old captains of the previous war again hoisted their flags and were joined by many younger men. alexander mcdougal and isaac sears, whose names became prominent in the history of the city, commanded the tiger and decoy and thomas doran, who kept a tavern at the fly market, in the fast-sailing pilot-boat, flying harlequin, with fourteen guns, and armed to the teeth, made rapid and successful trips. [sidenote: the press gang] much more dreaded than the enemy by the privateersmen were the press gangs sent out by the men-of-war. the captain of a british man-of-war did not hesitate, when in need of men, to board colonial vessels and take any number required or even to kidnap them from the city for service in the british navy. the privateersman was pressed with peculiar satisfaction. attempts at impressment resulted in several bloody encounters. in 1760, the crew of the sampson of bristol, who had fired on the barge of h. m. s. winchester, on attempting to board her, killing a number of men, were protected and concealed by the people from the reach of the sheriff and the militia ordered to his assistance. on july 10, 1764, four fishermen were taken from their vessel in the harbor and carried on board the tender of a man-of-war. the next day, when the captain of the tender came on shore, his boat was seized by a number of men, and with great shouting dragged through the streets to the middle of the green in the fields, where they burned and destroyed her and then quickly dispersed. meanwhile the captain publicly declared that he was not responsible for the seizure of the men, and, going into the coffee house, wrote an order for their release. the order was carried on board the tender and the fishermen brought ashore. the magistrates, as soon as they had notice of the affair, sent out men to disperse the mob and secure the boat, but the mischief had been done. the court met in the afternoon, but were unable to discover any person concerned in the business, and the probability is that there was no great effort or desire to do so. [illustration: the press gang] [sidenote: sales of prizes] we find continuously in the newspapers issued during the war notices of sales of prize ships and cargoes at the taverns, at the coffee house and on the wharves near by. the merchants' coffee house, where the inventories were posted, had become the recognized place with the merchants for the transaction of all kinds of business, and many sales of ships and prizes taken by the privateers were made here. it had become a sort of maritime exchange. in 1758 luke roome was its landlord, and was also the owner of the house, which he offered for sale. it was purchased by doctor charles arding, who retained possession of it until 1792, when it was acquired by the tontine association, who built on it and other contiguous lots the tontine coffee house. luke roome was afterwards assistant alderman and for several years leased the docks and slips of the city. how long he was landlord of the merchants' coffee house we do not know. it was customary in colonial times and even a good deal later to build market houses in the middle of streets. for a great many years in the middle of wall street, between queen street or hanover square and the river, had stood the meal market. in the course of time, as the building grew old, the merchants and those living in the neighborhood came to consider it as a nuisance, and in 1762 petitioned the authorities for its removal. they say in their petition: "it greatly obstructs the agreeable prospect of the east river, which those that live in wall street would otherwise enjoy; and, furthermore, occasions a dirty street, offensive to the inhabitants on each side and disagreeable to those who pass to and from the coffe-house, a place of great resort." garrat noel, the most prominent bookseller in new york, moved his store in 1757 and, in his announcements in the newspapers, gives its location as next door to the merchants' coffee house, opposite the meal market; but, in july, 1762, he announces his store as "next door to the merchants' coffee house, near where the meal market stood." this is pretty good evidence that it had been taken down very soon after the petition was presented for its removal. [sidenote: the crown and thistle] down near the water at whitehall slip stood the crown and thistle, a tavern kept by john thompson, who preferred the cognomen of scotch johnny, by which he was familiarly known. here good dinners were served to merchants, travellers and army officers, and here travellers could make arrangements for transportation in captain o'brien's stage-boat to perth amboy on their way to philadelphia or by boat to staten island or elizabethtown point, which was the route taken by a large majority of travellers going south. those landed on staten island passed along on the north shore to a point opposite elizabethtown point, where they crossed the kills to that place by ferry. scotch johnny was not only the landlord of the crown and thistle and lodged and entertained travellers who landed near his house or waited there for boats to carry them across the bay, but was himself, in 1755, interested in transportation of travellers to staten island, and the next year to perth amboy, on their way to the south. on november 30, 1753, the anniversary of st. andrew was celebrated at the crown and thistle by the gentlemen of the scots' society, where an elegant dinner was provided, the colors being displayed on the ships in the harbor, particularly the ship prince william. [sidenote: the black horse] all the travel to the north and east went out of the city over bowery lane to harlem or king's bridge. this was the boston post road. in 1750, at the upper end of queen street, near alderman benson's, stood the black horse tavern, kept by jonathan ogden, "where the boston post puts up." this tavern in the suburbs was a convenient and suitable place for taking a parting glass with friends about to set out on a journey and wishing them godspeed, as was then the custom. ogden and his successor, besides furnishing entertainment for travellers and stabling for horses, made it their business to supply travellers with horses, chairs, harness, saddles, etc., either for short drives on the island or for more extensive trips. in 1753, after the death of ogden, john halstead became the landlord of the black horse. at the public vendue of the household goods belonging to the estate of ogden, there was offered for sale an article called a "messacipia table." we leave it to the reader to conjecture what it was for. in 1756 there was a black horse tavern in fair (fulton) street. [illustration: the bull's head tavern] [sidenote: the bull's head] just after entering the bowery lane the traveller would come to the bull's head tavern, which in 1755 was kept by george brewitson. this was the great resort and stopping place for the farmers and drovers who brought in cattle for the city market and where they were met by the butchers who purchased their stock. thus it was not only a tavern but a sort of market for live stock or for the meat supply of the city and continued such for a great many years. the bull's head market survives to the present day, only a little further uptown. three or four miles out was the union flag, and not far from this was a house which was described as a noted tavern where lived john creiger, four miles from new york and ten miles from king's bridge. at the northwest corner of the present 66th street and third avenue stood the dove tavern. from this point the road continued northward for some distance, and then to avoid the swamps and inlets, turned to the westward, entering the present bounds of central park, and ascended the hill at the top of which was a large stone tavern. this had been built by jacob dyckman, jr., near the year 1750, who, about ten years after, sold it to the widow mcgown, who, with the assistance of her son andrew, kept the house, which became known as mcgown's pass tavern. that the old stone tavern was a house of generous capacity is evident from its being selected as the place for the meeting of the colonial assembly, while the city hall was being repaired, in october and november, 1752. just a little south, on the opposite side of the road, was a tavern, which, shortly before the revolution, was known as the black horse. it is thought to have been the headquarters of general cornwallis during the battle of harlem heights. dyckman's or mcgown's pass tavern was about half way between new york and king's bridge and there was doubtless a natural demand by travellers on this part of the road for entertainment, which induced dyckman to build a capacious house. once a week it received a visit from the post rider going out and once a week on his return. it must necessarily have received considerable trade from passing travellers, farmers and drovers, for it was on the one road which led out of the city, and its capacity to entertain attracted many a dinner party of those who followed the hounds, for fox-hunting was a sport indulged in by many new yorkers at that time. mcgown's pass was the scene of some activity in the first year of the revolution, and was fortified and occupied by the british troops during the whole seven years of the war. early on the morning of september 15, 1776, the english ships lying in the east river opened fire for the purpose of silencing the american battery at horn's hook and to cover the british landing at kip's bay. washington had a few days previous removed his headquarters to the roger morris house, from which could be had an extensive view to the south, including the east river shores. warned by the bombardment that something important was about to take place, washington, in haste, mounted his horse and dashed down at utmost speed over the road past mcgown's to the scene of action. this ride was something like that celebrated ride of general phil sheridan about ninety years later, but not with similar results. before he arrived at murray hill, the british troops had landed, and the americans were in full retreat. two months later a sad spectacle was witnessed at mcgown's pass as the twenty-eight hundred prisoners taken at the surrender of fort washington filed down over the hills to new york. many had been plundered by the hessians, and all of them showed the effects of the desperately fought battle through which they had passed. they were on their way to years of suffering, many on their way to death in english prisons, which, happily for them, they did not then understand. [illustration: the roger morris house] [sidenote: the blue bell] on the road about a mile further north after leaving mcgown's there was a tavern standing near where the present st. nicholas avenue crosses 126th street, which, about the time of the revolution and for many years after, was known as day's tavern; and about three miles further was the blue bell, which, although a small house, seems to have been well known at a very early period and to have continued its existence down to quite recent times. from the blue bell to king's bridge was about two and a half miles. [illustration: the blue bell tavern] [sidenote: king's bridge] at the most northern point of the island was the only place in its whole circumference from which, in early days, the mainland could be reached by a ford. it was called the wading place. near this a ferry was established, but as early as 1680 the governor's council ordered "spiting devil" to be viewed for a bridge. action was delayed. governor fletcher in 1692 recommended its construction by the city, but the city declined on account of the expense. in january, 1693, frederick flypsen offered to build a bridge at his own expense, if he were allowed certain "easy and reasonable toles," and he was accordingly granted the franchise for ninety-nine years. a bridge was constructed by him the same year. it was to be twenty-four feet wide, with a draw for the passage of such vessels as navigated the stream; to be free for the king's forces and to be named the king's bridge. this bridge was in possession of some member of the philipse family, descendant of frederick flypsen, until the revolutionary war, and was, no doubt, before the free bridge was built, a profitable investment. a tavern was opened on the northern side for the entertainment of travellers. madam sarah knight, in returning to boston in december, 1704, set out with her companions "about one afternoon, and about three came to half-way house about ten miles out of town, where we baited and went forward, and about 5 come to spiting devil, else king's bridge, where they pay three pence for passing over with a horse, which the man that keeps the gate set up at the end of the bridge receives." the half-way house, spoken of by madam knight, stood at the foot of the hill on the kingsbridge road on a line with the present 109th street. we find that in 1746 there was a public vendue of lots of land at the half-way house, near harlem, which was very likely the same place. on account of the barrier gate and the tolls demanded, the king's bridge, as travel increased, became unpopular and, in 1756, a project was set on foot for building a free bridge by voluntary subscriptions. when sufficient had been secured, benjamin palmer, who was active in the undertaking, began the work of building the bridge a little below the first bridge, from the land of jacob dyckman, on the island, to that of thomas vermilve on the westchester side. colonel phillipse, the owner of king's bridge, tried in every way to prevent its construction. twice in one year he caused palmer to be impressed "as a soldier to go to canada," which compelled him to procure and pay for substitutes. nevertheless, in spite of all opposition, the bridge was finished, and the celebration of its completion was announced as follows: "these are to acquaint the public, that to-morrow the free bridge, erected and built across the harlem river, will be finished and completed. and on the same day there will be a stately ox roasted whole on the green, for and as a small entertainment to the loyal people who come." [sidenote: the best taverns] the following memoranda from the manuscript diary of paymaster general mortier, of the royal navy, indicates the taverns of new york that were probably most patronized by the fashionable gentlemen of the day, for the few years preceding 1761: 1758 jan. 1 at the assembly 2. 6 feb. 18 dinner at the glass house 3. 5 mar. 1 " " black sam's 1.10 28 " " scotch johnny's 5. 6 30 willett's assembly 8. june 10 to the band of music of the 46th 8. 18 dinner at the coffee house 5. 6 1759 may supper at farrell's 9. farrell wine 1. 1. 6 1760 jan. towards a ball at king's arms 1. 0. subscription to the concert 1.12. subscription to a ball at byrnes 12. to one week at the coffee house 2. feb. 2 to one week at the coffee house 2. 19 to one week at the coffee house 2. mar. 28 dinner at the fountain 8. apr. 4 supper at byrnes' 8. 5 " " the fountain 6. 18 " " the fountain 8. the piece of land, now the block inclosed by broadway, fulton, nassau and ann streets, or nearly so, was, in the early part of the eighteenth century, a public resort, and known as spring garden. there was a tavern or public house on the premises known as spring garden house, standing on the site of the present st. paul's building, corner of broadway and ann street, which in 1739 was occupied by thomas scurlock, who may have been in possession of it for some time. in an administration bond given by him in 1718 he is styled _vintner_. spring garden house appears to have been a well-known landmark, used as such in records and in the newspapers. after the death of thomas scurlock in 1747 the tavern was kept for some years by his widow, eve. when the house was advertised for sale in 1759 it was described as "in broadway at the corner of spring garden, now in use as a tavern, sign of the king of prussia, and next door to dr. johnson's" (president of king's college). in 1763 the landlord of the house was john elkin. after about 1770 we hear no more of it as a tavern. vi tavern signs [sidenote: the comforts of a good inn] samuel johnson, born in 1709, was in his prime about the middle of the eighteen the century. his description of the advantages afforded by a good inn has not yet been surpassed. here it is: "there is no private house in which people can enjoy themselves so well as at a capital tavern. let there be ever so great plenty of good things, ever so much grandeur, ever so much elegance, ever so much desire that everybody should be easy, in the nature of things it cannot be; there must always be some degree of care and anxiety. the master of the house is anxious to entertain his guests; the guests are anxious to be agreeable to him; and no man, but a very impudent dog indeed, can freely command what is in another man's house as if it were his own. whereas, at a tavern there is general freedom from anxiety. you are sure you are welcome, and the more noise you make, the more trouble you give, the more good things you call for, the welcomer you are. no servant will attend you with the alacrity which waiters do, who are incited by the prospect of an immediate reward in proportion as they please. no sir, there is nothing which has yet been contrived by man by which so much happiness is produced as by a good inn." another writer, whose name is unrecorded or lost in the sweep of time, has said that the tavern "is the busy man's recreation, the idle man's business, the melancholy man's sanctuary, the stranger's welcome." samuel johnson, if in new york, would not have found at any tavern such congenial companions as at the turk's head, in soho. new york did not have an oliver goldsmith, nor a sir joshua reynolds, nor an edmund burke, nor--but boswell would have been with him. barring the companionship of such men he could have been made as comfortable at the queen's head in dock street as at his familiar tavern in london. he could have taken his cup of tea, his favorite drink, in one of the boxes of the merchants' coffee house and then strolled into garrat noel's bookstore next door where he could have found food for his mind after his corporeal needs had been supplied. here was literature of the solid sort, as noel's announcements in the newspapers inform us, and dr. johnson might have easily imagined himself in the bookstore of tom davies--one of his familiar haunts. [sidenote: the landlord] the accomplished tavern-keeper of new york, as well as of london, knew how to welcome his guest and from long experience instinctively knew how to reach his heart. after receiving him with the most unbounded cordiality, occasionally dropping him a piece of news which he knew would interest him, or one of his newest jokes, he soon made him feel glad to be in his house. when the dinner was ready he was on hand to place the first dish on the table and to give him his company if he saw that it was desirable. [illustration: the old time landlord] in colonial times signs were extensively used. the hardware dealer placed above his door a sign of crossed daggers, or a golden handsaw, or a golden key; some used the sign of the crossed guns. a carriage-maker used the sign of the gilded wheel, a tailor that of the hand and shears. thus the business streets were filled with signs, and a well-known or prominent sign was invariably used as a landmark to designate locations of other houses. tavern signs were much used in this way. houses were not numbered, and in the low state of education, numbers as well as worded signs would have been of little use. taverns obtained their names from the signs hung out; and the tavern sign had a wider range of diversity than that of any other business. it was almost unlimited; but there were certain favorites. sometimes tavern-keepers clung tenaciously to signs which they carried with them from place to place--and the tavern-keeper of colonial times appears to have been a roving character. [illustration: "hard drinking prevailed"] [sidenote: hard drinking prevailed] some features of tavern life and some of the taverns of new york were not to be commended. the eighteenth century was a period when hard drinking pervaded not only the american colonies but england as well. even preachers of the gospel drank to excess. they were known to indulge at church meetings so as to lose control of both speech and gait. unable to withstand the alluring temptations, they drank to excess without forfeiting the respect of their people. the reverend jacob g. green, of morris county, new jersey, although so pious that he would not allow any member of his family to converse on any but religious subjects on a sunday, did not hesitate to engage in the business of manufacturing distilled liquor. at funerals, as well as at weddings, wine and rum were consumed in excessive quantities, and it is a fact that persons were known to stagger in the funeral procession and at the brink of the grave. at the funeral of a colonial governor it is said that the minister's nose glowed like a coal of fire, and the aged bearers staggered as they bore the coffin. the reverend samuel melyen, pastor of the first church of elizabethtown, was obliged to give up his church on account of intemperance; but this did not seem to the people to be a warning example, for when his successor, jonathan dickinson, a young man of twenty-one, was installed, we are told that "great quantities of toddy was consumed." when philip livingston died in 1749, funerals were held both at his hudson river mansion and at his residence in broad street, new york. at each of these places a pipe of spiced rum was consumed, and to the eight bearers were given gloves, mourning rings, scarfs, handkerchiefs and monkey spoons. when intemperance was looked upon with such indulgence it is hardly to be expected that the young and gay men of the period would exercise much restraint; and many a convivial party at the tavern ended in a drinking bout, and sometimes in a riot of drunkenness and debauchery. a man in the condition which we of the present day would think quite drunk, and a proper subject for the care of his friends or relatives, was at that time considered to have taken only a proper modicum of drink. no man was looked upon as drunk until he was entirely down and out. the prevailing formula was: "not drunk is he who from the floor can rise again and still drink more, but drunk is he who prostrate lies, without the power to drink or rise." [illustration: good old madeira] in new england rum was so extensively made that the price became as low as twenty-five cents per gallon. it was popularly called "kill-devil." in new jersey large quantities of apple-jack were turned out, which, when new, was quite fiery, and this was called "jersey lightning." servants were not expected to be entirely free from the drinking habit, which, within certain bounds, was looked upon by their employers as pardonable. announcement was made in the new york _gazette_ and _weekly mercury_ of december 4, 1769, that "an hostler that gets drunk no more than 12 times in a year and will bring with him a good recommendation, is wanted. such person will meet with encouragement by applying to h. gaine." [sidenote: sports and amusements] in the middle of the eighteenth century we find that new yorkers were fond of all kinds of sports and all kinds of amusements that were available. the city was making rapid strides in increase of wealth and population. many of her wealthy merchants had built large and handsome houses and there was more gaiety and desire for entertainment among her people. for balls, banquets, social clubs and exhibition of all sorts, each tavern of importance had, if possible, its "long room." there was no other provision or place for public assemblage. some had delightful gardens attached to them, which, in summer evenings, were illuminated and sometimes the guests were entertained with music. boating and fishing were largely indulged in and people of means who lived on the waterside had pleasure boats. in 1752 john watson was keeping the ferry house on staten island. in december of that year "a whale 45 feet in length ran ashore at van buskirk's point at the entrance of the kills from our bay, where, being discovered by people from staten island, a number of them went off and killed him." mr. watson states in an advertisement in the new york _gazette_ of december 11, 1752, that this whale may be seen at his house, and doubtless this announcement may have induced many to make the trip across the bay to see the whale and add to the profits of john watson's tavern. the reverend mr. burnaby, who visited the city about 1748, says: "the amusements are balls and sleighing expeditions in the winter, and in the summer going in parties upon the water and fishing, or making excursions into the country. there are several houses, pleasantly situated up the east river, near new york, where it is common to have turtle feasts. these happen once or twice a week. thirty or forty gentlemen and ladies, meet and dine together, drink tea in the afternoon, fish and amuse themselves till evening, and then return home in italian chaises (the fashionable carriage in this and most parts of america), a gentleman and lady in each chaise." these trips up the east river were made to turtle bay. one of the houses there about this time, or a little later, was well known as the union flag, situated on the post road. a lot of about 22 acres of land was attached to the tavern, extending to the river, on which was a good wharf and landing. deep drinking and gambling were prevalent among the men, although tavern-keepers were forbidden by law from permitting gambling in their houses. cock-fighting was a popular sport. at the sign of the fighting cocks--an appropriate sign--in dock street, "very good cocks" could be had, or at the dog's head in the porridge pot. steel and silver spurs could be purchased in the stores. the loser of a broad cloth coat advertises in the newspaper that it was lost on a cockfighting night (supposed taken by mistake). the common was a place where outdoor games were played in the daytime and bonfires built at night on festive occasions. on monday, april 29, 1751, a great match at cricket was played here for a considerable wager by eleven londoners against eleven new yorkers. the newspaper account states that "the game was play'd according to the london method; and those who got most notches in two hands, to be the winners:--the new yorkers went in first and got 81; then the londoners went in and got but 43; then the new yorkers went in again and got 86; and the londoners finished the game with getting only 37 more." the game of bowls seems to have been quite popular in the early part of the eighteenth century. it was played upon a smooth, level piece of turf from forty to sixty feet square, surrounded by a ditch about six inches deep. at the further end of the ground was placed a white ball called the jack and the bowlers endeavored, with balls from six to eight inches in diameter that were not exactly round but weighted on one side so as to roll in a curve, to make their balls lie as near to the jack as possible. back-gammon was an evening game at the taverns and at the coffee-house. in 1734 a partisan of the governor's party, under the nom de plume of peter scheme wrote in reply to an article in zenger's journal: "i also frequent the coffee house, to take a hitt at back-gammon, when i have an opportunity of hearing the curious sentiments of the courtiers (since he is pleased to call the gentlemen who frequent that place so) concerning his journal." it is apparent that the popularity of the game continued for many years, for alexander mackraby, in a letter dated june 13, 1768, says: "they have a vile practice here, which is peculiar to the city: i mean that of playing at back-gammon (a noise i detest), which is going forward at the public coffee-houses from morning till night, frequently a dozen tables at a time." [sidenote: horse-racing] from the very beginning of english rule in new york, horse-racing seems to have been a fashionable sport among people of means. it has been stated how governor nicolls established a race-course on hempstead plains, and since that time interest in the sport had been kept up, increasing as the population and wealth of the city increased. races were held yearly on the hempstead course and it is more than likely that a course was soon established on manhattan island. in 1733 we find an announcement in a new york newspaper that a race would be run on the 8th of october on the course at new york for a purse of upwards of four pounds by any horse, mare or gelding carrying twelve stone and paying five shillings entrance, the entrance money to go to the second horse if not distanced. there is no mention made of the location of the course, but a notice that horses that have won plate here are excepted indicates that it was probably a yearly event. three years later we find that a subscription plate of twenty pounds' value was to be run for on the course at new york on the 13th of october "by any horse, mare or gelding carrying ten stone (saddle and bridle included), the best of three heats, two miles each heat. horses intended to run for this plate are to be entered the day before the race with francis child on fresh water hill, paying a half pistole each, or at the post on the day of running, paying a pistole." this course on fresh water hill had probably been established for some time and its location was very likely near the present chatham square. in 1742 there was a race-course on the church farm in charge of adam vandenberg, the lessee of the farm, who was landlord of the drovers' tavern, which stood on or near the site of the present astor house. in seeking information from the newspapers of the day in regard to horse-racing, we find very little, if any, in the news columns; but more is to be found among the advertisements. thus, in january, 1743-4, it is announced that a race would be run on the first day of march "between a mare called ragged kate, belonging to mr. peter de lancey, and a horse called monk, belonging to the hon. william montagu, esq., for £200." it is not stated where this race was to take place, but, in all probability, it was run either on the fresh water hill course or on the church farm. it was for an unusually large wager, and, no doubt, attracted a great deal of attention. from about this date we hear no more of the race-course on fresh water hill. it may have been disturbed by the line of palisades which was built across the island during the war with france, crossing the hill between the present duane and pearl streets, at which point was a large gateway. in september, 1747, it was announced in the newspapers that a purse of not less than ten pistoles would be run for on the church farm on the 11th of october, two mile heats, horses that had won plate on the island and a horse called parrot excepted, the entrance money to be run for by any of the horses entered, except the winner and those distanced. we have every reason to suppose that the races were at this period a yearly event on the church farm, taking place in october. in 1750 it was announced in the new york _gazette_ in august and september that "on the eleventh of october next, the new york subscription plate of twenty pounds' value, will be run for by any horse, mare or gelding that never won a plate before on this island, carrying ten stone weight, saddle and bridle included, the best in three heats, two miles in each heat," etc. a few days after the race the new york _gazette_ announced that on "thursday last the new york subscription plate was run for at the church farm by five horses and won by a horse belonging to mr. lewis morris, jun." [illustration: a racing trophy] the next year similar announcements were made of the race, the difference being that the horses eligible must have been bred in america and that they should carry eight stone weight. the date is the same as that of the previous year, october 11. we find no record of this race in the newspapers, but the illustration which is given of the trophy won is sufficient to indicate the result. lewis morris, jr., appears to have carried off the prize a second time. the plate was a silver bowl ten inches in diameter and four and one-half inches high, and the winner was a horse called old tenor. the bowl, represented in the cut, is in the possession of dr. lewis morris, u. s. n., a lineal descendant of lewis morris, the signer of the declaration of independence and the owner of old tenor. the name of the horse was doubtless suggested by certain bills of credit then in circulation in new york. in an advertisement of two dwelling houses on the church farm for sale in april, 1755, notice is given that "old tenor will be taken in payment." the great course was on hempstead plains. on friday, june 1, 1750, there was a great race here for a considerable wager, which attracted such attention that on thursday, the day before the race, upward of seventy chairs and chaises were carried over the long island ferry, besides a far greater number of horses, on their way out, and it is stated that the number of horses on the plains at the race far exceeded a thousand. in 1753 we find that the subscription plate, which had become a regular event, was run for at greenwich, on the estate of sir peter warren. land about this time was being taken up on the church farm for building purposes, and this may have been the reason for the change. in 1754 there was a course on the church farm in the neighborhood of the present warren street. an account of a trial of speed and endurance was given on april 29, 1754. "tuesday morning last, a considerable sum was depending between a number of gentlemen in this city on a horse starting from one of the gates of the city to go to kingsbridge and back again, being fourteen miles (each way) in two hours' time; which he performed with one rider in 1 hr. and 46 min." the owner of this horse was oliver de lancey, one of the most enthusiastic sportsmen of that period. members of the families of delancey and morris were the most prominent owners of race horses. other owners and breeders were general monckton, anthony rutgers, michael kearney, lord sterling, timothy cornell and roper dawson. general monckton, who lived for a time at the country seat called "richmond," owned a fine horse called smoaker, with which john leary, one of the best known horsemen of the day, won a silver bowl, which he refused to surrender to john watts, the general's friend, even under threat of legal process. several years later he was still holding it. in january, 1763, a. w. waters, of long island, issued a challenge to all america. he says: "since english horses have been imported into new york, it is the opinion of some people that they can outrun the true britton," and he offered to race the latter against any horse that could be produced in america for three hundred pounds or more. this challenge does not seem to have been taken up until 1765, when the most celebrated race of the period was run on the philadelphia course for stakes of one thousand pounds. samuel galloway, of maryland, with his horse, selim, carried off the honors and the purse. besides the course on hempstead plains, well known through all the colonies as well as in england, there was another on long island, around beaver pond, near jamaica. a subscription plate was run for on this course in 1757, which was won by american childers, belonging to lewis morris, jr. there were also courses at paulus hook, perth amboy, elizabethtown and morristown, new jersey, which were all thronged by the sporting gentry of new york city. james de lancey, with his imported horse, lath, in october, 1769, won the one hundred pound race on the centre course at philadelphia. the stamp act congress of 1765 brought together in new york men interested in horse-racing who had never met before, and in the few years intervening before the revolution there sprang up a great rivalry between the northern and southern colonies. [sidenote: bull baiting] the men of new york enjoyed rugged and cruel sports such as would not be tolerated at the present time. among these were bear-baiting and bull-baiting. bear-baiting became rare as the animals disappeared from the neighborhood and became scarce. bulls were baited on bayard's hill and on the bowery. a bull was baited in 1763 at the tavern in the bowery lane known as the sign of the de lancey arms. john cornell, near st. george's ferry, long island, gave notice in 1774 that there would be a bull baited on tower hill at three o'clock every thursday afternoon during the season. [illustration: bull baiting, from an old advertisement] [sidenote: bowling] the taverns in the suburbs could, in many cases, have large grounds attached to the houses and they took advantage of this to make them attractive. from the very earliest period of the city there were places near by which were resorted to for pleasure and recreation. one of the earliest of these was the cherry garden. it was situated on the highest part of the road which led to the north--a continuation of the road which led to the ferry in the time of the dutch--at the present junction of pearl and cherry streets, and was originally the property of egbert van borsum, the ferryman of new amsterdam, who gave the sea captains such a magnificent dinner. in 1672 the seven acres of this property were purchased by captain delaval for the sum of one hundred and sixty-one guilders in beavers, and, after passing through several hands, became the property of richard sacket, who had settled in the neighborhood, and established himself as a maltster. on the land had been planted an orchard of cherry trees, which, after attaining moderate dimensions, attracted great attention. to turn this to account, a house of entertainment was erected and the place was turned into a pleasure resort known as the cherry garden. there were tables and seats under the trees, and a bowling green and other means of diversion attached to the premises. it had seen its best days before the end of the seventeenth century. [illustration: the bowling green, from lyne's map] on the borders of the common, now the city hall park, was the vineyard, which is said to have been a popular place of recreation and near the junction of what are now greenwich and warren streets was the bowling green garden, established there soon after the opening of the eighteenth century. it was on a part of the church farm, quite out of town, for there were no streets then laid out above crown, now liberty street, on the west side of the town and none above frankfort on the east. in 1735 the house of the bowling green garden was occupied by john miller, who was offering garden seeds of several sorts for sale. on march 29, 1738, it took fire and in a few minutes was completely consumed, miller, who was then living in it, saving himself with difficulty. a new house was erected and the place continued to attract visitors. there does not appear to have been any public road leading to it, but it was not a long walk or ride from the town and was finely situated on a hill near the river. in november, 1759, when it was occupied by john marshall, the militia company of grenadiers met here to celebrate the king's birthday, when they roasted an ox and ate and drank loyally. marshall solicited the patronage of ladies and gentlemen and proposed to open his house for breakfasting every morning during the season. he describes it as "handsomely situated on the north river at the place known by the name of the old bowling green but now called mount pleasant." some years later it became known as vauxhall. bowling must have had some attraction for the people of new york, for in march, 1732-3, the corporation resolved to "lease a piece of land lying at the lower end of broadway fronting the fort to some of the inhabitants of the said broadway in order to be inclosed to make a bowling green thereof, with walks therein, for the beauty & ornament of the said street, as well as for the recreation and delight of the inhabitants of this city." in october, 1734, it was accordingly leased to frederick phillipse, john chambers and john roosevelt for ten years, for a bowling-green only, at the yearly rental of one pepper-corn. in 1742 the lease was renewed for eleven years; to commence from the expiration of the first lease, at a rental of twenty shillings per annum. in january, 1745, proposals were requested for laying it with turf and rendering it fit for bowling, which shows that it was then being used for that purpose. it was known as the new or royal bowlling green and the one on the church farm as the old bowling green. [sidenote: the glass house] some time about 1754, an attempt was made in new york to make glass bottles and other glass ware. thomas leppers, who had been a tavern-keeper, was storekeeper for the glass house company, and advertised all sorts of bottles and a variety of glassware "too tedious to mention, at reasonable rates." he stated that gentlemen who wished bottles of any size with their names on them, "could be supplied with all expedition." a few years later, 1758, notice was given by matthias ernest that the newly-erected glass house at new foundland, within four miles of the city, was at work and ready to supply bottles, flasks and any sort of glassware. newfoundland was the name of a farm of about thirty-three acres, four miles from the city on the north river, extending from the present thirty-fifth street northward, on which this glass house had been erected. it is not unlikely that the glass house was visited by many persons, either on business or from curiosity, and that they were there entertained by the owner or manager of the property; at any rate, it seems to have acquired a reputation for good dinners. paymaster general mortier notes in his diary a dinner at the glass house on february 18, 1758, which cost him 3s. 6d. the manufacture of glass was not successful, but the place became a well-known suburban resort, where good dinners were served to visitors from the city. in 1764 the glass house was kept by edward agar, who, in addition to serving dinners, could furnish apartments to ladies or gentlemen who wished to reside in the country for the benefit of their health. in 1768 it was kept by john taylor, and it was evidently then a popular resort, for a stage wagon was advertised to run out to it every day, leaving mr. vandenberg's, where the astor house now stands, at three o'clock in the afternoon. vii the king's arms george burns, as has been stated, was in 1753 keeping one of the best taverns in new york. soon after this he left the city and took charge of the tavern at trenton ferry, which was on the great post road between new york and philadelphia, over which flowed almost all travel between the two cities and to the south. the prospects must have been very enticing. whether they were realized or not, burns soon became anxious to make a change and, returning to new york, became the landlord of a tavern in wall street near broadway, opposite the presbyterian church, which was known as the sign of admiral warren. here he remained until june, 1758, when scotch johnny, retiring from the tavern near the whitehall slip, known as the crown and thistle, he moved into his house. the house of scotch johnny had been the meeting place for the st. andrew's society while it was kept by him and it so continued to be after burns became landlord. [sidenote: king's head] burns retained for a time the old sign of the crown and thistle, but some time about the middle of the year 1760, took it down and hung out in its stead the sign of king george's head, and the tavern became known as the king's head. it continued to be the meeting place of the scots' society. they held their anniversary meeting here on st. andrew's day, monday, november 30, 1761, and elected the earl of stirling, william alexander, president of the society. the members of the society dined together as usual and in the evening a splendid ball and entertainment was given, which was attended by the principal ladies and gentlemen in the town. it was a grand and notable ball. the newspapers state that "the company was very numerous, everything was conducted with the greatest regularity and decorum and the whole made a most brilliant and elegant appearance." [illustration: stirling] in the latter part of the year 1761 the army was coming down from the north, there was a large camp of soldiers on staten island and new york city was full of officers. burns' house, the king's head, became the headquarters of the scotch officers of the army when they were in the city and their favorite place of rendezvous. the effects of several of the royal highland officers, who had died, were sold at public vendue at burns' long room in november, 1762. there must have been many articles to be disposed of, for the sale was to be continued from day to day until all were sold. the effects of lieutenant neal, late of the 22d regiment, consisting of wearing apparel, etc., etc., etc., etc., were sold at public vendue at the same place in december. [sidenote: the king's arms] we have been unable to find any record to establish the fact or even a hint to justify a deduction that there ever was at any time in the colonial period any house known as burns' coffee house. we believe this to be entirely a modern creation. the house described and illustrated in valentine's corporation manual of 1865 as burns' coffee house, or the king's arms tavern, although the statements concerning it have been accepted by many writers, was never occupied by burns; and the story of this house, as related in the corporation manual of 1854, is simply a strong draft on the imagination of the writer. the tavern which hung out the sign of the king's arms, on the corner of broad and dock streets, had been also known as the exchange coffee house and the gentlemen's coffee house, but when burns moved into it in 1751, he dropped the name coffee house and called it simply the king's arms. mrs. sarah steel, in 1763, carried the sign to broadway, as appears by the following announcement: "mrs. steel takes this method to acquaint her friends and customers, that the king's arms tavern, which she formerly kept opposite the exchange she hath now removed into broadway (the lower end, opposite the fort), a more commodious house, where she will not only have it in her power to accommodate gentlemen with conveniences requisite to a tavern, but also with genteel lodging apartments, which she doubts not will give satisfaction to every one who will be pleased to give her that honour." mrs. steel, in february, 1767, advertised that the broadway house was for sale and that the furniture, liquors, etc., would be sold whether the house were sold or not. a few months previous to this announcement, edward bardin, probably anticipating the retirement of mrs. steel from business, had acquired the sign, which we presume was a favorite one, and had hung it out at his house on upper broadway, opposite the common. the writer of the article in the corporation manual gives the following advertisement, which appears in parker's post boy of may 27, 1762, as evidence that burns occupied the house before mrs. steel moved into it. "this is to give notice to all gentlemen and ladies, lovers and encouragers of musick, that this day will be opened by messrs. leonard & dienval, musick masters of this city, at mr. burnes room, near the battery, a public and weekly concert of musick. tickets four shillings. n. b. the concert is to begin exactly at 8 o'clock, and end at ten, on account of the coolness of the evening. no body will be admitted without tickets, nor no mony will be taken at the door." this concert did not take place in the house on broadway, but in the house of george burns, the king's head near the battery. burns had succeeded scotch johnny, and had in his house a long room where societies met and where concerts and dinners were given on special occasions. "burns' long room" was well known at that time. the following appeared in the new york _journal_ of april 7, 1768: "to be let, from the 1st of may next, with or without furniture, as may suit the tenant, the large corner house wherein mrs. steel lately kept the king's arms tavern, near the fort now in the possession of col. gabbet." the next year col. gabbet, having moved out, was living next door to the house of john watts, who lived in pearl street near moore. in 1770 edward bardin announced that he had taken "the large, commodious house known by the name of the king's arms, near whitehall, long kept by mrs. steel, which he will again open as a tavern." george burns succeeded bardin and kept the house for a short time in 1771. before the revolutionary war there was no whitehall street. what is now whitehall street was known as broadway. there is no doubt about this. in a list of retailers of spirituous liquors in the city of new york in april, 1776, we find one on broadway near pearl street, one on broadway near the lower barracks, another on broadway opposite the fort and two others on broadway near the breastworks. these were all on the present whitehall street. in mrs. steel's announcement she states that the king's arms tavern was on broadway (the lower end opposite the fort), that is, on the present whitehall street. as the house was on a corner, its location was probably the corner of the present bridge and whitehall streets. if there were left any doubt about this, it should be thoroughly dissipated by the advertisement, december 30, 1765, of hetty hayes, who made and sold pickles in her home, which she states was on wynkoop (now bridge) street, near the king's arms tavern. notwithstanding the many statements to the contrary, no house known as the king's arms tavern or burns' coffee house ever stood on the west side of broadway opposite the bowling green. [illustration: house built by cornelis steenwyck] some time after the middle of the seventeenth century cornelis steenwyck built a fine house on the southeast corner of the present whitehall and bridge streets, and it was here no doubt, the grand dinner was given to governor nicolls on his departure from the province. in an inventory of steenwyck's estate in 1686 the house was valued at seven hundred pounds. this indicates that it was a large, and for that time, a very valuable dwelling. in the illustration copied from valentine's corporation manual of 1864, there is a sign attached to the house. we do not know the source from which this illustration was obtained, but the sign we presume to be a tavern sign, and we are inclined to think, for various reasons, that this house was for many years used as a tavern and that for a time subsequent to 1763, it was the king's arms. it was probably destroyed in the great fire of 1776. about this time a man made his appearance as a tavern-keeper whose name, although he was not a hero or a great man, has come down to us, and will go down to many future generations in connection with the revolutionary history of the city. samuel francis was a tavern-keeper without a peer, and when the time came to decide, struck for liberty and independence, abandoned his property and stuck to his colors like a true patriot. he came to new york from the west indies. although from the darkness of his complexion commonly called black sam, he was of french descent. previous to 1750 broadway did not extend to the north beyond the present vesey street. there was a road, however, following the line of the present broadway, known as the road to rutger's farm, the residence of anthony rutger standing near the corner of the present broadway and thomas street. just subsequent to the year 1750 trinity church laid out streets through a portion of the church farm and leased lots on this road, on which houses were built. the first of these, as far as we can ascertain, were built by bell and brookman, in 1752, on lots just south of the present murray street, fronting on the common, which was then an open field without fence of any kind. in 1760, mr. marschalk, one of the city surveyors, presented to the board of aldermen the draft or plan of a road which he had lately laid out, "beginning at the spring garden house and extending from thence north until it comes to the ground of the late widow rutgers," which was approved by the board and ordered to be recorded. other houses were built on the church farm, and a few years later we find one of these, situated on the north side of murray street, fronting the common, was being used as a tavern or mead house, and occupied by san francis. in 1761 he advertised sweatmeats, pickles, portable soups, etc., at the mason's arms, near the green in the upper part of the broadway near the alms house. he was in new york in 1758, and his house at that time was patronized by those who frequented only the best taverns in the city. [sidenote: the delancey house] the house with which his name is indissoluably connected, the delancey house, on the corner of the present broad and pearl streets was purchased by him in 1762. it was quite a large house and very well suited for a tavern, where it was intended that public entertainments should be given, as it had a long room that could hardly be surpassed. the lot on which the house stood was given by stephen van cortlandt to his son-in-law, stephen delancey, in 1700, and it is said that in 1719 stephen delancey built the house on it which is still standing. it was a handsome and conspicuous house for the period, but in the course of time delancey wished a change of location for his home. when he ceased to occupy it as a residence we do not know, probably on the completion of his new house on broadway, which is said to have been built in 1730. not long after this we find that it was being used for public purposes. in 1737, henry holt, the dancing master, announced that a ball would be given at the house of mr. delancey, next door to mr. todd's, and in february, 1739, there was given in holt's long room "the new pantomine entertainment, in grotesque characters, called _the adventures of harlequin and scaramouch_, or the spaniard trick'd. to which will be added _an optick_, wherein will be represented, in perspective, several of the most noted cities and remarkable places in europe and america, with a new prologue and epilogue address'd to the town." the tickets were sold at five shillings each. this clearly shows that the long room, probably just as we can see it today, was then used for public entertainments. [illustration: the delancey house] [sidenote: the queen's head] the house was again used as a residence. colonel joseph robinson was living in it in january, 1759, when it was offered for sale, at public vendue, at the merchants' coffee house. we find no record of transfer, but we are inclined to believe that it was purchased by the firm of delancey, robinson and company, dealers in east india goods and army supplies, composed of oliver delancey. beverly robinson and james parker, for they moved into it shortly after and were the owners of it in 1762, when it was purchased by samuel francis, the deed bearing date january 15th of that year and the consideration named being two thousand pounds. the co-partnership of delancey, robinson and company did not expire until december, 1762; in all probability they remained in the house until that time; at any rate, francis was in it in april, 1763, when he had hung out the sign of queen charlotte and opened an ordinary, announcing that dinner would be served every day at half past one o'clock. the house thereafter, for many years, was known as the queen's head. john crawley succeeded willett as landlord of the new york arms. in 1762 the assembly were having their meetings here, in what they designated as "crawley's new rooms." in april, 1763, crawley sold out the furnishings of the house at public vendue and george burns moved in from the king's head tavern, in the whitehall, who announced that he had "two excellent grooms to attend to his stables and takes in travellers and their horses by the month, quarter or year on reasonable terms." burns occupied the house during the turbulent period of the stamp act, and it was the scene of much of the excitement incident to those times. in 1764, while burns was keeping the province arms, the paulus hook ferry was established and the road opened from bergen to the hudson river. this enabled the stage wagons from philadelphia to bring their passengers to paulus hook, where they were taken over the ferry to new york. the opening of the paulus hook ferry placed the province arms in direct line with travel passing through the city between new england and the south, and it became largely a traveler's tavern, and in later times the starting point in new york of the boston, albany and philadelphia stages. [sidenote: the stamp act] the french and indian war, which had commenced in 1755, resulted in the conquest of canada; and when the british army came down to new york for embarkation they met with an enthusiastic reception and the officers were entertained by the wealthy merchants in the most hospitable manner. the province had suffered from the constant conflict on its borders and the prospect of relief from the incursions of the french and the horrible terrors of savage warfare which had been instigated by them, was the cause for great satisfaction and rejoicing. no longer threatened by the french the people were filled with hopes of great prosperity. trade and commerce soon revived and a period of remarkable activity had just opened when all the bright hopes of the merchants and of the people of new york were turned to gall and wormwood by the unwarrantable acts of great britain, who, instead of gratitude for the material assistance in the late war, was now calculating how much revenue might be counted upon from provinces that had shown such energy and such resources. the first important step in this direction was the passage of the stamp act, which received the king's signature on the 22d of march, 1765. it was not unexpected, for the colonists had for some time been in a nervous state, with the dread of some serious encroachment on their rights and liberties. the news of the passage of the act was received in new york in april with great indignation. it was distributed through the city with the title of "the folly of england, and the ruin of america." by law the act was to take effect on the first of november following. in the meantime it was proposed that the sense of the colonies should be taken and that they should all unite in a common petition to the king and parliament. accordingly a congress of deputies met in new york in the early part of october, 1765, in which nine of the colonies were represented. before this meeting the assembly of massachusetts had denied the right of parliament to tax the colonies and virginia had done the same. the sentiments of the congress were embodied in a very dignified and respectfully worded address to the king, drawn up by a committee of three, one of whom was robert r. livingston, of new york. committees were also appointed to prepare petitions to parliament which were reported and agreed to on the 22d of october. [sidenote: the non-importation agreement] on the last day of the same month a meeting was held by the merchants of new york to consider what should be done with respect to the stamp act and the melancholy state of the north american commerce, so greatly restricted by the acts of trade. they resolved not to order any goods shipped from great britain nor to sell any goods on commission until the stamp act should be repealed. two hundred merchants of the city subscribed these resolutions and the retailers of the city also agreed not to buy after the first of january, 1766, any goods imported from great britain, unless the stamp act should be repealed. this meeting was held at the province arms, the house of george burns, and here was signed this celebrated non-importation agreement. this was the most important political event of this eventful period, and one which, combined with like resolutions made by the merchants of boston and philadelphia, had more influence in causing the repeal than all the addresses, petitions and other influences put together. on october 23d, while the stamp act congress was in session, the ship edward arrived with the obnoxious stamps on board, and was convoyed to the fort by a man-of-war, all the vessels in the harbor lowering their colors in sign of mourning, and an excited crowd watching the proceedings from the river front. in a few days the stamps were deposited in the fort. during the night after the arrival of the edward, written notices were posted about the city warning any one who should distribute or make use of stamped paper, to take care of his house, person or effects. the excitement among the people grew more and more intense as the time approached for the law to take effect. the morning of november 1st was ushered in by the ringing of muffled bells and display of flags at half-mast. the magistrates notified lieutenant-governor golden that they were apprehensive of a mob that night. the people gathered in the fields, and after parading the streets with effigies of the lieutenant-governor, appeared before the fort and demanded the stamps. they broke open the lieutenant-governor's coach-house, took out his coach, sleighs, harness and stable fittings and with the effigies burned them on the bowling green in front of the fort. the mob then went to vauxhall, the house of major james, who had made himself very obnoxious by his braggart threats of what he would do to enforce the stamp act and stripping the house of all its furniture, books, liquors, etc., even to the doors and windows, made a bonfire of them. as the mob passed the merchants' coffee house, they were encouraged by the approbation of those who frequented that place. during the day there had been on view here an open letter addressed to golden, assuring him of his fate if he should persist in trying to put the stamp act in force. it also stated--"we have heard of your design or menace to fire upon the town in case of disturbance, but assure yourself that if you dare to perpetrate any such murderous act you'll bring your gray hairs with sorrow to the grave." * * * and "any man who assists you will surely be put to death." this letter was delivered at the fort gate in the evening by an unknown hand. the next day threatening letters and messages were sent in to governor colden at the fort and he made a promise not to distribute the stamps, but to deliver them to sir henry moore, the newly appointed governor, when he arrived. this did not satisfy the people, who demanded that they should be delivered out of the fort and threatened to take them by force. it was then agreed that the stamps should be delivered to the mayor and deposited in the city hall. this was done, the mayor giving his receipt for them, and tranquillity was restored. sir henry moore, the new governor, arrived on the 13th of november, and was received with all the formalities usual on such an occasion. he evidently made a favorable impression. the situation of affairs, however, presented for him a difficult problem. his first question to the council was, could the stamps be issued? which was answered unanimously in the negative. business had come to a standstill, and the people were fretting under the restraints which the situation imposed. there were two classes; the men of property, who could afford to await the issue of conservative methods, and the middle and lower classes, who insisted that business should go on regardless of the stamps. livingston says that a meeting of the conservatives was held at the coffee house at ten o'clock in the morning and that although "all came prepared to form a union, few cared openly to declare the necessity of it, so intimidated were they at the secret unknown party which had threatened such bold things." this secret society was known by various names, but in november we find that they had adopted the name, "sons of liberty," and this name was soon after used in the other colonies. the sons of liberty presented sir henry moore a congratulatory address and on friday, the 15th of november, met in the fields, erected pyramids and inscriptions in his honor, and one of the grandest bonfires ever seen in the city. on november 25th notices were posted in all parts of the city with the heading, "liberty, property and no stamps," inviting a general meeting of the inhabitants on the 26th at burns' city arms tavern in order to agree upon instructions to their representatives in the general assembly. although opposition to the stamp act was unanimous the people were not in accord on the means of redress. the notices were twice torn down by those who did not know or who were not in sympathy with the objects of the meeting, and were as often replaced by the promoters of the meeting. about twelve hundred persons assembled.[1] the committee appointed to present the instructions was composed of henry cruger, john vanderspiegel, david van home, james jauncey, walter rutherford, john alsop, william livingston, william smith, jr., whitehead hicks, john morin scott, james delancey and john thurman, jr., who fairly represented the different shades of opinion. [sidenote: the sons of liberty] early in january, 1766, the sons of liberty threw off the mask of secrecy. on the evening of january 7th, a great number of members of the society met at the house of william howard, the tavern previously occupied by sam francis and john jones, in the fields, which for a time became their headquarters. they agreed to a series of resolutions advocating action of the most vigorous nature towards all those who "may either carry on their business on stamped paper or refuse to carry it on independently of the odious act." they adjourned to meet at the same place a fortnight later, and continued to meet at regular intervals thereafter. at a regular meeting on tuesday, february 4th, a committee was appointed to correspond with the sons of liberty in the neighboring colonies, composed of lamb, sears, robinson, wiley and mott. the next meeting was appointed to be held on tuesday evening the 18th instant. [sidenote: repeal of the stamp act] on march 18, 1766, the king gave his assent to the repeal of the stamp act "in sorrow and despite." thereupon there was great rejoicing in the english capital. the happy event was celebrated by dinner, bonfires and a general display of flags. on the 24th there was a meeting of the principal merchants concerned in the american trade, at the king's head tavern, in cornhill, to consider an address to the king. they went from this place, about eleven o'clock in the morning, in coaches, to the house of peers to pay their duty to his majesty and to express their satisfaction at his signing the bill repealing the american stamp act. there were upwards of fifty coaches in the procession.[2] on tuesday, may 20th, the glorious news of the repeal was received in new york from different quarters, which was instantly spread throughout the city, creating the greatest excitement. all the bells of the different churches were rung and joy and satisfaction were on every face. the next day the sons of liberty caused to be printed and distributed the following hand bill: "this day "on the glorious occasion of a total repeal of the stamp act there will be a general meeting and rejoicing at the house of mr. howard, the lovers of their country loyal subjects of his majesty, george the third, king of great britain, real sons of liberty of all denominations are hereby cordially invited to partake of the essential and long look'd for celebration. "the city will be illuminated and every decent measure will be observed in demonstrating a sensible acknowledgement of gratitude to our illustrious sovereign, and never to be forgotten friends at home and abroad, particularly the guardian of america." preparations were accordingly made and measures taken for carrying out these designs. the sons of liberty repaired to the "field of liberty," as they called the common, where they had often met, where a royal salute of twenty-one guns was fired. attended by a band of music they then marched to their usual resort, which was the house of william howard, where an elegant entertainment had been prepared for them. after they had dined in the most social manner they drank cheerfully to twenty-eight toasts, the number of the years of the king's age. at the first toast--the king--the royal salute was repeated, and each of the following was saluted with seven guns. in the evening there were bonfires and a grand illumination. announcement was made in the newspapers that "the sons of liberty of new york take this early opportunity of most cordially saluting and congratulating all their american brethren on this glorious and happy event." shortly after this occurred the anniversary of the king's birthday and the people were so rejoiced and elated by the repeal that they resolved to make of it an opportunity to show their gratitude and thanks, and so great preparations were made for the event, which was to be on the 4th of june. more extensive preparations were made than for any previous celebration of this kind. the day opened with the ringing of the bells of all the churches in the city. by seven o'clock preparations began for roasting whole, two large, fat oxen, on the common, where the people soon began to gather to gaze at the "mighty roast beef." at 12 o'clock a gun was fired from the fort as a signal for the council, the general, the militia officers, the corporation and gentlemen to wait on the governor to drink the king's health and never on such an occasion before was the company so numerous or splendid. now the battery breaks forth in a royal salute and the air is filled "with joyful acclamations of long live the king, the darling of the people." soon after, this salute was answered by the men-of-war and the merchant vessels in the harbor, "decked in all the pageantry of colors." the people were gathered on the common, where a large stage had been erected, on which were twenty-five barrels of strong beer, a hogshead of rum, sugar and water to make punch, bread and other provisions for the people, and on each side a roasted ox. at one end of the common was a pile of twenty cords of wood, in the midst of which was a stout mast with a platform on top of it, on which had been hoisted twelve tar and pitch barrels. this was for the magnificent bonfire. at the other end of the common were stationed twenty-five pieces of cannon for the salutes, and at the top of the mast which had been erected, was a flagstaff with colors displayed. the grand dinner on this unusual occasion was served at the new york arms, the house of george burns, on broadway. it was prepared by order of the principal citizens and was honored by the presence of the governor, the general, the military officers, the clergy, the gentlemen of the city, and strangers. "it consisted of many covers and produced near a hundred dishes."[3] one newspaper states that there were about 340 in the company. at the king's health a royal salute was fired by the guns on the common, and at each toast afterward a salute was given up to twenty-eight, the number of years of the king's age. the common was in sight so that signals for these could easily be given. the toasts numbered forty-one, and are said to have been "respectfully preferred and eagerly swallowed." we feel justified in the belief that this was the largest dinner and one of the most important that had ever been served in new york. in the evening the whole town was illuminated in the grandest manner ever seen before, especially the houses of the governor and the general. [illustration: liberty boys] the assembly met on june 16th, and on the 23d a large meeting was held at the merchants' coffee mouse, where a petition was prepared, addressed to the assembly, for the election of a brass statue of pitt, who was considered the great friend of america. on the very day of this meeting the house, it appears, made provision for an equestrian statue of the king and a brass statue of william pitt. tranquillity seems to have been restored, but it was not long before new causes of dissatisfaction arose. [sidenote: liberty pole] the victory of the colonists in causing the repeal of the stamp act could not fail to produce some feeling of bitterness in the officers of the crown, and there were some who took no pains to conceal their dissatisfaction. the soldiers, aware of the feeling of their officers, were ready on all occasions to show their hostility. the mast or flagpole which had been erected on the north side of the common, opposite a point between warren and chambers streets, on the anniversary of the king's birthday, and dedicated to king george, pitt and liberty, later called liberty pole, held by the citizens of new york as the emblem of their principles, was, in the night of sunday, august 10, 1766, cut down by some of the soldiers of the 28th regiment, quartered in the barracks, nearby. the people considered the destruction of the pole an insult. when a large assemblage of two or three thousand people gathered on the common the next day, headed by isaac sears, to take measures to replace their standard and demand an explanation, the soldiers interfered and a disturbance ensued in which the people used stones and brickbats to defend themselves and the soldiers used their bayonets. as the unarmed people retreated several were wounded with the weapons of the assailants. on the 12th a new pole was erected on the site of the first. after this disturbance, the magistrates of the city and the officers of the regiment met in the presence of the governor, and an amicable conclusion was reached which it was supposed would prevent further trouble; but notwithstanding this the second pole was cut down on tuesday, september 23d. on the next day another was erected in its place, without any serious disturbance. the contest over the liberty pole continued until the opening of the war of the revolution. it made the place where the pole stood a center of disturbance and the taverns on broadway, near by, places, at times, of considerable excitement. on the first anniversary of the repeal preparations were made to celebrate the event. the people gathered at the liberty pole on the 18th of march and at the appointed time met at bardin's king's arms tavern to dine and drink toasts appropriate to the occasion. this could not justly have given any offense, but such rejoicing by the people was unpleasant to the officers of the army, and the soldiers looked upon it as a celebration of the defeat of the king and parliament whom they served. that night the third pole was cut down by the soldiers, who had become excited by what they had seen during the day. the next day a larger and more substantial pole was erected in place of the one cut down, secured with iron to a considerable height above the ground. attempts were made the same night both to cut it down and to undermine it, but without effect. on saturday night, the 21st, there was an attempt made to destroy it by boring a hole into it and charging it with powder, but this also failed. on sunday night a strong watch was set by the citizens at an adjacent house, probably bardin's. during the night a small company of soldiers appeared with their coats turned, armed with bayonets and clubs, but finding that they were watched, after some words, retired. on monday, about six o'clock in the evening, a party of soldiers marched past the pole and as they went by the king's arms fired their muskets at the house. one ball passed through the house and another lodged in one of the timbers. on tuesday, about one o'clock in the afternoon, the same company of soldiers, as is supposed, took a ladder from a new building and were proceeding towards the pole, when they were stopped and turned back. the governor, the general and the magistrates then took measures to prevent further trouble, and the newspaper states that "we hope this matter, in itself trivial and only considered of importance by the citizens as it showed an intention to offend and insult them will occasion no further difference." [sidenote: vauxhall garden] readers of the literature of the eighteenth century are familiar with the names of ranelagh and vauxhall, resorts of the idle and gay of london society. the success and reputation of these places brought forward imitators in all parts of the british dominions; and new york had both a vauxhall and a ranelagh. sam francis obtained possession of the place on the church farm, which had, early in the century, been known as the bowling green, later as mount pleasant, and opened it as a pleasure resort, which he called vauxhall. a ball, which seems to have been of some importance, was given here about the first of june, 1765. shortly after it became the residence of major james, and was wrecked by the infuriated populace on november 1st. in june, 1768, francis announced that while he had been absent from the city the house and garden had been occupied by major james, that they were then in good order, and that he had provided everything necessary to accommodate his old friends and customers. the next month, still calling the place vauxhall garden, he gave notice that from eight in the morning till ten at night, at four shillings each person, could be seen at the garden a group of magnificent wax figures, "ten in number, rich and elegantly dressed, according to the ancient roman and present mode; which figures bear the most striking resemblance to real life and represent the great roman general, publius scipio, who conquered the city of carthage, standing by his tent pitched in a grove of trees." francis continued in the place, putting forward various attractions, until 1774. he appears to have been a man of much business. his absence from the city, which he alludes to, may have been caused by his interests in philadelphia, where at that time he had a tavern in water street, in front of which he hung out the sign of queen charlotte, the same as at his new york house. [sidenote: ranelagh garden] the ranelagh garden was opened by john jones, in june, 1765, for breakfast and evening entertainment. it was said that the grounds had been laid out at great expense and that it was by far the most rural retreat near the city. music by a complete band was promised for every monday and thursday evening during the summer season. in the garden was a commodious hall for dancing, with drawing rooms neatly fitted up. the very best "alamode beef," tarts, cakes, etc., were served, and on notice, dinners or other large entertainments would be provided. mr. leonard was announced to sing a solo and mr. jackson was to give three songs. the place had been the old homestead of colonel anthony rutgers, where he had lived many years, near the present corner of broadway and thomas street. it afterwards became the site of the new york hospital, which stood there for almost a century. these summer entertainments were kept up for several years. in 1768 the garden was opened in the latter part of june, and notice was given that there would be performed a concert of vocal and instrumental music, the vocal parts by mr. woods and miss wainright, and by particular request, "thro' the woods, laddie," would be sung by miss wainright; after which would be exhibited some curious fireworks by the two italian brothers, whose performances had given so much satisfaction to the public. tickets to be had at the gate for two shillings. [illustration: at ranelagh] when edward bardin opened the king's arms tavern, on broadway, in 1766, following the example of jones in his ranelagh garden, he opened a concert of music for the entertainment of ladies and gentlemen, to be continued on every monday, wednesday and friday during the summer season at the king's arms garden. he gave notice that a convenient room had been filled up in the garden for the retreat of the company in unfavorable weather, and he stated that the countenance which had been given him warranted him, he thought, in expecting a continuance of the public favor. having in mind the prejudice of the community against the theater he stated that he had provided an entertainment that would not offend "the most delecate of mankind, as every possible precaution had been taken to prevent disorder and irregularity." during the exciting times following the passage of the stamp act there was a strong sentiment against the theatre among the people, "who thought it highly improper that such entertainments should be exhibited at this time of public distress." the managers of the theatre in chapel street announced in their advertisement that "as the packet is arrived, and has been the messenger of good news relative to the repeal, it is hoped the public has no objection to the above performance." although forewarned, the play was attempted and the house was wrecked by a mob. under such circumstances it is not surprising that the people should turn to some more sober kind of entertainments. we give below the complete announcement of a concert of vocal and instrumental music, given at the new york arms tavern, in october, 1766, which is interesting in many ways. "by particular desire of a good number of ladies and gentlemen of credit and character in the city. there will be a concert of vocal and instrumental music at mr. burns' new room, to-morrow being the 28 instant; to begin at 6 o'clock in the evening. this concert will consist of nothing but church musick, in which will be introduced a new te deum, jublate deo, cantata domino and deus misereatur, with an anthem (in which there is an obligato part for a harp, as there is also in the cantata domino), with several other pieces of church musick intermixed with other instrumental performances in order to ease the voices. the whole to conclude with a martial psalm, viz. the 49th. tate and brady's version, accompanied with all the instruments and a pair of drums. n. b. there will be more than forty voices and instruments in the chorus. tickets to be had of mr. tuckey in pearl street near the battery at four shillings each, who would take it as a great favor of any gentlemen who sing or play on any instrument to lend him their kind assistance in the performance and give him timely notice that there may be a sufficient number of parts wrote out." in november, 1766, a call was issued to the merchants announcing that a petition to the house of commons was being prepared, setting forth the grievances attending the trade of the colony, requesting redress therein, which would be produced at five o'clock on friday evening, the 28th, at burns' long room and publicly read. the merchants and traders of the city were requested to attend and subscribed their names, as it was a matter of great importance and would probably be productive of good results.[4] we can find no further notice of the meeting or the results. the critical situation of affairs may have prevented a consummation of the project. it was about this time that the menacing instructions to the governor in regard to compliance with the act for quartering troops arrived. england had determined to send troops to america, and required that the expense of quartering these troops should be borne by the colonies. the assembly of new york, in june, positively refused to comply with the act of parliament in this respect, agreeing only to supply barracks, furniture, etc., for two batallions of five hundred men each, declaring that they would do no more. the governor made his report and new instructions were sent out stating that it was the "indispensable duty of his majesty's subjects in america to obey the acts of the legislature of great britain," and requiring cheerful obedience to the act of parliament for quartering the king's troops "in the full extent and meaning of the act." the assembly did not recede from the stand they had taken at the previous session. the aspect of affairs grew unpromising and portentious. it seriously affected trade. news from england indicated that parliament would take measures to enforce the billeting act. when the assembly of new york met in the latter part of may, 1767, the house voted a supply for the quartering of the king's troops, which came up to the sum which had been prescribed by parliament. in the meantime it had been moved and enacted in parliament that until new york complied with the billeting act her governor should assent to no legislation, and by act of parliament a duty was placed on glass, paper, lead, colors and especially on tea. the disfranchisement of new york was of no practical effect, but it created great uneasiness and alarm in all the colonies. the position which the merchants' coffee house held in the community is shown by the fact that when governor moore received the news of the result of the unprecedented appeal made by lieutenant-governor colden from the verdict of a jury in the case of forsay and cunningham he transmitted it to the people by obligingly sending intelligence to the coffee house that the decision was that there could be no appeal from the verdict of a jury; which was very gratifying to the people, who were much stirred up over such action on the part of colden. the whitehall coffee house, opened by rogers and humphreys, in 1762, whose announcement indicates that they aspired to a prominent place for their house, also shows what was the custom of a house of this kind to do for its patrons. they gave notice that "a correspondence is settled in london and bristol to remit by every opportunity all the public prints and pamphlets as soon as published; and there will be a weekly supply of new york, boston and other american papers." the undertaking was of short duration. viii hampden hall [sidenote: the queen's head] in may, 1767, bolton and sigell moved into the house of samuel francis, near the exchange, lately kept by john jones, known as the queen's head tavern, and, as strangers, solicited the favor of the public. this tavern shortly after, and for some time, was the scene of much of the excitement connected with the period. in january, 1768, the committee appointed at a meeting of the inhabitants of the city on the 29th of december just past to consider the expediency of entering into measures to promote frugality and industry and employ the poor, gave notice that they would be ready to make their report on the matter on monday evening, the 25th, at five o'clock at bolton and sigell's, and the people were requested to attend in order to receive the report and consider the matter. the proposed meeting was adjourned for a week, when, on february 2d, the report was delivered, approved, and directions given for carrying it into execution. [sidenote: second non-importation agreement] on march 31, 1768, a meeting was called at bolton and sigell's to answer letters from the merchants of boston. this meeting not being well attended, a second was called for april 7. this resulted in the second non-importation agreement by the merchants of the city who came to "an agreement not to import any goods from great britain that shall be shipped there after the first of october next, until a certain act of parliament is repealed, provided the merchants of philadelphia and boston come into the same measures." [sidenote: chamber of commerce new york] it is more than likely that the merchants of new york had for some time been aware of the necessity or advantage of some sort of organization among themselves for the benefit of trade. in march, 1764, we find that a call was issued, earnestly requesting the merchants of the city to meet at the queen's head tavern, near the exchange, on business of great importance to trade; and on may 5, 1766, the merchants of the city were requested to meet at the house of george burns, the new york arms, at four o'clock in the afternoon on business for the good of this province and continent in general. following the stamp act and the non-importation agreement there was great political excitement; money was scarce; business was depressed; and foreign trade was unsettled and uncertain. in this situation the merchants of new york, having seen the success of union in the non-importation agreement, met in the long room of the queen's head tavern, kept by bolton and sigell on april 8, 1768, and there formed themselves into a society which they styled the new york chamber of commerce, which has been in existence since that date, the oldest mercantile organization in america. the twenty-four members who then constituted the society elected john cruger president, hugh wallace vice president and elias desbrosses treasurer. a meeting of the new york merchants was called at bolton and sigell's on august 25, 1768, to further consider the non-importation agreement, which had been signed very generally in the city, and in november, in consequence of reports in circulation, the principal merchants and traders of the city were waited on, and report was made that it appeared that they had in general inviolably adhered to the true spirit of their agreement in making out their orders. the subscribers to the agreement met at bolton and sigell's on monday, march 13, 1769, when a "committee was appointed to inquire into and inspect all european importations, in order to a strict compliance with the said agreement and also to correspond with the other colonies." the assembly in april passed a vote of thanks to the merchants for their patriotic conduct, and instructed the speaker to signify the same to them at their next monthly meeting. john cruger, the speaker of the house, was also president of the chamber of commerce, and this vote of thanks was delivered to the merchants at the first meeting of the chamber of commerce in their new quarters, the large room over the royal exchange, their previous meetings having been held in the long room of the queen's head tavern. [sidenote: anniversary of the repeal] the second anniversary of the repeal of the stamp act was celebrated on friday, the 18th of march, by a numerous company of the principal merchants and other respectable inhabitants of the city, "friends to constitutional liberty and trade," at bardin's tavern opposite the common on broadway and at jones's tavern which was said to be nearly adjoining. the meeting at jones's was called by the "friends of liberty and trade," who requested those inclined to celebrate the day to give in their names by wednesday at farthest to john jones inn-holder in the fields or to the printer, and receive tickets for the occasion. there were many who, although zealous in every measure for the repeal of the stamp act, now leaned to the side of moderation. they styled themselves friends of liberty and trade, as distinct from the more orthodox or more radical sons of liberty. the two factions on this occasion seem to have met in perfect harmony, although later there appeared considerable feeling between them. union flags were displayed and an elegant dinner was served at each place. a band of music was provided for the occasion and in the evening some curious fireworks were played off for the entertainment of the company. among the toasts drunk were: "the spirited assembly of virginia in 1765," "the spirited assembly of boston" and "unanimity to the sons of liberty in america." [sidenote: effigies burned] on monday, november 14, 1768, a report was current in the city that the effigies of bernard, the obnoxious governor of massachusetts, and greenleaf, the sheriff of boston, were to be exhibited in the streets that evening. at four o'clock in the afternoon the troops in the city appeared under arms at the lower barracks, where they remained until about ten o'clock at night, during which time parties of them continually patrolled the streets, in order, it is supposed, to intimidate the inhabitants and prevent the exposing of the effigies. notwithstanding this vigilance on the part of the soldiers, the sons of liberty appeared in the streets with the effigies hanging on a gallows, between eight and nine o'clock, attended by a vast number of spectators, and were saluted with loud huzzas at the corner of every street they passed. after exposing the effigies at the coffee house, they were publicly burned amidst the clamor of the people, who testified their approbation and then quietly dispersed to their homes. the city magistrates had received notice of what was intended, and constables were sent out to prevent it, but either deceived or by intention they did not reach the scene of action until all was over. this seems strange, as the coffee house was not far from the city hall, and the lime tree in front of it, the scene of the burning, was in full view. [sidenote: the boston letter] the letter which the assembly of the massachusetts colony had sent to her sister colonies in the early part of the year 1768, inviting united measures to obtain redress of grievances, was denounced by the earl of hillsborough, then lately appointed secretary of state for america, "as of a most dangerous and factious tendency." the colonies were forbidden to receive or reply to it, and an effort was made to prevent all correspondence between them. this was ineffectual. committees were appointed to petition the king and to correspond with massachusetts and virginia. some of the assemblies, for refusing to comply with the demands of hillsborough, were prorogued by the governors. a great public meeting was called in new york for thursday, november 24, at which instructions to the city members of the assembly were adopted and signed by many of the principal citizens. the instructions called for the reading in the assembly of the boston letter, which had fallen under the censure of hillsborough, and to which he had forbidden the colonies to make reply. that these instructions were delivered is more than probable. whether influenced by them or not, the assembly, in committee of the whole on december 31, declared for "an exact equality of rights among all his majesty's subjects in the several parts of the empire; the right of petition, that of internal legislature, and the undoubted right to correspond and consult with any of the neighboring colonies or with any other of his majesty's subjects, outside of this colony, whenever they conceived the rights, liberties, interests or privileges of this house or its constituents to be affected," and appointed a committee of correspondence. these resolutions could not be tolerated by governor moore. he dissolved the assembly. this caused a new election which was attended with considerable excitement. it was called for monday, january 23, 1769. the church of england party put up as candidates, james delancey, jacob walton, john cruger and james jauncey. these were the former members, with the exception of john cruger, who took the place of philip livingston, who declined the office. a meeting in the interest of the above candidates was called at the house of george burns, the new york arms, for saturday, the 21st, at five o'clock in the evening. they were elected and on friday the 27th, after the closing of the polls, they were escorted from the city hall with music playing and colors flying down broadway and through the main street (now pearl street) to the coffee house. the windows along the route were filled with ladies and numbers of the principal inhabitants graced the procession. it was "one of the finest and most agreeable sights ever seen in the city." the four gentlemen elected generously gave two hundred pounds for the benefit of the poor. saturday, march 18, 1769, being the anniversary of the repeal of the stamp act, the liberty colors, inscribed with "g. r. iii, liberty and trade," were hoisted on the ancient liberty pole, and at the house of edward smith, on the corner of broadway and murray street, the genuine sons of liberty dined and drank toasts appropriate to the occasion, one of which was to "the ninety-two members of the massachusetts assembly who voted the famous boston letter." there was another meeting to celebrate the day at the house of vandewater ("otherwise called catemut's"), which was conducted in much the same manner and where similar toasts were drunk. by common consent the taverns on broadway, fronting on the common or fields, near the liberty pole, were the places selected for celebrating the anniversaries of the important events connected with the stamp act period. it was on wednesday, november 1, 1769, that a number of the sons of liberty met at the house of abraham de la montagnie to celebrate "the day on which the inhabitants of this colony nobly determined not to surrender their rights to arbitrary power, however august." de la montagnie had succeeded bardin, and was now the landlord of the house which edward bardin had occupied for some years, fronting on the common. here the entertainment was given and after dinner appropriate toasts were drank "in festive glasses." among the first of these was "may the north american colonies fully enjoy the british constitution." [illustration: corner of broadway and murray street, 1816] [sidenote: liberty pole destroyed] [sidenote: battle of golden hill] on the night of january 13, 1770, an attempt was made by the soldiers to destroy the liberty pole by sawing off the spurs or braces around it and by exploding gunpowder in a hole bored in the wood in order to split it. they were discovered and the attempt was unsuccessful. exasperated at this, they attacked some citizens near, followed them into the house of de la montagnie with drawn swords and bayonets, insulted the company, beat the waiter, assaulted the landlord in one of the passages of the house and then proceeded to break everything they could conveniently reach, among other things eighty-four panes of glass in the windows. officers appearing, they quickly withdrew to their barracks. three days after this, in the night of january 16, the soldiers succeeded in destroying the pole completely, which they sawed into pieces and piled before de la montagnie's door. the next day there was a great meeting in the fields, where the pole had stood, when it was resolved by the people that soldiers found out of barracks at night after roll-call should be treated as enemies of the peace of the city. in reply to these resolves a scurrilous placard was printed, signed "the sixteenth regiment of foot," and posted through the city. attempts to prevent this was the cause of several serious affrays, the principal one of which took place a little north of the present john street, a locality then called golden hill, in which one citizen was killed and several severely wounded. many of the soldiers were badly beaten. this affair has been called the battle of golden hill, and it has been claimed that here was shed the first blood in the cause of american independence. at the meeting in the fields on the 17th, a committee had been appointed who, as instructed, petitioned the corporation for permission to erect a new pole on the spot where the one destroyed had stood or if preferred, opposite mr. vandenbergh's, near st. paul's church, a small distance from where the two roads meet. it was stated in the petition that if the corporation should not think proper to grant permission for erecting the pole, the people were resolved to procure a place for it on private ground. the petition was rejected and purchase was made of a piece of ground, eleven feet wide and one hundred feet long, very near to the place where the former pole had stood. here a hole was dug twelve feet deep to receive the pole which was being prepared at the shipyards. the lower part of the mast was covered to a considerable height with iron bars placed lengthwise, over which were fastened strong iron hoops. when finished the pole was drawn through the streets by six horses, decorated with ribbons and flags. music was supplied by a band of french horns. the pole was strongly secured in the earth by timbers and great stones, so as to defy all further attempts to prostrate it. on the top was raised a mast twenty-two feet in height with a gilt vane and the word liberty in large letters. [sidenote: hampden hall] abraham de la montagnie had suffered his house to become the resort of many who belonged to the moderate party or the friends of liberty and trade, who, early in the year 1770, engaged his house for the celebration of the anniversary of the repeal. the sons of liberty in the early part of february invited those who wished to celebrate the anniversary to join them at de la montagnie's tavern, whereupon de la montagnie issued a card, stating that his house had been engaged by a number of gentlemen for that purpose, and that he could entertain no others. the indications are that this was then the only tavern near the liberty pole that was available, jones and smith having left the neighborhood, but the more radical sons of liberty, not to be thus frustrated, purchased the house which had been formerly occupied by edward smith, and gave notice, inviting all those in sympathy with them to join them there in the celebration. they called the house they had purchased hampden hall, and it remained their headquarters for some time. it was managed by henry bicker as its landlord. [sidenote: anniversary dinners] the 18th of march being sunday, the anniversary of the repeal of the stamp act was celebrated on monday the 19th. at the tavern of de la montagnie, while the liberty colors (ascribed to g. r. iii, liberty and trade) were hoisted on the liberty pole, two hundred and thirty citizens, friends to liberty and trade, sat down to an elegant dinner prepared for them. appropriate toasts were drunk, one of which was "liberty, unanimity and perseverance to the true sons of liberty in america." on the same day "in union and friendship" with these a number of gentlemen celebrated the day by a dinner at the house of samuel waldron, at the ferry on long island, where, it is said, the toasts drunk were the same as at de la montagnie's. the radical party of the sons of liberty celebrated "the repeal of the detestable stamp act" at hampden hall, on which colors were displayed, as well as on the liberty pole opposite to it. the company, it is said, numbered about three hundred gentlemen, freeholders and freemen of the city, who met to celebrate "that memorable deliverance from the chains which had been forged for the americans by a designing and despotic ministry." an elegant dinner had been provided, but before they sat down the company "nominated ten of their number to dine with captain mcdougal at his chambers in the new-gaol," where a suitable dinner had also been provided. captain mcdougal was being held in jail for libel as the author of a paper signed "a son of liberty," addressed "to the betrayed inhabitants of new york," which reflected the severest criticisms of the assembly for voting supplies to the king's troops. this paper was held by the assembly to be an infamous and scandalous libel. he was also accused of being the author of another paper signed "legion," describing the action of the assembly as "base, inglorious conduct," which the assembly resolved was infamous and seditious. after dinner, a committee was appointed to send two barrels of beer and what was left of the dinner to the poor prisoners in the jail, which were received with great thanks. many appropriate toasts were drunk as usual, and a little before sunset the company from hampden hall, joined by a number of people in the fields, with music playing and colors flying, marched to the new jail, where they saluted captain mcdougal with cheers. he appeared at the grated window of the middle story, and in a short address thanked them for this mark of their respect. the company then returned to the liberty pole and as the sun was setting hauled down the flag. they then marched down chapel street to the coffee house and back up broadway to the liberty pole and quietly dispersed. [illustration: a. mcdougall] the celebration of the anniversary of the repeal apparently caused some bitterness of feeling between the factions which dined at de la montagnie's and that which dined at hampden hall, if it did not previously exist. an article appeared in the newspaper declaring that the statement that about three hundred persons dined at hampden hall was not true, that only about one hundred and twenty-six dined there and paid for their dinners, including boys, and that the first toast which these _loyal_ sons of liberty actually drank was not "the king," as reported in the newspapers, but "may the american colonies fully enjoy the british constitution." the writer also took exception to many other statements in the account which was given in the papers. a reply was made to this in which affidavit was made by henry bicker that on the occasion there dined at his house, according to the best of his judgment, about three hundred persons, and that the assertion that there were no more than about one hundred and twenty-six was absolutely false. in the matter of the toasts, as showing in a measure how such affairs were conducted, we think it best to give the explanation in full as follows: "the truth of the matter is just this. several gentlemen drew up a set of toasts proper for the day, and to save the trouble of copying them, got a few printed to serve the different tables. when the committee who were appointed to conduct the business of the day came to peruse the toasts, they altered the one and transposed the one before dinner, and i do assert that they were drank in the manner and order they were published in this, parker's and gaine's papers; for the truth of this i appeal to every gentleman who dined at hampden hall that day." the house which bicker occupied had always been used as a tavern. when the lease of the property, having eleven years to run, was offered for sale in 1761, it was described as "two lots of ground on trinity church farm, on which are two tenements fronting broadway and a small tenement fronting murray street; the two tenements fronting broadway may be occupied in one for a public house." it was purchased by john jones, and when he offered it for sale in 1765, he stated that there was a very commodious dancing room adjoining, forty-five feet long, which was probably in the building fronting on murray street. jones moved out of the house in 1766 to the queen's head, but returned when the queen's head was taken by bolton and sigell, and occupied for a time either a part of the house or the whole. it was purchased in 1768 by roger morris. when the sons of liberty purchased the lease, it had only a short time to run, not more than one or two years. [sidenote: hampden hall attacked by the soldiers] about eleven o'clock on saturday night, the 24th of march, fourteen or fifteen soldiers were seen about the liberty pole, which one of them had ascended in order to take off and carry away the topmast and vane. finding they were discovered they attacked some young men who came up and drove them from the green and then retired. soon after, about forty or fifty of them came out armed with cutlasses and attacked a number of people who had come up to the pole on the alarm given. a few of these retreated to the house of mr. bicker, which was soon besieged by the soldiers, who endeavored to force an entrance. bicker, thinking himself and family in danger, stood with his bayonet fixed, determined to defend his family and his house to the last extremity, declaring that he would shoot the first man who should attempt to enter. he succeeded in getting the doors of the house closed and barred, when the soldiers tried to break open the front windows, one of which they forced open, broke all the glass and hacked the sash to pieces. they threatened to burn the house and destroy every one in it. some citizens who had been on the ground, gave the alarm by ringing the chapel bell, upon hearing which, the soldiers retreated precipitately. the men of the 16th regiment swore that they would carry away with them a part of the pole as a trophy, but a watch was kept by the people and they sailed away in a few days for pensacola, without accomplishing their design. this was the last effort of the soldiers to destroy the liberty pole, which remained standing until prostrated by order of the notorious cunningham, provost marshal of the british army in new york in 1776. to encourage the home manufacture of woolen cloth the sons of liberty met on tuesday, april 6, 1769, at the province arms, and unanimously subscribed an agreement not to purchase nor eat any lamb in their families before the first of august next. the freemasons met at burns' tavern on may 27, 1769, at five o'clock in the afternoon, and from thence marched in procession to the john street theater, to witness the special performance of the tender husband, given here for the first time. in march, 1770, the partnership of bolton and sigell was dissolved, bolton alone continuing in the queen's head, but only for a short time, for in may the place of george burns, as landlord of the province arms, was taken by richard bolton, who moved in from the queen's head. bolton, in his announcement, states that the house has been repaired and greatly improved and that the stables with stalls for fifty horses are let to james wilkinson, "whose constant attention will be employed to oblige gentlemen in that department." these large stables had probably been built by the de lancey family when they occupied the house. lieutenant governor james de lancey, who once owned it, supported a coach and four, with outriders in handsome livery, and several members of this family became widely known as patrons of the turf. [sidenote: arrival of the earl of dunmore] on thursday, october 18, 1770, the earl of dunmore, who had been appointed by the crown to succeed sir henry moore, who had died very much lamented by the people of new york, arrived in his majesty's ship, the tweed, and was received on landing and escorted to the fort with the usual salutes, and with all the honors due his station. from the fort, accompanied by sir william draper, lord drummond, the commander of the tweed, and captain foy, his lordship's secretary, his excellency proceeded to the new york arms; and there they were entertained at a dinner given by lieutenant governor colden, where the usual numerous toasts were drunk. the next day, friday, after the new governor's commission had been read in council, and published at the city hall, as was the custom, his excellency the governor, general gage, sir william draper, lord drummond, the members of his majesty's council, the city representatives, the gentlemen of the army and navy, the judges of the supreme court, the mayor, recorder, attorney general and other public officers, and many of the most respectable gentlemen of the city were entertained at another elegant dinner given by the lieutenant governor at the new york arms. in the evening his lordship was pleased to favor the gentlemen of the army and navy "with his company at a ball, which consisted of a splendid and brilliant appearance of gentlemen and ladies." while bolton was in possession of the province arms the political excitement somewhat abated. the long room in the old tavern continued to be the favorite dancing hall of the city, and in many of the notices of concerts given here for charity or for the benefit of musicians, etc., are announcements that they will be followed by balls. the young people of new york at that time must have been extremely fond of dancing. on tuesday, april 23, 1771, the anniversary of st. george was celebrated with unusual ceremony. "a number of english gentlemen, and descendants of english parents, amounting in the whole to upwards of one hundred and twenty, had an elegant entertainment at bolton's in honor of the day." john tabor kempe, esq., his majesty's attorney general, presided, and the guests of honor were the earl of dunmore, general gage, the gentlemen of his majesty's council, etc. the company parted early and in high good humor. [sidenote: the new york society] when richard bolton left the queen's head for the new york arms, sam francis came back into his own house. in announcing his return, he states that when he formerly kept it, the best clubs met there, and the greatest entertainments in the city were given there, and that he flatters himself that the public are so well satisfied of his ability to serve them that it is useless to go into details. francis was not only successful as a tavern-keeper in satisfying the needs of the public, but he was also successful financially, for he was the owner of both the queen's head and vauxhall. while he was the landlord of the queen's head in 1765, the new york society held their meetings there. it was announced that at a stated meeting to be held at the house of mr. francis on monday, the first of april, at six o'clock in the evening, after some business before the society should be dispatched and the letters and proposals received since last meeting examined, the consideration of the questions last proposed on the paper currency and the bank statements would be resumed. this indicates that this was a society or club for the discussion of financial and economic subjects. [sidenote: the social club] francis speaks of his house being the resort of several clubs, but we have detailed information of only one; this was the social club, the membership of which indicates that it must have been one of the best, if not the best, in the city. in possession of the new york historical society is a list of the members of the social club which was found among the papers of john moore, a member of the club, and presented to the society by his son, thos. w. c. moore. it contains remarks about the members which are very curious and interesting. we give it in full. "list of members of the social club, which passed saturday evenings at sam francis's, corner of broad and dock streets, in winter, and in summer at kip's bay, where they built a neat, large room, for the club-house. the british landed at this spot the day they took the city, 15th september, 1776. members of this club dispersed in december, 1775, and never afterwards assembled. john jay (disaffected)--became member of congress, a resident minister to spain, com'r to make peace, chief justice, minister to england, and on his return, gov'r of n. york--a good and amiable man. gouverneur morris (disaffected)--member of congress, minister to france, etc. robt. r. livingston (disaffected)--min'r to france, chancellor of n. york, etc. egbert benson (disaffected)--dis. judge, n. york, and in the legislature--good man. morgan lewis (disaffected)--gov'r of n. york, and a gen. in the war of 1812. gulian verplanck (disaffected, but in europe, till 1783)--pres't of new york bank. john livingston and his brother henry (disaffected, but of no political importance). james seagrove (disaffected)--went to the southward as a merchant. francis lewis (disaffected, but of no political importance). john watts (doubtful)--during the war recorder of new york. leonard lispenard and his brother anthony (doubtful, but remained quiet at new york). rich'd harrison (loyal, but has since been recorder of n. york). john hay, loyal, an officer in british army--killed in west indies. peter van shaack (loyal)--a lawyer, remained quiet at kinderhook. daniel ludlow, loyal during the war--since pres't of manhattan bank. dr. s. bard, loyal, tho' in 1775 doubtful, remained in n. york--a good man. george ludlow (loyal)--remained on long island in quiet--a good man. william, his brother, loyal, or supposed so; remained on l. island--inoffensive man. william imlay, loyal at first, but doubtful after 1777. edward gould (loyal)--at n. york all the war--a merchant. john reade (pro and con)--w'd have proved loyal, no doubt, had not his wife's family been otherwise. j. stevens (disaffected). henry kelly (loyal)--went to england, and did not return. stephen rapelye turned out bad--died in n. york hospital. john moore (loyal)--in public life all the war, and from year 1765." [sidenote: the moot] in the fall of the year 1770, a club was formed by the principal lawyers of the city of new york, for the discussion of legal questions, which they called _the moot_. the first meeting was held on friday, the 23d of november. according to their journal, the members, "desirous of forming a club for social conservation, and the mutual improvement of each other, determined to meet on the evening of the first friday of every month, at bardin's, or such other place as a majority of the members shall from time to time appoint," and for the better regulating the said club agreed to certain articles of association, one of which was that "no member shall presume upon any pretence to introduce any discourse about the party politics of the province, and to persist in such discourse after being desired by the president to drop it, on pain of expulsion." william livingston was chosen president and william smith vice-president. this first meeting was, no doubt, held at the king's arms tavern on the lower part of broadway, now whitehall street, which was in 1770 kept by edward bardin. from the character of the members their discussions were held in great respect. it was said that they even influenced the judgment of the supreme court, and that a question, connected with the taxation of costs, was sent to the moot by the chief justice expressly for their opinion. some of the members of this club were afterwards among the most prominent men of the country. the articles of association were signed by benjamin kissam, david mathews, william wickham, thomas smith, whitehead hicks, rudolphus ritzema, william livingston, richard morris, samuel jones, john jay, william smith, john morine scott, james duane, john t. kempe, robert r. livingston, jr., egbert benson, peten van schaack, stephen de lancey. on march 4, 1774, john watts, jr., and gouverneur morris were admitted to the society. in the exciting times preceding the revolution the meetings became irregular, and the members of the moot came together for the last time on january 6, 1775. a number of gentlemen were accustomed to meet as a club at the house of walter brock, afterwards kept by his widow, familiarly called "mother brock," on wall street near the city hall. it was probably a social and not very formal club. one of the most prominent of its members was william livingston. in may, 1773, francis offered vauxhall for sale, when it was described as having an extremely pleasant and healthy situation, commanding an extensive prospect up and down the north river. the house, "a capital mansion in good repair," had four large rooms on each floor, twelve fireplaces and most excellent cellars. adjoining the house was built a room fifty-six feet long and twenty-six feet wide, under which was a large, commodious kitchen. there were stables, a coach house and several out houses, also two large gardens planted with fruit trees, flowers and flowering shrubs in great profusion, one of which was plentifully stocked with vegetables of all kinds. the premises, containing twenty-seven and a half lots of ground, was a leasehold of trinity church, with sixty-one years to run. the ground rent was forty pounds per annum. it was purchased by erasmus williams, who, the next year, having changed the name back, "with great propriety," to mount pleasant, solicited the patronage of the public, particularly gentlemen with their families from the west indies, carolina, etc., and such as are travelling from distant parts, either on business or pleasure. francis also offered the queen's head for sale in 1775. it was then described as three stories high, with a tile and lead roof, having fourteen fireplaces and a most excellent large kitchen; a corner house very open and airy, and in the most complete repair. although francis desired to sell his house, he stated that "so far from declining his present business he is determined to use every the utmost endeavor to carry on the same to the pleasure and satisfaction of his friends and the public in general." he did not succeed in selling the house and continued as landlord of the queen's head until he abandoned it when the british army entered the city. [illustration: merchants' coffee house and coffee house slip] [sidenote: the merchants' coffee house moves] on may 1, 1772, mrs. ferrari, who had been keeping the merchants' coffee house on the northwest corner of the present wall and water streets, which had been located there and been continuously in use as a coffee house since it was opened as such about the year 1738 by daniel bloom, removed to a new house which had recently been built by william brownjohn on the opposite cross corner, that is, diagonally across to the southeast corner. mrs. ferrari did not move out of the merchants' coffee house, but she took it with her with all its patronage and trade. on opening the new house she prepared a treat for her old customers. the merchants and gentlemen of the city assembled in a numerous company and were regaled with arrack, punch, wine, cold ham, tongue, etc. the gentlemen of the two insurance companies, who likewise moved from the old to the new coffee house, each of them, with equal liberality regaled the company. a few days later the newspaper stated that the agreeable situation and the elegance of the new house had occasioned a great resort of company to it ever since it was opened. the old coffee house which had been occupied by mrs. ferrari before she moved into the new one was still owned by dr. charles arding, who purchased it of luke roome in 1758. he offered it for sale in july, 1771, before mrs. ferrari moved out of it and again in may, 1772, after she had left, when it was occupied by mrs. elizabeth wragg, but did not succeed in making a sale. if it was any longer used as a coffee house, its use as such was of short duration. it was soon taken by nesbitt deane, hatter, who occupied it for many years, offering hats to exceed any "in fineness, cut, color or cock." john austin stevens, who has written very pleasantly and entertainingly of the old coffee houses of new york, speaking of the early history of the merchants' coffee house, says: "its location, however, is beyond question. it stood on the southeast corner of wall and queen (now water) streets, on a site familiar to new yorkers as that for many years occupied by the journal of commerce." although so positive on this point, stevens was, no doubt, mistaken, as can be easily proven by records. however, this was the site occupied by the merchants' coffee house subsequent to may 1, 1772. stevens says that mrs. ferrari moved out of this house into a new house on the opposite cross corner, whereas she moved into it from the old coffee house on the opposite cross corner, and carried the business of the old house with her. in the early part of 1772, robert hull succeeded richard bolton and continued in possession of the province arms some time after the british army entered the city. in the fall of 1772, the two companies of the governor's guards, under the command of lieutenant colonel john harris cruger and major william walton, dressed in their very handsome uniforms, paraded in the fields, where they were reviewed. they were very much admired for their handsome appearance, and received much applause from the spectators for the regularity and exactness with which they went through the exercises and evolutions. after the parade they spent the evening at hull's tavern, where a suitable entertainment had been provided. [sidenote: ball on the governors departure] on the king's birthday, friday, june 4, 1773, the governor gave an elegant entertainment in the fort, as was usual on such occasions, and, in the evening, the city was illuminated. general gage, who was about to sail for england, celebrated the day by giving a grand dinner to a great number of the merchants and military gentlemen of the city at hull's tavern. he had been in command for ten years in america, and this dinner was made the occasion of a flattering address presented to him by the corporation of the chamber of commerce of the city of new york. in february, 1774, a grand dinner was given at hull's tavern by the members of his majesty's council to the members of the assembly of the province, and the next month the governor gave a dinner to both the gentlemen of the king's council and the gentlemen of the general assembly at the same place. shortly after this, on monday evening, april 4, there was a grand ball given in hull's assembly room at which there was "a most brilliant appearance of ladies and gentlemen," the occasion being on account of the departure of the governor and mrs. tryon for england. the different national societies held their anniversary celebrations at hull's tavern. the welsh celebrated st. david's day, the scotch st. andrew's day, the irish st. patrick's day and the english st. george's day. by 1770, the obnoxious duties had been abolished on all articles except tea, and soon after the non-importation agreements of the merchants of boston, new york and philadelphia were discontinued, except as to tea, the duty on which had been retained. the new york merchants seem to have been the first to propose the discontinuance of the agreement. the sons of liberty met at hampden hall to protest against it; the inhabitants of philadelphia presented their compliments to the inhabitants of new york, in a card, and sarcastically begged they would send them their old liberty pole, as they imagined, by their late conduct, they could have no further use for it; and the connecticut tavern-keepers, it is said, posted the names of the new york importers and determined that they would not entertain them nor afford them the least aid or assistance in passing through that government. although boston and philadelphia were at first very strongly opposed to any relaxation in the agreements, they soon joined in terminating them; but the merchants and people alike determined that no tea should be imported liable to duty. the captains of ships sailing from london refused to carry tea as freight to american ports. [sidenote: the tax on tea] on friday morning, october 15, 1773, a printed handbill was distributed through the town calling a meeting of the inhabitants at twelve o'clock that day at the coffee house to consult and agree on some manner of expressing the thanks of the people to the captains of the london ships trading with the port of new york and the merchants to whom they were consigned, for their refusal to take from the east india company, as freight, tea on which a duty had been laid by parliament payable in america. at this meeting an address was accordingly drawn up which was unanimously approved by those present. in this address it was declared that "stamp officers and tea commissioners will ever be held in equal estimation." for two or three years the political situation had been uneventful, but early in the year 1773 it became apparent that an effort was about to be made to bring the question of taxation to an issue. the east india company, acting as the instrument of the british parliament, arranged to send cargoes of tea to the ports of boston, newport, new york, philadelphia and charleston, at which places they appointed commissioners for its sale. [sidenote: the sons of liberty again organize] the times were portentous. the people realized that great britain was about to test her power to tax the colonies by forcing the importation of tea through the east india company in order to establish a precedent, and preparations were made to resist. the sons of liberty again organized in november, 1773, and prepared for action. they drew up a number of resolutions which expressed their sentiments and which they engaged to faithfully observe. the first of these was, "that whoever should aid or abet or in any manner assist in the introduction of tea from any place whatsoever into this colony, while it is subject by a british act of parliament to the payment of a duty for the purpose of raising a revenue in america, he shall be deemed an enemy to the liberties of america." on the back of a printed copy of these resolutions was written a letter of appeal, signed by the committee of the association, addressed to the friends of liberty and trade, inviting an union of all classes in a determined resistance, and urging harmony. at a meeting held at the city hall on the 17th of december by the sons of liberty to which all friends of liberty and trade of america were invited, it was firmly resolved that the tea which was expected should not be landed. in boston the consignee of the tea refusing to return it to england, the vessels were boarded by a number of men disguised as indians, the chests of tea broken open and the contents cast overboard in the water. this occurred on the 16th of december, 1773. at a meeting held at the tavern of captain doran a committee was appointed to wait on the merchants who had been appointed commissioners for the sale of the east india company's tea and ask their intentions. they replied to the committee that, finding that the tea will come liable to american duty, they have declined to receive it. thomas doran had been captain of a small but fast sailing privateer, and did good service in the late french war. he had since been keeping a tavern on the new dock near the fly market. his house had been the usual place of meeting of the marine society for many years. in may, 1774, notice was given that a committee of the chamber of commerce would meet at the house of thomas doran to receive claims for bounty on fish brought into the city markets. the assembly, in 1773, had granted the sum of five hundred pounds per annum for five years, "for the encouragement of fishery on this coast for the better supplying of the markets of this city with fish," to be paid to the treasurer of the chamber of commerce, and the awarding of the premiums was entrusted to that association. this was the first distribution of premiums. [sidenote: the tea-ship arrives] the tea-ship for new york, long overdue, was anxiously expected. in march, 1774, the sons of liberty were notified to meet every thursday night at seven o'clock at the house of jasper drake till the arrival and departure of the tea-ship. the ships for the other ports had arrived at their destinations and been disposed of. no tea had been allowed to be sold. the ship nancy, captain lockyer, with the tea for new york on board, driven off the coast by contrary winds, did not reach the port until april 18th, and the pilot, advised of the situation, refused to bring her up to the city. the people had resolved that the tea should not be landed. the captain was allowed to come up on condition that he would not enter his vessel at the custom house. he was received by a committee of the sons of liberty and conducted to the consignee, who, declining to receive his cargo, he at once made preparation to return. on friday, april 22, handbills were distributed, stating that although the sense of the people had been signified to captain lockyer, nevertheless it was the desire of many of the citizens that, at his departure, he should see with his own eyes their detestation of the measures pursued by the ministry and the east india company to enslave this country. accordingly, on saturday morning, about eight o'clock, all the bells in the city rang as a notice to the people that the tea which had been brought over in the nancy was about to be sent back without allowing it to be landed. about nine o'clock the people assembled at the coffee house in greater numbers than ever before known, captain lockyer came out of the coffee house with the committee and was received with cheers, while a band provided for the occasion played "god save the king." he was then conducted to murray's wharf, at the foot of wall street, where, amid the shouts of the people and the firing of guns, he was put on board the pilot boat and wished a safe passage. he joined his ship, the nancy, at the narrows, and the next morning put to sea. [sidenote: tea thrown overboard] on friday, amidst all the excitement, captain chambers, who from information received from different sources was suspected of having tea on board his ship, the london, arrived at the hook. the pilot asked him if he had any tea on board and he declared that he had none. two of the committee of observation went on board, to whom he declared that he had no tea. when the ship came to the wharf about four o'clock in the afternoon she was boarded by a number of citizens and captain chambers was told that it was in vain for him to deny having tea on board his ship for there was good proof to the contrary, whereupon he confessed that he had on board eighteen chests. the owners of the vessel and the committee immediately met at francis' tavern to deliberate over the matter where captain chambers was ordered to attend. here he stated that he was the sole owner of the tea. the mohawks were prepared to do their duty but the people became impatient and about eight o'clock a number entered the ship, took out the tea, broke open the chests and threw their contents into the river. the resentment of the people was so great against captain chambers, whom they had considered a friend of their rights and deserving of their confidence, that it was thought that if he could have been found, his life would have been in danger. he was, however, concealed and succeeded the next day in getting on board the nancy with captain lockyer and sailed away to england. the news of what had been done by the little tea-party in boston harbor, december 16, 1773, reached england on the 22d of january, 1774, and created intense excitement in london. on march 7 the king sent a special message to parliament on the american disturbances and soon after a bill was prepared providing for the closing of the port of boston to all commerce on june 1, at the king's pleasure, and ordering indemnification to be made to the east india company for the tea destroyed. this bill passed both houses of parliament without a dissenting vote. the news of its passage came to new york by the ship samson, captain coupar, which arrived may 12, twenty-seven days from london. by the same packet came news that general gage, commissioned governor of massachusetts, had engaged with four regiments to reduce boston to submission and was to sail for his government on april 15. [sidenote: committee of correspondence] in consequence of the alarming news from england, a notice was posted at the merchants' coffee house inviting the merchants to meet at the tavern of samuel francis on monday evening, the 16th, to consult on measures proper to be taken. accordingly, a large number of merchants and other inhabitants appeared at the appointed place. the object was to appoint a committee of correspondence. there appeared some differences of opinion as to the number and composition of this committee, but the result was that fifty names were nominated, fifteen of the number to be sufficient to do business. to confirm the choice of this committee or to choose others, it was resolved before adjournment that the inhabitants of the city should be requested to meet at the merchants' coffee house on thursday, the 19th, at one o'clock. [sidenote: paul revere, the post rider] in the interim paul revere, the famous post-rider and express, arrived on the 17th with a message from the people of boston, urging a cessation of all trade with great britain and the west indies until the port bill should be repealed. in the evening of the same day there was a large meeting of the mechanics at bardin's tavern. bardin had come to the neighborhood where he formerly lived and was keeping the house at one time kept by john jones in the fields, and known after that as hampden hall. the mechanics sided with the radical party. at the meeting called at the merchants' coffee house the merchants prevailed, as they had done at the previous meeting. the name of francis lewis was added to the committee and it was known as the committee of fifty-one. gouverneur morris, writing to penn, said: "i stood on the balcony and on my right hand were ranged all the people of property with some few poor dependents, and on the other all the tradesmen, etc., who thought it worth their while to leave daily labor for the good of the country." there was some opposition to the committee named, but after the meeting those who had opposed it, for the sake of union, sent in their agreement to the choice. the mechanics also sent a letter to the committee concurring in the selection. [sidenote: answer to the boston letter] the committee of fifty-one met at the merchants' coffee house on monday morning, the 23d, at ten o'clock for business, and after appointing a chairman, secretary and doorkeeper, and agreeing upon sundry rules for the conduct of business, the letters from boston and philadelphia were read. a committee composed of messrs. macdougal, low, duane and jay was appointed to draw up an answer to the first and report at eight o'clock in the evening, to which time the meeting adjourned. at the appointed time the committee appointed to draw up an answer to the boston letter made report of a draft of such letter, which was unanimously agreed to and ordered to be engrossed and forwarded with the utmost dispatch. on tuesday it was delivered to paul revere, the express from boston, who had been as far as philadelphia and was now on his way back to boston. he immediately set out on his return. a copy was ordered to be transmitted to the committee of correspondence of philadelphia. "the letter proposed to the people of boston that a congress of the colonies should be convoked without delay to determine and direct the measures to be pursued for relief of the town of boston and the redress of all the american grievances," a recommendation which was accepted and resulted in the congress which met at philadelphia in september. monday evening, june 6, the committee of correspondence met and read and answered the dispatches brought from boston by the express rider, cornelius bradford, and on monday, the 13th, the new york mercury stated that they were to meet again that night, when, it was hoped, their proceedings would be made public, saying "the times are critical and big with interesting events." on wednesday, june 15, the day on which the harbor of boston was closed by act of parliament, a great number of the friends of american liberty in the city procured effigies of governor hutchinson, lord north and mr. wedderburn, persons who were considered most unfriendly to the rights of america, and after carrying them through the principal streets of the city took them to the coffee house, "where they were attended in the evening of that day, it is thought, by the greatest concourse of spectators ever seen on a similar occasion, and there destroyed by sulphurous flames." the committee of correspondence held their meetings at the merchants' coffee house during the summer. it was the center of most of the political agitation and unrest which pervaded the community. on the evening of wednesday, july 13, the committee met and drew up a set of resolutions on the alarming situation of affairs, which were printed in handbills and distributed about the town the next morning, for the approbation of the people who were to assemble at the coffee house at twelve o'clock on the 19th to approve or disapprove of them. it had been settled that there should be a congress of the colonies, to meet at philadelphia in september, and the people were at the same time to testify their approbation of the five gentlemen nominated by the committee to attend as delegates. these were james duane, philip livingston, john alsop, isaac low and john jay. there was so much controversy that the men nominated declined to accept the trust until confirmed by the people. accordingly, on the 24th an election was ordered in the ordinary manner by a poll in the several wards which was held on the 28th, resulting in the unanimous choice of the five gentlemen above named as delegates. [sidenote: delegates to congress] about the first of september there was much excitement on account of the departure of the delegates for philadelphia and the arrival of delegates from the new england colonies, passing through the city. on monday, the 29th of august, john jay quietly set out for philadelphia to attend the congress, and on thursday, september 1st, the four other delegates left the city for the same laudable purpose. isaac low, accompanied by his wife, who wished to go by way of paulus hook, was escorted to the ferry stairs at the foot of cortlandt street by a large number of citizens, with colors flying, and with music. a few accompanied him over the river with musicians playing "god save the king." the people then returned to the coffee house in order to testify the same respect for the other three delegates, james duane, john alsop and philip livingston. the procession began about half past nine o'clock. when they arrived at the royal exchange, near which they embarked, james duane, in a short speech, thanked the people for the honor they had conferred upon them and declared for himself and for his fellow delegates "that nothing in their power should be wanting to relieve this once happy but now aggrieved country." as they left the wharf, "they were saluted by several pieces of cannon, mounted for the occasion, which was answered by a greater number from st. george's ferry. these testimonials and three huzzas bid them go and proclaim to all nations that they, and the virtuous people they represent, dare _defend their rights as protestant englishmen_." the massachusetts delegates, thomas cushing, samuel adams, robert treat paine and john adams, set out on their journey from boston in one coach on the 10th of august and arrived in new york on the 20th. john adams, in his diary, says: "we breakfasted at day's and arrived in the city of new york at ten o'clock, at hull's, a tavern, the sign of the bunch of grapes." the arms of the province on the old sign must have been pretty well weatherbeaten to have been taken for a bunch of grapes. the best tavern in boston and the best tavern in hartford each hung out this sign and adams was thus easily led into an error. [sidenote: the congress at philadelphia] the congress at philadelphia passed a non-exportation act to take effect on september 15, and a non-importation act to be put in force on december 1. a committee of observation or inspection was appointed in new york city to secure the strict observance of these acts. in the spring of 1775 deputies were elected in new york to a provincial congress which met on april 20, and the next day appointed delegates to represent the province in the continental congress which was to assemble at philadelphia in the following may. news of the battle of lexington, forwarded by express riders from watertown, massachusetts, reached the chambers of the new york committee of correspondence at four o'clock in the afternoon of sunday, april 23. it was war. the news reached williamsburg, virginia, on april 28, and on the next day alexander purdie published it in an extra of his gazette. in commenting on the situation his closing words were: "the sword is now drawn and god knows when it will be sheathed." ix the province arms [sidenote: great excitement in the city] in the early part of the year 1775 a state of uneasiness and expectancy pervaded the community. trade was prostrate. the merchants met at the exchange or at the coffee house and nervously talked over the situation, for which there seemed to be no remedy; while they looked out on the quiet docks, now almost deserted. they were calmly waiting for something to happen, and it came in the news of the battle of lexington. this was the crisis which produced a decided change in conditions. the dissatisfied people now showed that they had lost all respect for english rule. companies of armed citizens paraded the streets aimlessly, and there was great excitement everywhere. the regular soldiers in garrison prudently confined themselves to their barracks. the machinery of government was out of joint and it was very soon apparent that something should be done to maintain order and form some regular plan of government. a meeting was called at the merchants' coffee house when it was agreed that the government of the city should be placed in the hands of a committee. isaac low, chairman of the committee of observation, issued a notice stating that the committee were unanimously of opinion that a new committee should be elected by the freeholders and freemen for the present unhappy exigency of affairs, to consist of one hundred persons, thirty-three to be a quorum. it was also recommended that they should at the same time choose deputies to represent them in a provincial congress which it was considered highly advisable should be summoned. a committee such as was recommended was chosen may 1, and, at the same time, twenty-one deputies for the city and county of new york, to meet the deputies of the other counties in provincial congress may 22. the excitement had in no wise abated when the eastern delegates to congress entered the city, saturday, may 6, on their way to philadelphia and were received with the greatest enthusiasm. they were met a few miles out of town by a great number of the principal gentlemen of the place and escorted into the city by near a thousand men under arms. john adams, in his diary, says that from kingsbridge the number of people continually increased, until he thought the whole city had come out to meet them. the roads, it is said, were lined with greater numbers of people than were known on any occasion before. all the bells of the city rang out a welcome. they were conducted to the tavern of sam francis, where they lodged, and a newspaper states that double sentries were placed at the doors of their lodgings, for what special purpose we are not informed, probably simply to keep the crowd in check and maintain order. the british soldiers garrisoned in the city were powerless to maintain the authority of the crown and were ordered to join the troops at boston. there were some who advised that they should be made prisoners. the committee, however, agreed to let them depart with their arms and accoutrements without molestation. they accordingly marched out from the barracks to embark about ten o'clock on the morning of june 6, 1775. at the time there were at the tavern of jasper drake, in water street near beekman slip, a place well known as a rendezvous of the liberty boys and those opposed to the british measures, about half a dozen men, when word came to them that the british soldiers were leaving the barracks to embark and were taking with them several carts loaded with chests filled with arms. [sidenote: transfer of arms stopped] they immediately decided that these arms should not be taken from the city. one of the men was marinus willett, and what he did that day has become a landmark in the history of the city. they started out on different routes to notify their friends and obtain assistance. willett went down water street to the coffee house where he notified those who were there of what was to be done and then proceeded down to the exchange at the foot of broad street. when he saw the troops and the carts laden with arms approaching he went up to meet them, and not hesitating a moment, seized the horse drawing the leading cart by the bridle, which caused a halt and brought the officer in command to the front. the crowd that immediately collected, including the mayor, gave willett little support, but soon john morin scott came to his assistance, asserting that the committee had given no permission for the removal of the arms. the result was that the soldiers made no resistance to the seizure of the arms and quietly embarked without them. these arms were used by the first troops raised in new york under the orders of congress. [illustration: marinus willett stopping the transfer of arms] [sidenote: the coffee house] nesbitt deane, the hatter, whose shop was in the old coffee house building, advertised in 1775, to let the two or three upper stories of the house, "being noted for a notary public's office these two years past," which he further describes "as being so pleasantly situated that a person can see at once the river, shipping, long island and all the gentlemen resorting to the house on business from the most distant climes." although the coffee house was generally the resort of strangers as well as citizens, yet, in 1775, on account of the stagnation of business caused by the cessation of all trade with great britain, it was almost deserted. this is made plain by an article which appeared in the new york journal of october 19; and as this has some interesting statements about coffee houses in general and about the merchants' coffee house in particular, we have thought it well to reproduce it entirely. "to the inhabitants of new york: "it gives me concern, in this time of public difficulty and danger, to find we have in this city no place of daily general meeting, where we might hear and communicate intelligence from every quarter and freely confer with one another on every matter that concerns us. such a place of general meeting is of very great advantage in many respects, especially at such a time as this, besides the satisfaction it affords and the sociable disposition it has a tendency to keep up among us, which was never more wanted than at this time. to answer all these and many other good and useful purposes, coffee houses have been universally deemed the most convenient places of resort, because at a small expense of time or money, persons wanted may be found and spoke with, appointments may be made, current news heard, and whatever it most concerns us to know. in all cities, therefore, and large towns that i have seen in the british dominions, sufficient encouragement has been given to support one or more coffee houses in a genteel manner. how comes it then that new york, the most central, and one of the largest and most prosperous cities in british america, cannot support one coffee house? it is a scandal to the city and its inhabitants to be destitute of such a convenience, for want of due encouragement. a coffee house, indeed, here is! a very good and comfortable one, extremely well tended and accommodated, but it is frequented but by an inconsiderable number of people; and i have observed with surprise, that but a small part of those who do frequent it, contribute anything at all to the expense, of it, but come in and go out without calling for or paying anything to the house. in all the coffee houses in london, it is customary for every one that comes in, to call for at least a dish of coffee, or leave the value of one, which is but reasonable, because when the keepers of these houses have been at the expense of setting them up and providing all necessaries for the accommodation of company, every one that comes to receive the benefit of these conveniences ought to contribute something towards the expense of them. "to each individual the expense is a trifle quite inconsiderable, but to the keeper of one of these houses it is an article of great importance, and essential to the support and continuance of it. i have, therefore, since i frequented the coffee house in this city and observed the numbers that come in without spending anything, often wondered how the expense of the house was supported, or what inducement the person who kept it could have to continue it. at the same time i could not help being equally surprised at the disposition of people who acted in this manner; or their thoughtlessness in neglecting to contribute to the support of a house which their business or pleasure induced them to frequent; especially as i have met with no coffee house in my travels better accommodated with attendance or any liquors that could be expected in a coffee house. "i have of late observed that the house is almost deserted, and don't wonder that fire and candles are not lighted as usual; it is rather surprising they were continued so long. i am convinced the interest of the person who keeps it, must, without a speedy alteration, soon induce her to drop the business and shut up her house; and i cannot help feeling concern that a very useful and worthy person, who has always behaved well in her station, should not be treated with more generosity and kindness by her fellow citizens. i am concerned, too, for my own conveniency and for the honor of the city, to find that it will not support one coffee house. "a friend to the city." when the american army came into the city to prepare for its defense mrs. ferrari was still the landlady of the merchants' coffee house, but on may 1, 1776, it passed into the hands of cornelius bradford, who seems to have been a man of energy and enterprise. in his announcement in april he promised that he would endeavor to give satisfaction, that he would obtain all the newspapers for the use of his patrons and render the house as useful and convenient as possible. he says: "interesting intelligence will be carefully collected and the greatest attention will be given to the arrival of vessels, when trade and navigation shall resume their former channels." he evidently was hopeful of better times, although preparations for war were being made around him on all sides. bradford was an ardent supporter of the american cause and had been an express rider, carrying important confidential messages between new york and boston and between new york and philadelphia. his tenure of the merchants' coffee house at this time was of short duration. he abandoned his house and went out of the city with the american troops, but returned and took possession of it again as its landlord at the close of the war. [sidenote: flight from the city] the year 1776 was a sad one for new york. before the first of july great numbers of the inhabitants, dreading the impending conflict, had left the city to place their families in security. many loyalists had left to avoid military service. a letter written in the city july 30, 1776, says: "you would be surprised to see what numbers of empty houses there are in this place. very few of the inhabitants remain in town that are not engaged in the service." another by a physician, under date of august 9, says: "the air of the whole city seems infected. in almost every street there is a horrid smell--but, duty to my country, and another consideration, require that i should not quit my post at this juncture." a british document, relating to the commissary department during the war, makes the statement that nineteen-twentieths of the inhabitants with their families and effects had left the city before the entry of the british troops. added to the calamity of war was a devastating fire which destroyed a large part of the city shortly after the british took possession. after the occupation of the city by the british troops, the merchants' coffee house evidently soon became a favorite resort of the officers of the army. when captain alexander graydon, made prisoner at the battle of fort washington, was allowed the freedom of the city within certain limits, on his parole, he one day saw in the newspaper printed by hugh gaine something which stirred him with a great desire to write a squib addressed "to the officers of the british army," which he and lieutenant edwards, his fellow prisoner, agreed to endeavor to have placed in some conspicuous part of the coffee house. for the small reward of a quarter of a dollar, a black boy succeeded in placing it in one of the boxes. captain davenport, whom graydon characterizes as certainly a voluntary captive, if not a deserter, called upon them on the following evening and said to them: "you are a couple of pretty fellows. you have made a devil of an uproar at the coffee house." graydon and edwards admitted nothing, for they knew if detected they would get lodgings in the provost prison. captain davenport was an irishman who had joined the same regiment as graydon as a lieutenant, afterwards becoming captain. after the retreat from long island he remained, graydon says, in new york, sick or pretending to be sick, and stayed there until the british look possession of it. he called himself a prisoner but there was little doubt that he had renounced our cause and made his peace with the enemy. he states that as they had no absolute certainty of his baseness they did not think it necessary to discard him, for, as he frequented the coffee house, mixed with the british officers and tories, they often received intelligence through him that they could get in no other way. another officer of the american army who seemed to have made his peace with the enemy, although he called himself a prisoner, was colonel houssacker. he claimed that all was over, and in his conversation with the officers held as prisoners his inference was that they should immediately make their peace. he said to some of them: "why don't you go to the coffee house and mix with the british army as i do? they will use you well;" but he made no proselytes to his opinions or principles. graydon describes him as "a man of no country or any country, a citizen of the world, a soldier of fortune and a true mercenary." when graydon came into possession of his trunk which had been among the baggage captured at fort washington, stipulated for in its surrender, he dressed himself in a good suit of regimentals and hat, and against the advice of older officers, sallied forth alone and walked past the coffee house down to the battery. finding the gate open, he strolled through it from one end to the other, every sentinel, to his great surprise, "handling his arms" to him as he passed. making a considerable circuit in another part of the town, he regained his lodgings without the slightest molestation. he afterwards learned from mr. theophylact bache that he saw him pass the coffee house, and that he and some other gentlemen had to exert themselves to prevent his being insulted. [sidenote: the duel at hull's] hull did not abandon his house as some of the tavern-keepers did who were more patriotic, but held his post as keeper of the province arms, and his tavern soon became the resort of the british officers. it escaped the great fire which destroyed a large part of the city, including trinity church, near by. in september, 1777, a desperate duel took place in one of the rooms of hull's tavern. this was the encounter between captain tollemache, of his majesty's ship zebra, and captain pennington, of the guards, who came passenger in the zebra. they fought with swords. the next day the body of tollemache was placed under the cold sod of trinity churchyard, and pennington was struggling for life, having received seven wounds. he survived. the next spring, 1778, hull gave up the province arms and it was rented by the attorney of captain john peter de lancey, the owner, to a mr. hicks, during whose management of the house it was the scene of much activity. [sidenote: the king's head popular] in march, 1777, the well known tavern on the dock near the fly market, which had for many years been kept by captain thomas doran, the usual meeting place of the marine society, was taken by loosley and elms, who called it the king's head. charles loosley and thomas elms, when the war broke out, were paper makers in new york city. called on to serve in the militia, they petitioned the provincial congress of new york for relief, pleading that they were engaged in a very useful occupation or business, which would be ruined if they were called away from its supervision. they stated that they had been subjected to several fines, which they had paid, and were still, according to the rules and orders, liable to the penalty of being advertised and held up as enemies of the country, though they had ever been hearty friends to it and were constantly laboring to the utmost of their abilities to promote its interests by carrying on and perfecting a most useful manufactory to supply the country with an important and absolutely necessary article. another petition was sent in august to the convention of representatives of the state of new york, in session at harlem, by charles loosley, thomas elms and john holt, the printer, praying that an immediate order be issued to prevent the paper-makers from being compelled or permitted to go upon military service, as the paper they were making was the only supply to every department of business in the state, which, without it, would be laid under the most distressing difficulties. loosley and elms remained in the city, and becoming landlords of the king's head, showed themselves the most pronounced loyalists and tried in every way to please the british officers. their house became a favorite and they were very successful in their business. the officers of the army and navy and those connected with the service were the best customers of the taverns, and the tavern-keepers did everything they could to gain their favor. no tavern-keeper could do business if not loyal to the crown of england, in appearance, at least. james rivington, whose press and type had been destroyed by some of the most radical of the americans in november, 1775, on account of articles published in his paper, and the type, it is said, ultimately run into bullets, fled to england. procuring a new outfit, he returned to new york, where the loyalists had the pleasure of welcoming him in september, 1777. on this occasion the king's head tavern of loosley and elms "was elegantly illuminated, to testify the joy of the true 'sons of freedom'." rivington repaid loosley and elms for their kindness by a laudatory puff, contributed to his paper, which he soon re-established under the name of the royal gazette. it appeared in the issue of january 24, 1778. it was "a description of the grand and elegant illumination of the king's head tavern in honor of her majesty's birthday," stating that "it is the desire of the public, as messrs. loosley and elms have ever shown their attachment to the british government, and a detestation of the present rebellion, that, through the channel of your much-esteemed paper, their conduct may be known and approved of in europe, as well as by the loyalists of new york. the tavern was illuminated with upwards of two hundred wax-lights." a lengthy description was given of the transparencies; the royal arms being in the center, one of these was a view of the reduction of fort mud; another, the congress, with the devil at the president's elbow telling him to persevere. "the statue of mr. pitt without its head was placed near the congress, as being one of their kidney, and gave a hint of what ought, long ago, to have been done. the verses over the tavern door were very proper on the occasion, and well illuminated. much is due to messrs. loosley and elms for their patriotic spirit, which meets the approbation of every man who is a friend to his king and country." loosley and elms gave notice in october, 1779, that the anniversary of saint george's day would be celebrated at their house, the king's head tavern, on friday, the 23d of that month, by a dinner, which would be served at precisely three o'clock in the afternoon. they promised that a good band of music would be provided for the occasion. one of the attractions of the house in 1779 was a billiard table. [sidenote: the theatre royal] while the british army occupied new york the town, at times, was very gay. the john street theatre, which had been closed as injuriously affecting the morals of the country, was reopened in january, 1777, as the theatre royal by the garrison dramatic club, composed of some of the brightest men in the british army, who managed the theatre and took parts in the performances, the proceeds from which were devoted to the care of the widows and orphans of soldiers. the orchestra was very good, being composed of volunteers from the regimental bands. it is said that the gross receipts of the club in one year amounted to nine thousand, five hundred pounds. during the winter of 1777-1778 the british made the staid city of philadelphia also very gay. the grand fete called meschianza was the climax of their efforts and was a great success. when, in the summer of 1778, they left philadelphia and came to new york, they added much to the gaiety of this city. the unfortunate major andré had taken a prominent part in the meschianza and also became very active in new york in promoting every kind of social and dramatic entertainment. smith's tavern, in water street between the coffee house and the fly market, opposite commissioner loring's house, was a public house that enjoyed much popularity. ephraim smith had kept tavern in philadelphia and states that he had been assistant to the managers of the meschianza, and that he had opened his tavern at the desire of many gentlemen of the royal army and navy. he had followed the british troops from philadelphia to new york. [sidenote: the ferry house tavern] for some years previous to the battle of brooklyn, adolph waldron had been the landlord of the ferry house on the long island side of the east river, which had been noted as a tavern for many years. the city of new york had renewed the lease to him of the ferry-house, the barns and cattle pen on may 1, 1776, for two years. the tavern was a large stone building about sixty feet square and two stories high and was known as the corporation house from its being owned by the corporation of the city of new york. it was the successor of the ferry-house erected in 1746, and which was burned down in 1748, supposed by the people of brooklyn, who were engaged in bitter litigation with the corporation of new york concerning ferry rights. waldron was a staunch whig, and had in september, 1775, called a meeting of citizens at his house for the purpose of forming a military company for defense. he was chosen captain of the troop of horse which the assembled citizens voted should be organized. he proved to be a good and efficient officer and, with his troop of light horse, was employed in guarding the eastern coast of long island until relieved by colonel hand's regiment of riflemen. he, of course, was compelled to abandon his tavern, which, in 1779, appears to have been in the hands of captain benson. [sidenote: horse racing and fox hunting] in may, 1779, loosley and elms saw an opportunity for a larger field of operation, so, giving up the tavern on brownjohn's wharf, near the fly market, they took down their sign of the king's head and carried it over the river to brooklyn, where they established themselves in the old ferry house, succeeding captain benson. large numbers of british troops were encamped in brooklyn and vicinity and loosley and elms endeavored to get the patronage of the army officers. they furnished the house in a superior manner and kept it in a way that attracted great attention. they succeeded so well in pleasing their military friends and patrons that their house became a resort for the officers of the army and also for the fashionable people of the city as a place of amusement. they got up bull baitings, horse races, fox hunts and other amusements. they generally prefaced their announcements of these affairs with the motto "pro bono publico," and sometimes closed with the warnings that rebels should not approach nearer than a specified spot. cricket matches were gotten up, and the game of golf was indulged in. rivington, the printer, could furnish "clubs for playing golf and the veritable caledonian balls." [sidenote: bull-baiting] loosley and elms having brought over their old sign from new york, hung it out and the tavern was renamed the king's head. it was also sometimes called brooklyn hall. they gave notice that they had purchased chaises, chairs, sulkies and able horses and were prepared to furnish carriages and horses to go to any part of long island. a cricket match was played here on monday, september 27, 1779, between the brooklyn and greenwich clubs for fifty guineas. on monday, july 3, 1780, loosley and elms gave notice that on thursday next there would be a bull-baiting at brooklyn ferry. they say: "the bull is remarkably strong and active; the best dogs in the country expected, and they that afford the best diversion will be rewarded with silver collars." the next year elms having retired from the business, charles loosley gave notice that, "this day, being wednesday, the 20th of june, will be exhibited at brooklyn ferry a bull-baiting after the true english manner. taurus will be brought to the ring at half-past three o'clock; some good dogs are already provided, but every assistance of that sort will be esteemed a favor. a dinner exactly british will be upon loosley's table at eleven o'clock, after which there is no doubt but that the song, 'oh! the roast beef of old england!' will be sung with harmony and glee." on september 20, 1780, notice was given that the "anniversary of the coronation of our ever good and gracious king will be celebrated at loosley's 22 inst. it is expected that no rebels will approach nearer than flatbush wood." while the british occupied brooklyn horse-races were more or less regularly held on the old course around beaver pond near jamaica, at new lots and at flatlands, not far from the ferry. they were largely attended by the army officers and the people of new york, who crossed the ferry and, no doubt, added greatly to the profits of the king's head. bull-baiting was a cruel sport, but there were others that would hardly be tolerated at the present day, the principal object being, no doubt, to amuse and entertain the army officers. the royal gazette of november 4, 1780, announced three days' sport at ascot heath, formerly flatlands plains. on the second day the first event was a ladies' subscription purse of £50; the second a race by women--quarter-mile heats--best two in three; the first to get a holland smock and chintz gown, full-trimmed, of four guineas value, the second a guinea and the third a half-guinea. "if stormy, posponed--when notice will be given by mr. loosley's union flag being displayed by 7 o'clock in the morning. gentlemen fond of fox-hunting will meet at loosley's king's head tavern at day-break during the races. "god save the king played every hour." the royal gazette of august 8, 1781, contains the following advertisement: "pro bono publico,--gentlemen that are fond of fox-hunting are requested to meet at loosley's tavern, on ascot heath, on friday morning next, between the hours of five and six, as a pack of hounds will be there purposely for a trial of their abilities. breakfasting and relishes until the races commence. at eleven o'clock will be run for, an elegant saddle, etc., value at least twenty pounds, for which upwards of twelve gentlemen will ride their own horses. at twelve a match will be rode by two gentlemen. horse for horse. at one, a match for thirty guineas, by two gentlemen, who will also ride their own horses. dinner will be ready at two o'clock, after which and suitable regalements, racing and other diversions will be calculated to conclude the day with pleasure and harmony. brooklyn hall 6th august, 1781." again in november: "brooklyn hunt.--the hounds will throw off at denyse ferry at 9, thursday morning. a guinea or more will be given for a good strong bag fox by charles loosley." in april, 1782, "a sweepstakes of 300 guineas was won by jacob jackson's mare, slow and easy, over mercury and goldfinder, on ascot heath." loosley was evidently making it very lively and entertaining for his patrons, who seem to have been interested in such sports as were popular in england. lieutenant anbury, writing to a friend in england under date of october 30, 1781, refers thus to loosley's king's head tavern: "on crossing the east river from new york, you land at brooklyn, which is a scattered village, consisting of a few houses. at this place is an excellent tavern, where parties are made to go and eat fish; the landlord of which has saved an immense fortune during this war." although loosley was supposed to be doing a profitable business, it seems that such was not the case, for, in the latter part of the year 1782, notice was given that the furniture, etc., of brooklyn hall would be offered at public auction for the _benefit of the creditors_ of charles loosley. among the articles mentioned, which indicate that the house was pretty nicely furnished, are mahogany bedsteads; chintz and other curtains; mahogany drawers; dining, tea and card tables; an elegant clock in mahogany case; _a curious collection of well chosen paintings and pictures_; large pier and other looking-glasses, in gilt and plain frames; table and tea sets of china, plate, etc.; _a capital well-toned organ_, made by one of the best hands in london; _a billiard table_ in thorough repair; wagons, horses, cows, etc.; "and several hundred transparent and tin lamps, _fit for illuminations_." loosley had been a great illuminator, but his days for illuminations were now over. he went out with other loyalists to nova scotia, where a few years later he was keeping a tavern. [sidenote: activity at the merchants' coffee house] in 1779 sales of prizes and merchandise were quite numerous at the merchants' coffee house, indicating that it was a place of great activity. its importance is further indicated by a notice in the newspaper by a person who wishes to hire a small dwelling, _not too far from the coffee house_. in a proclamation issued march 6, 1779, governor tryon states that since september 18th last, the value of prizes brought into the port of new york amounted to above six hundred thousand (600,000) pounds. the new york mercury states that in about this period one hundred and sixty-five (165) prizes were brought in, and a great deal of this was sold at the coffee house. this same year, encouraged by the governor and the military commandant, the members of the chamber of commerce, who were in the city, met in the upper long room of the merchants' coffee house, and resumed their sessions, which had been suspended since 1775. they hired the room from mrs. smith, the landlady, at the rate of fifty pounds per annum and continued to meet here until the close of the war. in the spring of 1781 william brownjohn, the owner of the merchants' coffee house, offered it to let, asking for written proposals. it was taken by john strachan, who had succeeded loosley and elms in the old tavern on brownjohn's wharf, which he had kept for two years as the queen's head. he had opened in it an ordinary and gave turtle dinners and in a measure maintained its popularity. the marine society met here while he was its landlord, as it had done before the war. when strachan went into the coffee house he promised "to pay attention not only as a coffee house but as a tavern in the truest sense; and to distinguish the same as the city tavern and coffee house, with constant and best attendance. breakfast from seven to eleven. soups and relishes from eleven to half-past one. tea, coffee, etc., in the afternoon as in england." he hung up letter-bags for letters to go out to england by the men-of-war, charging sixpence for each letter. this raised such a storm of protest that he was compelled to apologize in the public prints and to refund what he had received, which is said to have amounted to nineteen pounds (£19). he continued in the coffee house until the return of peace. it seems to have been the meeting place of fraternal societies, but the cessasion of hostilities during the year 1783, the preparations for evacuating the city and the uncertainties of the future made times dull and strachan issued an earnest appeal to those in his debt to come forward and settle their accounts. [sidenote: refugee club] besides the army, the population of new york had increased in numbers by returning loyalists and by refugees from all parts, who had come in through the lines. there was a refugee club, the members of which had a dinner at hicks' tavern, the province arms, on june 1, 1779, at which william franklin, son of benjamin franklin, and the last royal governor of new jersey, presided. the refugees of the province of new york met, in august, 1779, at the tavern of john amory, in the fields, formerly the house of abraham de la montagnie and kept just before the war by his widow. this place seemed to be their headquarters. there was an organization known as the board of refugees, which issued a notice under date of november 27, 1779, signed by anthony g. stewart, president, and j. hepburn, secretary, stating that "the representatives of the loyal refugees from the several provinces now in rebellion are earnestly requested to give their attendance at the coffee house on tuesday evening at 5 o'clock." the new york refugees had doubtless appointed men to represent them in this board, for, on october 18, 1779, notice was given that "those gentlemen that were appointed to represent the loyal refugees of the province of new york are requested to meet on wednesday morning next at 10 o'clock at the house commonly called la montague's, now mr. amory's." the refugees from the province of massachusetts bay were requested to meet at strachan's tavern, the queen's head, on friday, december 24, 1779, at six o'clock, when, it was promised, their committee would lay before them sundry matters of importance for their consideration. many of the refugees were destitute and lotteries were gotten up for their benefit. [sidenote: gaiety at the province arms] the center of the gaiety of the city and the great resort of the army officers was the province arms tavern. in 1779 the walk by the ruins of trinity church and the churchyard was railed in and the railing painted green. lamps were affixed to the trees, and benches were placed in convenient places, so that ladies and gentlemen could walk and sit there in the evening. when the commander was present, a band played, and a sentry was placed there, so that the common people might not intrude. on the opposite side of broadway was a house for the accommodation of ladies and wives of officers, "while," it was said, "many honest people, both of the inhabitants and refugees, cannot get a house or lodging to live in, or get their living." [sidenote: a grand ball] on tuesday, january 18, 1780, the anniversary of the queen's birthday was celebrated "with uncommon splendor and magnificance." governor tryon gave a public dinner to general knyphausen, major general phillips, baron riedesel, commander of the troops of his serene highness the duke of brunswick, major general pattison, commandant of the city and the other general officers of the garrison. at noon a royal salute was fired from fort george and repeated by his majesty's ships of war at one o'clock. in the evening the generals were present at the most elegant ball and entertainment ever known on this side of the atlantic, given at the province arms by the general, field and staff officers of the army, to the garrison and principal ladies and gentlemen of the city. the royal gazette stated that "the public rooms were on this occasion entirely newpainted and decorated in a stile which reflects honor on the taste of the managers. a doric pediment was erected near the principal entrance enclosing a transparent painting of their majesties at full length, in their royal robes, over which was an emblematical piece, encircled with the motto of britons, strike home. the whole illuminated with a beautiful variety of different colored lamps. the ball was opened at eight o'clock by the baroness de riedesel and major general pattison, commandant of the city and garrison. country dances commenced at half past nine, and at twelve the company adjourned to supper, prepared in the two long rooms. the tables exhibited a most delightful appearance, being ornamented with parterres and arbours, displaying an elegant assemblage of natural and artificial flowers, china images, etc. the company retired about three in the morning, highly satisfied with the evening's entertainment." the ball is said to have cost over two thousand (2,000) guineas, and the supper "consisted of three hundred and eighty dishes besides the ornamental appendages." some of the wealthiest families of new york had remained loyal to the crown, and there was, no doubt, a sufficient number of ladies of these families in the city to make a ballroom very gay. the officers of the army, arrayed in all the splendor of gold lace and brilliant uniform, added their share to the magnificent scene. [illustration: de riedesel née de masjeur] in the spring of 1780 general pattison, the commandant of the city, in the most arbitrary and cruel manner and without consulting the owner, at the request of mr. commissioner loring, turned hicks out of the province arms, and substituted in his place one roubalet, a dependent and servant of the commissioner. according to jones, loring obtained his influence through his wife, who was playing the part of cleopatra to sir henry clinton's antony. hicks applied to general clinton and to governor robertson for redress and received fair words, but nothing more. when pattison sailed for england he followed him, with the intention of bringing suit in an english court, but died on the passage. [sidenote: the king's birthday] the king's birthday, the 4th of june, was celebrated on monday, june 5, 1780. at night there were fireworks on long island, and in the city there were great festivities. previous to this the walk by the church yard had been widened so that the posts had to be sunk into the graves. the orchestra from the play house were seated against the walls of the church, and opposite this was erected another place for musicians, probably for the military band. the dancing assembly held their meetings at the province arms; those during the winter of 1779-80 were held on wednesdays. there was also a card assembly which met at the province arms where they had their card rooms. it was the temporary home of many of the british officers. here benedict arnold lived for a time, and it was from this place that sergeant champe planned to abduct him. [sidenote: attempt to capture arnold] after the treason of benedict arnold and the capture of major andré, general washington was anxious to gain positive information as to whether there was any other officers involved, as was by some suspected, and also if possible, to get possession of the person of arnold. to carry out this delicate and dangerous enterprise he needed the services of a man who would be willing to enter the british lines as a deserter and do the work desired. major lee, who was to have charge of the undertaking, picked out among the men of his command, sergeant major champe, of loudoun county, virginia, full of courage and perseverance, who was, at first, very reluctant to undertake the task, but this reluctance being overcome, entered into the project with the greatest enthusiasm. major lee and his men were in the neighborhood of tappan and it was not easy to get beyond the american lines, for patrols were numerous, and the whole neighborhood to the south was covered by scouts. [illustration: escape of sergeant champe] to make this desertion appear genuine, champe could receive no noticeable assistance, major lee only promising, in case his departure should be soon discovered, to delay pursuit as long as possible. this he did, but pursuit was made after champe had been on his way about an hour, a few minutes after twelve o'clock. a little after break of day, the pursuing party caught sight of champe in the distance. once or twice they lost track of him. champe, finding himself hard pressed, resolved to flee to the british galleys lying in newark bay, and as he dashed along prepared himself for the final act. he lashed his valise to his shoulders, divested himself of all unnecessary burdens, and when he got abreast of the galleys, quickly dismounted and plunged into the water, swimming for the boats and calling for help, which was readily given. his pursuers were only about two hundred yards behind him. all were convinced that he was a genuine deserter. champe enlisted under arnold. he soon discovered that the suspicion of any other officers being connected with the treason of arnold was groundless; but the plans for the abduction of the arch-traitor miscarried. champe, after suffering many hardships, finally escaped while serving under cornwallis at petersburg, virginia. we give his own account of the affair, as related after the war to the british officer in whose company he served. "if i were to attempt to make you feel any portion of the excitement under which i labored during the period of my sojourn in new york, i should utterly waste my labor. my communications with spies were necessarily frequent; yet they were carried on with a degree of secrecy and caution which not only prevented your people from obtaining any suspicion of them, but kept each man from coming to the knowledge that the other was in my confidence. of the political information which i forwarded to gen. washington, it is needless to say much. it was so complete, that there scarcely occurred a conversation over clinton's dining table there never was formed a plan, nor a plan abandoned, of which i did not contrive to obtain an accurate report, and to transmit it to headquarters. but it was the project for seizing arnold which most deeply engaged my attention. several schemes were brought forward and rejected for that purpose; till at last the following, which but for an accident, must have succeeded, was matured. "the house in which arnold dwelt, was situated, as you doubtless recollect, in one of the principal streets of the city, while its garden extended on one side along an obscure lane, from which it was separated by a close wooden rail fence. i found that every night, before going to bed, arnold was in the habit of visiting that garden, and i immediately resolved what to do. working after dark, i undid a portion of the fence, and placing it up again so nicely, that no cursory examination would have sufficed to detect the spot where the breach had been made, i warned my associate that he should provide a boat in the hudson, manned by rowers in whom he could trust. i then furnished myself with a gag, and appointed a night when my confederate should be admitted within the garden, so that we might together seize and secure our prey. everything was done as i wished. maj. lee was informed of the state of our preparations, and directed to come down with spare horses, and an escort, to a spot on the river which i named. how often have i regretted since, that i should set thus deliberately about the business! by heavens! there occurred twenty opportunities, of which, had i been less anxious to accomplish my purpose, i might have availed myself. but i permitted them to pass, or rather, i felt myself unable to take advantage of them, because i had judged it imprudent to keep less trusty agents too often on the alert. so, however, it was to be. "time passed, and now a few hours only intervened between the final adjustment of the details of our project and its accomplishment. lee was on the stir--was willing to hazard all--the boat's crew was provided, and their station pointed out. "it was our purpose to seize arnold unaware, to thrust the gag in his mouth, and placing each of us an arm within that of our prisoner, to hurry him through the least frequented of the streets towards the quary. we were to represent him as a drunken soldier, whom we were conveying to his quarters, should any person meet or question us,--and by g--, the deed was done, but the traitor's star prevailed. that very morning, an order was issued for the immediate embarkation of the legion, and i was hurried on board the ship without having had time so much as to warn maj. lee that the whole arrangement was blown up." the present thames street was undoubtedly the "obscure lane," down which champe intended that he and his assistant should carry arnold to the boat; there is no other that would so well fit into the story told by champe. roubalet retained possession of the province arms until near the time of the departure of the british troops, and it was at his house that many meetings were held by the refugees and loyalists in reference to provisions being made for them by grants of land in nova scotia. x fraunces' tavern [sidenote: return of the exiles] news of the signing of the provisional treaty reached this country in march, 1783, and the return of peace was celebrated throughout the land in april, but the british army remained in possession of new york city until the latter part of the following november. during this time they were very busy caring for those who had remained loyal to the crown, and now sought and claimed its protection. thousands came into the city, and it is said that more than twenty-nine thousand loyalists and refugees (including three thousand negroes), left the state of new york for canada, nova scotia and other british possessions, during the year. after the news of peace, there was little restraint on going in or out of new york, and many who had abandoned their homes when the british entered the place, or before, now prepared to return, but found when they came into the city that they could not obtain possession of their own property. while those who had thus abandoned their property in the cause of independence were anxious to return, many of those who had remained loyal to the crown were preparing to leave the city for new homes to be made on land provided by the government; and between these two classes there was no friendly feeling. few, therefore, ventured to bring in their families, or even remain themselves, until they could obtain the protection of the american army. general washington and sir guy carleton met near tappan in may to arrange matters relative to the withdrawals of british troops in the vicinity of new york. on this occasion sam francis came up from the city to provide for the american officers and their british guests, whose bill, says a philadelphia newspaper, amounted to the modest sum of five hundred pounds. francis, after serving in the army, had gone back to new york on the news of peace to reclaim his abandoned property. when a dinner was to be served to do honor to the cause of liberty, there was no one among all the americans who could so well do it as sam francis. he was well known to washington, but whether his aid was sought on this occasion or whether he proffered his services we have no means of knowing. at any rate, we are confident that the thing was well and properly done. it is said that it was through the instrumentality of francis's daughter, who was housekeeper at richmond hill, the headquarters of general washington, that the attempt on his life and that of general putnam, called the hickey plot, was discovered and frustrated. the house of francis was one of those which suffered when h. b. m. s. asia fired on the city in august, 1775. freneau thus speaks of it: "scarce a broadside was ended 'till another began again- by jove! it was nothing but fire away flannagan! some thought him saluting his sallys and nancys 'till he drove a round-shot thro' the roof of sam francis." on tuesday, june 18, 1776, an elegant entertainment was given by the provincial congress to general washington and his suite, the general and staff officers and the commanding officers of the different regiments in and near the city. the newspapers do not state where this dinner was served, but all the circumstances indicate that it was at the house of samuel francis. at this dinner many toasts were drunk, but instead of commencing with a toast to the king, as had formerly been customary, the first was congress, the second, the american army, the third, the american navy, etc. independence had not yet been declared. francis had gone out with the defeated army of washington, and was now returned and making preparations to receive the americans when they should enter the city. he was the harbinger of washington and the returning patriots. [sidenote: dinner at orangetown] on saturday, the 3d of may, 1783, general washington and governor clinton, accompanied by general john morin scott, and lieutenant colonels trumbull, cobb, humphreys and varick, went down the river from headquarters in a large barge, dined with general knox, in command at west point, lodged at peekskill and arrived at tappan sloat on sunday morning, about ten o'clock. after partaking of a small repast provided by francis they went up to orangetown, where a dinner was provided for them. sir guy carleton came up the river in the perseverence frigate, accompanied by lieutenant governor andrew elliot, chief justice william smith, and others, but did not arrive till monday evening. on tuesday, general washington, attended by two aides-de-camp only (humphreys and cobb), went down to onderdonck's in tappan bay, met sir guy at landing and received him in his four horse carriage, which carried them up to orangetown, followed by the other members of the party. here, after a conference and much general conversation on the subject of the treaty and matters incident thereto, about four o'clock in the afternoon, a most sumptuous dinner was served by sam francis to about thirty, who ate and drank "in the peace and good fellowship without drinking any toasts." on wednesday the commander in chief, the governor, general scott, lieutenant colonels humphreys, cobb, trumbull, smith and varick, major fish, and messrs. duer and parker went to dine on the perseverence. they were received with a salute of seventeen guns. "an elegant dinner (tho' not equal to the american) was prepared," to which they "sat down in perfect harmony and conviviality." then, after a short conference between the two generals, the americans left the ship, when they were again saluted with seventeen guns. "thus," it is said, "ended that great formal business." the british troops were drawn in from westchester county on the 14th. it was about this time that sam francis seems to have assumed the name of fraunces. before the war we do not find other than francis, and in the deed of the de lancey house to him in 1765, the name is francis. this celebrated old house is known to-day as fraunces' tavern. the celebration of the return of peace was held at trenton, new jersey, on april 15, 1783. after the governor's proclamation declaring a cessation of hostilities had been publicly read in the court house, a dinner was given at the house of john cape, who was then landlord of the french arms, a tavern at this place, and had been a lieutenant in the continental line. before the evacuation of new york by the british troops, cape entered the city and secured control of the old province arms, and was here to welcome the army of washington when they marched in. he took down the old sign which had swung in front of the house since 1754, and in its place hung out the sign of the arms of the state of new york. from this time the house was known as the state arms, or more generally as the city tavern. a large number of the inhabitants of new york, _lately returned from a seven years' exile_, met at cape's tavern, broadway, on tuesday evening, november 18th. at this meeting it was requested that every person present, who had remained in the city during the late contest, should leave the room forthwith; and it was resolved that no one who had remained or returned within the british lines during the war, be admitted to any future meetings. they pledged themselves to prevent, to the utmost of their power, all disorder and confusion that might follow the evacuation of the city by the british troops, and a committee of thirteen was appointed to meet at simmons' tavern in wall street to settle on a badge of distinction to be worn on evacuation day, select the place of meeting, and agree as to the manner in which they should receive his excellency, the governor, on that day. this committee was directed to report at the next meeting at cape's on thursday. at the meeting on thursday evening, colonel frederick weissenfels in the chair, it was agreed that the badge of distinction to be worn at the reception of the governor in the city should be "a union cockade of black and white ribband on the left breast and a laurel in the hat." the manner in which governor clinton, and general washington, should he accompany him, should be received was arranged and a committee of thirteen was appointed to conduct the procession, who were directed to meet the next morning at the coffee house. it was resolved that daniel green be requested to carry the colors of the united states on this occasion. no loyalist or neutral was to be allowed any part or share in the reception. [sidenote: the evacuation] tuesday, november 25, 1783, the time appointed for the evacuation of the city by the british troops, was a great day for new york. general washington and governor clinton were at day's tavern on the kingsbridge road, where they had been for three or four days. general knox, in command of the american troops, marched down from mcgown's pass in the morning to the upper end of the bowery, where he held a friendly parley with the british officer whose men were resting a little below. it was then about one o'clock in the afternoon. the programme of procedure which had been arranged was carried out nearly as agreed upon. as the british passed down the bowery and pearl street to the river for embarkation, they were followed by the american troops, who passed through chatham street and broadway to cape's tavern, where they formed in line. general knox, with the main guard, passed on down to the fort to take formal possession of the city; after which, joined by the citizens who had assembled at the bowling green, on horseback, each man wearing the cockade and laurel, he returned to the bull's head tavern in the bowery, where washington and clinton were waiting to make their formal entry. here a civic procession was formed which marched down pearl street to wall street and then up to broadway to cape's tavern. general knox with his men had left the line of march, and going through chatham street and broadway was here to receive them. at cape's they dismounted and an address was presented to general washington from "the citizens of new york, who have returned from exile, in behalf of themselves and their suffering brethren." in it they said: "in this place, and at this moment of exultation and triumph, while the ensigns of slavery still linger in our sight, we look up to you, our deliverer, with unusual transports of gratitude and joy. permit us to welcome you to this city, long torn from us by the hand of oppression, but now, by your wisdom and energy, under the guidance of providence, once more the seat of peace and freedom; we forbear to speak our gratitude or your praise--we should but echo the voice of applauding millions." a reply was made to this address by washington. an address was also presented to governor clinton, which was replied to by him. after the formalities attending the reception governor clinton gave a public dinner at fraunces' tavern, at which the commander-in-chief and other general officers were present. after the dinner thirteen toasts were drunk; the twelfth was: "may a close union of the states guard the temple they have erected to liberty." [sidenote: dinner to the french ambassador] at cape's tavern on friday, november 28th, an elegant entertainment was given by the citizens lately returned from exile to the governor and council for governing the city, to which washington and the officers of the army were invited. on the following tuesday, december 2d, at the same place, another such entertainment was given by governor clinton to the french ambassador, luzerne, to which invitations were also extended to washington and his officers. for this cape rendered a bill to the state, in which he made charge for 120 dinners, 135 bottles of madeira, 36 bottles of port, 60 bottles of english beer and 30 bowls of punch. in putting away this liberal supply of drink, they must have had a jolly time, and that some of them became very unsteady is indicated by a significant charge made by cape for 60 broken wine glasses and 8 cut glass decanters. in the evening there was a grand display of fire works in celebration of the definite treaty of peace between great britain and the united states of north america, at the bowling green, in broadway. these, it is said, infinitely exceeded every former exhibition of the kind in the united states. on the next day, december 3d, washington wrote to major general knox, expressing his satisfaction and requesting him to present to captain price, under whose direction they were prepared, and to the officers who assisted him, his thanks for the great skill and attention shown on this occasion. washington had issued, under date of november 2d, from rocky hill, near princeton, new jersey, his farewell address to the army of the united states, and he was now about to bid farewell to his officers. the place appointed for this formality was the long room of fraunces' tavern. it has given a celebrity to this house which can never be effaced. the long room of fraunces' tavern had recently been used for the dinner given by governor clinton on the day the american army entered the city. it was thirty-eight feet long and nineteen feet wide, its length extending along broad street, probably just as it exists to-day in the restored house. on the morning of december 4, 1783, washington and his officers met here for the last time as soldiers of the revolutionary army. no exact record exists as to who were present on this memorable occasion, but it has been stated, that there were forty-four. among these were generals greene, knox, wayne, steuben, carroll, lincoln, kosciusko, moultrie, gates, lee, putnam, stark, hamilton, governor clinton, and colonels tallmadge, humphreys and fish. [sidenote: washington's farewell to his officers] they had been assembled but a few minutes, when washington entered the room. his emotion was too strong to be concealed, and was evidently reciprocated by all present. alter partaking of a slight refreshment, and after a few moments of silence, the general filled his glass with wine, and turning to his officers said: "with a heart full of love and gratitude, i now take leave of you. i most devoutly wish that your latter days may be as prosperous and happy as your former ones have been glorious and honorable." after the officers had responded in a glass of wine, he requested that each one of them should come and take him by the hand. general knox, who was nearest him, turned and grasped his hand and they embraced each other in silence. in the same affectionate manner every officer parted from the commander-in-chief, who then left the room without a word, and passing through lines of infantry drawn up to receive him, walked silently to whitehall, where a barge was waiting to carry him to paulus hook. he was on his way to annapolis, to surrender his commission to the continental congress, and then to his beloved mount vernon. these were the closing scenes of the war. the first act in the drama of a nation's growth was ended. after a seven years' struggle of blood and suffering a new nation had been born. the curtain drops. _vivat republica._ [illustration: in the coffee house] cornelius bradford, who had abandoned the merchants' coffee house, when the british entered the city, and had since been living at rhinebeck, came back in october, and again took possession of it. in his announcement he calls it the new york coffee house, but the name of the merchants' coffee house clung to it, and it is so spoken of in the public prints. he prepared a book in which he proposed to enter the names of vessels on their arrival, the ports from which they came and any particular occurrences of their voyages, so that merchants and travelers might obtain the earliest intelligence. bradford's marine list appears in the newspapers of that period. he also opened a register of merchants and others on which they were requested to enter their names and residences, the nearest approach to a city directory that had yet been made. bradford, by his energy and intelligence, revived the good name of the house, and it became again the rendezvous of merchants and traders, and the daily scene of sales of merchandise of all kinds. the neighborhood again became a place of great importance and trade. near the coffee house, both sides of wall street were occupied by auction stores, and received the name of the merchants' promenade or the auctioneers' row. [sidenote: a bank organized] new york had hardly been relieved of british control, when a project was set on foot to organize a bank. on the 24th of february, 1784, and again on the 26th the principal merchants and citizens of new york met at the merchants' coffee house, in response to a call, for the purpose of establishing a bank on liberal principles, the stock to consist of specie only. proposals were made for the establishment of a bank with a capital of five hundred thousand dollars in gold or silver, which were unanimously agreed to, and a committee was appointed to receive subscriptions. when one-half of the stock had been taken, a meeting of the stockholders was held at the coffee house at ten o'clock on the morning of monday, march 15, 1784, when general alexander mcdougal was elected president, twelve directors, and william seton cashier of the bank. thus was organized the bank of new york, the first bank of deposit in the state. [sidenote: chamber of commerce reorganized] the chamber of commerce and the marine society met regularly at the coffee house. after the war it was held that the chamber of commerce had forfeited its charter and the state legislature then sitting in new york, in response to a petition, granted a new charter, april 13, 1784. the signers of the petition met at the merchants' coffee house april 20th and reorganized under the name of chamber of commerce of the state of new york. by resolution of congress, new york became the seat of government in december, 1784, and shortly after, on january 19, 1785, the marine society, to animate its members and promote the object of the society, provided an elegant dinner at the merchants' coffee house, and were honored with the company of the president and members of congress, the mayor of the city, major general mcdougal, and a number of other gentlemen. in the early part of february the chamber of commerce had the honor of entertaining the same distinguished guests at a dinner, also given at the merchants' coffee house. the society for the promotion of manumission of slaves held its meetings at the coffee house, also the society for promoting useful knowledge. here the masons had their grand lodge room and here they gathered on the anniversary day of st. john the baptist, in 1784, and marched in procession to st. paul's church, where a sermon was preached to them by the rev. samuel provost. these formalities seem to have been of yearly occurrence. in 1785 the governor of the state, the chancellor, the hon. john jay and other distinguished citizens dined with the friendly sons of st. patrick at the coffee house on the anniversary day of their saint, and on november 30th the st. andrew's society of the state held its anniversary meeting here. at sunrise the scottish flag was raised on the coffee house and at twelve o'clock an election of officers was held, when the hon. robert r. livingston, chancellor of the state, was chosen president and robert lenox, secretary. the society, honored with the company of the governor of the state and the mayor and recorder of the city, then sat down to dinner. the toasts were truly scotch; among them a few that need be interpreted to us by some antiquarian scot. on the 9th of november, 1786, cornelius bradford died, much regretted by his many friends, at the age of fifty-seven, and his funeral was held at four o'clock on the afternoon of the 17th at the coffee house. he seems to have been a man much respected in the community. the new york packet, in an obituary notice, says of him that not only "was he distinguished as a steady patriot during the arduous contest for american liberty, but that he always discovered a charitable disposition toward those who differed from him in sentiment," and adds that "the coffee house under his management, was kept with great dignity, both before and since the war, and he revived its credit from the contempt into which it had fallen during the war." his widow kept the house after his death until 1792, and continued to enjoy the patronage of bradford's old friends. although sam fraunces came back to the city after the war and took up his old business in the house which had been known as the queen's head, he did not remain there long, but retired to a country life in new jersey. he sold the house in 1785. the deed is dated april 23d of this year and states that "samuel fraunces, late of the city of new york, innkeeper, but at present of the county of monmouth, new jersey, farmer, and elizabeth, his wife," sell to "george powers, butcher, of brooklyn," all his dwelling house and lot, bounded, etc. the price was £1,950. [sidenote: the assembly balls revived] the dancing assemblies which had been regularly held before the war at the province arms for many years, were renewed, the first one after the close of the revolution being held at cape's, or the city tavern, on the evening of thursday, december 19, 1783. james rivington, the loyalist, in announcing the ball in his paper, added that he had "for sale a supply of white dancing gloves for gentlemen, with stockings, dress swords, and elegant london cocked hats," which were, no doubt, a part of the stock he was carrying during the war to supply the british officers. mr. pickens and mr. griffiths, dancing masters, both gave balls in the assembly room of cape's tavern. mr. griffiths was using the room for his dancing school in 1786, and announced that he would give a ball once a fortnight during the season. tickets were six shillings each. a grand ball at the assembly rooms in broadway was announced by mr. griffiths, to be held on february 20, 1786. to insure an attendance of desirable persons it was stated that no person would be admitted whose appearance might give umbrage to the company. such balls as those given by the dancing masters were continued for many years. [sidenote: the cincinnati] a meeting of the new york state society of the cincinnati was called to meet at cape's tavern on the 2d of february, 1784, in order to frame by-laws for the society and for other important purposes. benjamin walker, secretary of the society, gave notice "that such persons as are entitled to become members of the society and have not yet signed the institution, may have an opportunity of doing it by applying to him at cape's tavern." major general alexander mcdougal had been elected president of the new york society in july, at fishkill. john cape, the landlord of the city tavern, was a member of the cincinnati, and he also appears to have been a mason, for, although the rooms of the grand lodge were at the coffee house, notice was given that the members of the grand lodge were desired to meet "at brother cape's tavern" on broadway on wednesday evening, march 3, at six o'clock to install the right worshipful the hon. robert livingston, grand master. in february, 1786, cape suddenly disappeared, leaving his creditors in the lurch. the furniture and all the stock in the tavern were sold out under execution by the sheriff, and the house was taken in march by joseph corré, who opened it as a traveler's house. having been a professed cook he gave notice that "any person wishing to have their servants taught the art of cookery may apply to him for terms." travelers, coming into the city from the north and east, put up at the city tavern, and, on their way to the south, crossed the paulus hook ferry from the foot of cortlandt street, and took the stage coach or wagon on the jersey side for their destination. a line of stages had been established between new york and albany and another between new york and boston, and announcement was made in 1780 that the stage would leave the old city tavern, kept by joseph corré, during the six winter months on monday and thursday of each week, at precisely five o'clock in the morning, for albany and boston, and in summer on monday, wednesday and friday. extensive preparations were made to celebrate the anniversary of the independence of the united states on july 4, 1786. the opening of the day was announced at sunrise by a salute of thirteen guns and the ringing of all the bells in the city. at twelve o'clock a procession started from the city hall, going through broad street and down queen street to the residence of the governor, who, joined by the lieutenant governor, the chancellor, the judges of the supreme court, and the other state officers, with the mayor and aldermen, the marine society, and the chamber of commerce, proceeded to the residence of the president of the united states congress, where they presented to his excellency, the compliments of the day. they then proceeded to the city tavern, attended by numerous citizens, and partook of a collation which had been provided by the corporation. as the procession moved from the city hall, all the bells in the city commenced to ring, and continued to ring for two hours. as they arrived at the city tavern thirteen guns were discharged, and at sunset another discharge of thirteen guns closed the day. fireworks having been prohibited in the city by the common council, some brilliant pieces were exhibited on governor's island, which entertained a large concourse of citizens assembled on the battery. the anniversary meeting of the society of the cincinnati, of the state of new york, in commemoration of the day, was held at the city tavern, when the hon. baron de steuben was elected president of the society. [sidenote: the cincinnati] this year and for many years subsequent the annual meetings of the cincinnati were attended with considerable ceremony. at a meeting of the society held at the merchants' coffee house on january 21, 1786, a committee, composed of baron steuben, colonel samuel b. webb, and david brooks, assistant clothier, was appointed to draw up a plan of proper ceremonials to be observed in the delivery of diplomas to members of the society, especially to the elected members. the report of this committee, made on june 21st, was that the ceremony should be performed in the assembly room of the city tavern, and that the outside of the house should be decorated with laurel crowns and festoons. explicit directions were given as to how the room for the ceremony should be arranged. the floor should be covered with carpet. the chair of state for the president should be placed opposite the door of entrance. places for the other officers and members were designated. the gallery above the door of entrance should be decorated and therein stationed kettle-drums and trumpets. that there should be, first. a chair of state covered with light blue satin with white fringe, the carvings on the arms and feet painted white; on the top of the back a staff supported by two hands united holding up a cap of liberty, grasped by a bald eagle (as the order of the society); below a white fillet with the motto "we will defend it." this chair to be elevated on two semi-circular steps covered on the top with light blue cloth and painted with white paint in front. second. the standard of the society of silk (described). third. a small square table covered with blue satin fringed with blue silk fringe and tassels. fourth. two cushions of white satin fringed with blue silk fringe and tassels, on one of which the eagles and on the other the diplomas of the elected members will be displayed. the following form of ceremonies was presented and adopted and was first used at the annual meeting of the new york society july 4, 1786. the foreign members and members belonging to other state societies, the spectators, kettle-drums and trumpets having occupied their places; captain isaac guion, the standard bearer, escorted by four members, all in full uniform, wearing the order of the society, carried the standard into the hall and planted it in front, to the right of the steps of the chair of state. the escort returning, the society marched in procession into the hall in the following order: the masters of ceremony (col. webb and maj. giles). the members, by twos. the secretary, carrying the original institution of the society, bound in light blue satin, fringed with white (capt. robert pemberton). the treasurer and deputy treasurer, bearing the cushions containing the eagles and diplomas (col. pierre van cortlandt and maj. richard platt). the vice-president (gen. philip schuyler). the president (baron steuben). on entering the hall the members filed off to the right and left, and were placed by the masters of ceremony, and remained standing before their seats. the secretary took his place behind the small table, placed to the left in front of the steps of the chair of state. the treasurer with the gold eagles, took position on the steps, on the right of the president, and the deputy treasurer, with the diplomas, on the steps to the left of the president. the masters of ceremony took their places, one on the right of the standard and the other on the left of the secretary. at the entrance of the president the standard saluted, and the kettle-drums and trumpets gave a flourish, until he had taken his seat, then the standard was raised and the members took their seats. the president then announced he was ready to receive candidates for membership and ordered the masters of ceremony to introduce the newly elected members, who were placed on seats opposite the chair of state. the ceremony of initiation was opened by an oration delivered by colonel alexander hamilton. the secretary read the institution. the president, seated, addressed the newly elected members. the president, rising from his seat, put on his hat, when all the members of the society arose at the same time. a master of ceremony conducted a candidate to the first step before the president, who asked him first whether he desired to be received into the society and if so, to promise a strict observance of the rules and statutes just read. upon answering in the affirmative, with one hand taking the standard, he signed the institution with the other. the president then taking one of the gold eagles from the cushion held by the treasurer, pinned it on the left breast of the candidate, saying: "receive this mark as a recompense for your merit and in remembrance of our glorious independence." the drums and trumpets then gave a flourish. the president then taking a diploma, with the recipient's name inscribed, presented it to him, saying: "this will show your title as a member of our society. imitate the illustrious hero, lucius quintus cincinnatus, whom we have chosen for our patron. like him, be the defender of your country and a good citizen." another flourish of drums and trumpets. the president then grasped the hand of the candidate and congratulated him. he was then presented by a master of ceremony to the officers of the society and the members who rose and saluted him. he was then assigned to a seat provided for him at the upper end of the hall, taking rank above the members of the society for the day only. after the initiation the president removed his hat, and the society proceeded to the banquet hall, observing the following order of precedence. the masters of ceremony. the members of the society, two by two. the newly elected members. the members of other state societies. the foreign members. the honorary members. the standard bearer with standard. the secretary. the treasurer and deputy treasurer. the vice-president. the president. the president and other officers passed to their places at the banquet table between the open lines of members. the president presided at the head of the table, surrounded by the foreign and newly elected members. after the cloth was removed thirteen toasts were drunk accompanied by a salute of thirteen cannon. on the first day of december the st. andrew's society gave a dinner at corré's tavern, at which his excellency the governor was present. they sat down to dinner at four o'clock and after dinner drank thirteen toasts which had become the customary number. the presence in the city of men who had remained loyal to england during the war was distasteful to many who had been ardent in the cause of independence. a whig society was organized, whose avowed object was to obtain the removal of certain influential and offensive tories from the state. members of the society were men of prominence. lewis morris was president and john pintard secretary. public meetings were held and petitions sent to the legislature, but the status of the tories was not materially disturbed. in such circumstances it is not to be wondered at that a company of englishmen, spending the evening in one of the upper rooms of the coffee house in the latter part of the month of june, 1786, and "in the height of their mirth and loyalty," breaking out with "rule britania," should give offense. a newspaper remarks that "if there are englishmen, whose attachment to the laws of bachus obliges them to make frequent meetings over old london porter and madeira, they should always carry with them the reflection that in a republican government there are songs which may please their palates and be grating to the ears of freemen," and that "rule britania" was "a song very rediculous in a country like this, where their armies were conquered and their nation defeated." [sidenote: the new constitution] after the formation of the federal constitution at philadelphia in september, 1787, there was much discussion in new york over its ratification. although there were in the city some bitter opponents to its adoption, the prevailing sentiment was in its favor. when the state of massachusetts ratified the new constitution on the 8th of february, 1788, the event was celebrated with much enthusiasm in new york on saturday, february 16th. the flag of the united states was "joined on the coffee house" at sunrise, on which was inscribed "the constitution, september 17, 1787," and at noon the old pine tree flag of massachusetts was hung out, with the date of her adhesion. there was a numerous gathering of citizens. several members of congress and the mayor of the city honored them "by partaking of their repast, which (in true republican style), consisted of only two dishes--beef and salt fish." after dinner toasts were drunk under the fire of six guns to each toast, in honor of those states which had adopted the constitution--delaware, pennsylvania, new jersey, connecticut, georgia, massachusetts. the eleventh toast was, "new york, may it soon become an additional pillar to the new roof." it was confidently felt that the discussion and adoption of the new constitution by their eastern neighbors would exert a strong influence in its favor, and that the conduct of massachusetts would insure its ratification, not only in this state but in every other state of the union. [sidenote: the grand procession] as an expression of the intense interest felt in the fate of the new constitution, there were processions in different places, notably philadelphia, boston, charleston and new york. the new york procession was the last and grandest, surpassing anything of its kind ever seen before in the country. it was held on july 23d, in honor of the adoption of the constitution by ten states, new york not having yet given in her adhesion. there were over six thousand in the line. what added greatly to the beauty and novelty of the parade was the ship hamilton, a full-rigged man-of-war, carrying thirty guns with a crew of thirty men, complete in all its appointments, drawn by twelve horses and under the command of commodore nicholson. it was in the center of the procession and attracted great attention sailing down broadway, the canvas waves dashing against its sides, the wheels of the car being concealed. at ten o'clock in the morning, a salute of thirteen guns was fired from the ship, and the procession passed down broadway from the fields, and then through the principal streets into the bowery to bayard's grounds, where two oxen roasted whole and other viands had been prepared. tables were set for five thousand persons. the entire day was given up to festivities. [sidenote: the eleventh pillar] while new york was in intense excitement, produced by these extensive demonstrations, news reached the city on saturday evening about nine o'clock that the constitution had been adopted at poughkeepsie on friday, july 25th. new york was called the "eleventh pillar." "the bells in the city were immediately set to ringing, and from the fort and the federal ship hamilton were fired several salutes." the merchants at the coffee house testified their joy and satisfaction by repeated cheers. the newspapers state that "a general joy ran through the whole city, and several of those who were of different sentiments drank freely of the federal bowl, and declared that they were now perfectly reconciled to the new constitution." [sidenote: anniversaries of two great victories] the surrender of earl cornwallis and the army under his command at yorktown, virginia, on october 19, 1781, which marked the close of active hostilities, was a notable event in the history of the country, as was also the surrender of burgoyne at saratoga on october 17, 1777. the anniversaries of these two great victories for the american cause were not far apart, and there were many in the city who had taken part in one or both of them and were quite willing and anxious for a reunion of their companions-in-arms. accordingly on monday, october 20, 1788, "a number of officers of the late american army and several gentlemen of distinction" dined together at the coffee house in commemoration of these two great events. the following are the toasts drunk at this dinner, as reported in the newspapers: 1. the memorable 5th of september, 1774. meeting of the first congress. 2. the memorable 17th of june, 1775. battle of bunker hill. 3. the memorable 4th of july, 1776. declaration of independence. 4. the memorable 26th of december, 1776. battle of trenton. 5. the memorable 17th of october, 1777. capture of burgoyne. 6. the memorable 6th of february, 1778. alliance with france. 7. the memorable 16th of july, 1779. stony point taken by general wayne. 8. the memorable 17th of january, 1781. general morgan defeats tarleton at cowpens. 9. the memorable 19th of october, 1781. capture of lord cornwallis. 10. the memorable 3d of september, 1783. definite treaty of peace. 11. the memorable 25th of november, 1783. final evacuation of the united states by the british. 12. the memorable 17th of september, 1787. new constitution. 13. general washington. [sidenote: reception of washington] the constitution had been adopted by eleven states. george washington had been elected the first president of the united states and great preparations had been made to receive him in new york, then the capital of the nation. on april 23, 1789, a federal salute announced that he had arrived and was coming up the east river in the splendid barge which had been built especially for the occasion, accompanied by a large escort of boats, to murray's wharf, where an ornamented and carpeted stairway had been constructed to make his landing easy, safe and comfortable. at the city coffee house, as it is termed in the newspapers, with a salute of thirteen guns, he was received by the governor and the officers of the state and corporation. the procession then formed and proceeded, with a military escort, from the coffee house into queen street and then to the house which had been prepared for him. the daily advertiser, the next day, stated that: "on this great occasion the hand of industry was suspended and the various pleasures of the capital were concentrated to a single enjoyment." the illumination of the city in the evening was brilliant and remarkable. on saturday, the 25th, the chamber of commerce met at the coffee house, and headed by john broome, theophylact bache and john murray proceeded in form to the house of the president-elect to present their congratulations. [sidenote: washington at the ball] the next regular assembly after the inauguration of the president was held at the city tavern, then under the management of edward bardin, on thursday, may 7th, which washington was requested to honor with his presence. he accepted the invitation and was present as was also the vice-president, the secretary of state, the secretary of war, most of the members of both houses of congress, the governor of new york, the chancellor, the chief justice of the state, the honorable john jay, the mayor of the city, the french and spanish ministers, baron steuben, the count de moustier, colonel duer and many other distinguished guests. a newspaper account states that "a numerous and brilliant collection of ladies graced the room with their appearance." mrs. washington had not yet arrived in the city. among those present were mrs. jay, mrs. hamilton, lady stirling, mrs. watts, mrs. duer, mrs. peter van brugh livingston, mrs. clinton, mrs. duane, mrs. james beekman, lady temple, lady christina griffin, mrs. livingston, wife of the chancellor, mrs. richard montgomery, mrs. john langdon, mrs. elbridge gerry, mrs. livingston of clermont, the misses livingston, mrs. william s. smith, daughter of the vice-president, mrs. maxwell, mrs. edgar, mrs. mccomb, mrs. dalton, the misses bayard, madame de brehan, madame de la forest and mrs. bishop provost. it was a notable gathering of the men and women of the period, then in new york. the company numbered about three hundred. washington was the guest of honor. the festivities closed about two o'clock in the morning. on the 4th of july, 1789, general malcolm's brigade, under command of colonel chrystie, paraded on the race-ground early in the morning and on their way back to the city passed the house of the president. washington, though ill, appeared at the door in full regimentals. at noon a salute was fired from the fort and at four o'clock the officers dined at the tavern of sam fraunces in cortlandt street. after dinner, at the third toast, to the president of the united states, the company rose and gave three cheers and the band played general washington's march. the society of the cincinnati met at the city tavern. after the election of officers, a committee was appointed to present its congratulations to the president, vice-president and speaker of the house of representatives. the society then went in procession, escorted by bauman's artillery to st. paul's chapel, where an eulogium upon general nathaniel greene was pronounced by alexander hamilton. a dinner at the city tavern and the drinking of thirteen toasts closed the society's celebration of the day. [illustration: "gambling with cards was pretty general"] during the year preceding march 1, 1789, three hundred and thirty tavern licenses were granted in the city and gambling with cards and dice was pretty general. a game of cards called pharoah seems to have been one of the most popular for that purpose. other games with cards were whist, loo and quadrille. it seems to have been thought necessary to place some restraint on gambling, for a law passed in 1788 prescribed the forfeiture of five times the amount won for the winner of more than £10 at a sitting. tavern-keepers were subject to fine and imprisonment if they should allow cock-fighting, gaming, card-playing, dice, billiard-tables or shuffle boards in their houses; but the law was not completely effective. drunkenness was unlawful, but a popular failing. [sidenote: simmons' tavern] in wall street, on the corner of nassau street, was the tavern of john simmons. in this tavern were witnessed the formalities which gave birth to the new american city of new york. here, on the 9th of february, 1784, james duane, at a special meeting of the city council, having been appointed by the governor and board of appointment, was formally installed mayor of new york city and took the oath of office in the presence of that body and of the governor and lieutenant-governor of the state, representing the state provisional council, whose duties now ceased, the city corporation being now restored in all its forms and offices. the regents of the university of the state met at simmons' tavern, at seven o'clock in the evening on monday, august 2, 1790. it is said that simmons was a man of such bulk that at the time of his funeral, the doorway of the house had to be enlarged to admit the passage of his coffin. his widow continued the business, and was still keeping the house in 1796. [illustration: simmons' tavern] [sidenote: sam fraunces the steward of washington] when the new constitution had been adopted by eleven states and the prospect was that new york would, at least for a time, be the seat of government with washington at its head, sam fraunces could no longer remain in retirement on his jersey farm. he came to the city and became steward in the house of the president. he also opened a tavern in cortlandt street, which was managed by his wife. this tavern at no. 49 cortlandt street had been kept, some years before, by talmadge hall, one of the proprietors of the albany stages, who was succeeded in 1787 by christopher beekman from princeton, new jersey. beekman stated that the house had been commonly known as the boston, albany and philadelphia stage office, and that he had agreed with the proprietors of the albany and boston stages to make his house the public stage house. the society of mechanics and tradesmen held its anniversary meeting on the 6th of january, 1789, at the tavern of sam fraunces in cortlandt street, and indulged in a dinner at which one of the patriotic toasts was: "a cobweb pair of breeches, a porcupine saddle, a trotting horse and a long journey to all the enemies of freedom." the election of governor of new york in 1789 was energetically contested, but george clinton, who was at the head of the party yet strongly opposed to the new constitution, was elected, although the vote in new york city was overwhelmingly against him. on the 5th of june he and his friends held a grand jubilee at fraunces' tavern to celebrate their success. sam fraunces kept the cortlandt street house until november, 1790, when, as he says, "through the advice of some of his particular friends," he removed to a house in broad street near the exchange, formerly occupied by the widow blaaw, and solicited the patronage of his brethren of the tammany society, and of the respective lodges of the city. this, as far as we know, was the last place kept by sam fraunces in new york. he soon bid us a final farewell and left the city. [illustration] [sidenote: dinner to the judges] john francis, who, we have supposed, was a son of sam francis, in august, 1785, opened the true american at no. 3 great dock, now pearl street. in may, 1789, he removed to the historic building now known as fraunces' tavern, on the corner of broad and pearl streets. on february 2, 1790, the supreme court of the united states was opened in the city by james duane, judge of the district of new york, "in the presence of national and city dignitaries, of many gentlemen of the bar, members of congress and a number of leading citizens. in the evening the grand jury of the united states for the district gave a very elegant entertainment in honor of the court at fraunces' tavern on broad street." among those present were john jay, of new york, chief justice of the united states, william cushing, of massachusetts, john rutledge, of south carolina, james wilson, of pennsylvania, robert harrison, of maryland, and john blair, of virginia, associate justices, also edmond randolph, of virginia, attorney-general of the united states. it was the first grand jury assembled in this state under the authority of the united states. in the list of jurors are the names of many prominent men. the promoters of the new york manufacturing society, for the encouragement of american manufacturers, met at rawson's tavern, 82 water street, on the 7th of january, 1789, and chose the officers of the society. melancthon smith was chosen president. subscriptions were received for the establishment of a woolen factory which was considered a very patriotic undertaking. at a meeting held at the coffee house on the 24th of february, alexander robertson in the chair, a committee was appointed to prepare the draft of a constitution and to report on a plan of operation. the society was incorporated on the 16th of march, 1790, and appears to have been the owner of a factory and bleaching ground at second river, new jersey, but the business was not successful. the investment proved a total loss. on the corner of nassau and george (now spruce) streets, was a tavern kept by captain aaron aorson, who had seen service during the war and was present at the death of general montgomery at quebec. he was a member of the society of the cincinnati. in his house was a long room suitable for public gatherings. notice was given that a lecture would be delivered here for charitable purposes october 6, 1789, by a man more than thirty years an atheist. some years later this long room became the wigwam and the house the headquarters of the tammany society. there was a tavern on broadway just above murray street which, before the revolution, had played a conspicuous part in the conflicts with the british soldiers over the liberty pole. during the latter part of the war john amory had been its landlord. in june, 1785, henry kennedy announced that he had taken the well known house lately "occupied by mrs. montanye, the sign of the two friendly brothers," but in 1786 or soon after it again passed into the hands of a member of the de la montagnie family, after which we find it at times kept by mrs. de la montagnie, mrs. amory or jacob de la montagnie. in the directory of 1795, mary amory and jacob de la montagnie are both set down as tavern-keepers at 253 broadway. in december, 1791, the members of the mechanics' and traders' society were notified that the anniversary of the society would be held on the first tuesday of january next at the house of mrs. de la montagnie, and that members who wished to dine should apply for tickets, and were further requested to attend at 9 o'clock in the morning for election. in 1792, the house appears to have been kept by mrs. amory and known as mechanics' hall. the mechanics celebrated independence day here that year, and it was probably their headquarters. in june, 1793, mrs. amory, heading her announcement--"vauxhall, rural felicity"--gave notice that on the 25th, beginning at five o'clock in the afternoon, would be given a concert of instrumental music, consisting of the most favorite overtures and pieces from the compositions of fisher and handell. the notice states that, "at eight o'clock in the evening the garden will be beautifully illuminated, in the chinese style, with upwards of 500 glass lamps," and that "the orchestra will be placed in the middle of a large tree elegantly illuminated." there was to be tight rope dancing by mr. miller, and fireworks on the tight rope, to be concluded with an exhibition of equilibriums on the slack rope. tickets for admission were four shillings each. the triangular piece of open ground in front of the tavern, called the fields or common, had been, since the war, enclosed by a post and rail fence and had assumed the dignity of a park. the neighborhood was rapidly improving. [sidenote: the bull's head tavern] on the post road, in bowery lane, stood the bull's head tavern, where the boston and albany stages picked up passengers as they left the city. this had been a well known tavern from a period long before the revolution, much frequented by drovers and butchers as well as travelers. it was a market for live stock and stood not far from the slaughter house. previous to 1763, it was kept by caleb hyatt, who was succeeded in that year by thomas bayeaux. from 1770 until the war of the revolution, richard varian was its landlord, and also superintendent of the public slaughter house. in a petition to the common council after the evacuation, he states that he had been engaged in privateering until captured near the end of the war, after which, he returned to the city and found his wife in prosperous possession of the old tavern. he was the landlord of the house the year of washington's inauguration and we find that in 1796 he was still the tenant of the property, then belonging to henry ashdor, a well-to-do butcher of the fly market, who resided a little north of the tavern. as appears by petitions to the common council, henry ashdor, or astor, as the name sometimes appears, was accustomed to ride out on the post road to meet the incoming drovers and purchase their stock, thus securing the best, and obliging the other butchers to buy of him at a profit, which was characterized by the butchers in their petitions as "pernicious practices." the bull's head tavern remained the meeting place of the butchers and drovers until 1826, when henry astor, associating himself with others, pulled it down and erected on its site the new york theatre, since called the bowery theatre, the mayor of the city laying the corner stone. [illustration: the bowery theatre] xi the tontine coffee house [sidenote: the tammany society] long before the revolution, there had been various societies in new york under such names as st. andrew, st. george, st. david and st. john, all of which professed the most fervent loyalty to the king of great britain. this induced the projectors of a new society, composed of many who had belonged to the sons of liberty, of stamp act and revolutionary times, to select for their patron saint a genuine american guardian, and thus was originated the tammany society, or columbian order, in may, 1789. at first, it was strictly a national and patriotic society, "to connect in indisoluable bonds of friendship american brethren of known attachment to the political rights of human nature and the liberties of the country," and it remained so for many years. tammany, the celebrated chief of the delawares, who has been described as a chief of great virtue, benevolence and love of country, to whose actual history has been added a great deal of legendary and mythical lore, was cannonized as a saint and adopted as their guardian spirit. the members of the society styled themselves the sons of st. tammany, and adopted aboriginal forms and customs as well as dress. this was not the first society that had claimed the patronage and adopted the name of that famous indian saint, but the new organization proposed a wider scope and added to its title also that of "columbian order." it was organized also as a contrast or offset to the aristocratic and anti-republican principles attributed to the society of the cincinnati, the membership of which was hereditary. the birth of the new organization is set down as on may 12, 1789, which was spent in tents erected on the banks of the hudson river, about two miles from the city, where a large number of members partook of an elegant entertainment, "served precisely at three o'clock; after which there was singing and smoking and universal expressions of brotherly love." during the year 1789 its meetings were held at the tavern of sam fraunces. in the year 1790, the 4th of july falling on sunday, the anniversary of independence was celebrated on the 5th. the society of st. tammany assembled early in the day, and, after a short address from the grand sachem, the declaration of independence was read. there was a grand military review. colonel bauman's regiment of artillery appeared in their usual style as veterans of the war. at one o'clock they fired a federal salute and a feu-de-joie on the battery, after which they escorted the society of the cincinnati to st. paul's church, where an elegant oration was delivered by brockholst livingston to a large audience, including the president and vice-president of the united states, members of both houses of congress, and a brilliant assembly of ladies and gentlemen. the society of the cincinnati dined at bardin's, the city tavern, and the grand sachem and fathers of the council of the society of st. tammany were honored with an invitation to dine with them. after dinner the usual thirteen toasts were drunk with all the hilarity and good humor customary on such occasions. [sidenote: reception of the indians by the tammany society] shortly after this, a most interesting event occurred, which created considerable excitement among the people of new york and gave to the tammany society an opportunity to make an impression on the public mind not often presented, and which could not be neglected. efforts had been made by the government of the united states to pacify the creek indians of the south and to make with them a treaty of peace and friendship. in march, 1790, colonel marinus willett was sent out on this mission, and early in july news came that he was on his way to new york, accompanied by colonel alexander mcgillivray, their half-breed chief, and about thirty warriors of the tribe, traveling northward at public expense and greeted at every stage of their journey by vast crowds of people. they arrived on the 21st of july. a boat was sent to elizabethtown point, under the direction of major stagg, to convey them to new york and the tammany society met in their wigwam to make their preparations. this wigwam, which they used as their headquarters for many years, was the old exchange building at the foot of broad street. as the boat passed the battery about two o'clock a federal salute was fired and when the indians landed at the coffee house it was repeated. here they were met by the tammany society, dressed in full indian costume, which very much pleased mcgillivray and his indian warriors, and by general malcolm with a military escort. they were conducted in procession to the house of general knox, the secretary of war, after which they had an audience with the president, who received them in a very handsome manner. they were also introduced to the governor of the state, who gave them a friendly reception. they were then taken to the city tavern where they dined in company with general knox, the senators and representatives of georgia, general malcolm, the militia officers on duty, and the officers of the saint tammany society. the indians seemed greatly pleased with their friendly reception and a newspaper states that "the pleasure was considerably heightened by the conviviality and good humor which prevailed at the festive board." the usual number of toasts were drunk after the dinner. [sidenote: grand banquet at the wigwam] on the 2d of august the indians were entertained by the tammany society with a grand banquet at their great wigwam in broad street, at which were present, the governor of the state, the chief justice of the united states, the secretary of state, the secretary of war, the mayor of the city and colonel willett. the richly ornamented calumet of peace was passed around and wine flowed freely. colonel willett had delivered his big talk and partaken of their _black drink_ on his visit to them, and the indians were now receiving a return of hospitality. patriotic songs were sung by members of the society and the indians danced. the indian chief conferred on the grand sachem of tammany the title of "toliva mico"--chief of the white town. the president of the united states was toasted as "the beloved chieftain of the thirteen fires." the president's last visit to federal hall was to sign a treaty with these indians, which was attended with great ceremony. tammany had taken the lead in all this indian business and tammany had made its mark. [illustration: tontine coffee house] [sidenote: the tontine coffee house] in the year 1791 an association of merchants was organized for the purpose of constructing a more commodious coffee house than the merchants' coffee house, and to provide a business centre for the mercantile community. the company was formed on the tontine principle of benefit to survivors, and the building they erected was called the tontine coffee house. among the merchants who were interested in this enterprise were john broome, john watts, gulian verplanck, john delafield and william laight. on the 31st of january, 1792, these five merchants, as the first board of directors of the tontine association, purchased from doctor charles arding and abigail, his wife, the house and lot on the northwest corner of wall and water streets, for £1,970. this was the house which had been known as the merchants' coffee house from about 1740, when it was first opened by daniel bloom until 1772, when its business was carried by mrs. ferrari diagonally across the street, where it had since remained. it was sold in 1759, as related in a previous chapter, by luke roome, owner and landlord of the house, to doctor charles arding, who had ever since been its owner. they had already purchased, december 1, 1791, for £2,510, the adjoining lot on wall street, and shortly after, for £1,000, they purchased the adjoining lot on water street. on the ground of these three lots the tontine coffee house was built. thus the business originated on this spot was coming back to its old home. in january, 1792, "the committee to superintend the business of the tontine coffee house institution," gave notice that they would pay a premium of ten guineas to the person who should hand in before the 20th of february next, the best plan for the proposed building, and a premium of five guineas for the second best plan. the objects to be considered in the plans were, "solidity, neatness and useful accommodation"; the building to be four stories high and to occupy a space of fifty feet by seventy. the plans in competition were to be sent to mr. david grim. a petition for the privilege of adding to the tontine coffee house a piazza to extend over the sidewalk, presented by john watts and others in march, 1792, was refused, but, on may 11 permission was given for a piazza to extend six feet over the wall street sidewalk. the corner-stone of the building was laid with considerable ceremony on the 5th of june. the first landlord of the house, when completed, was john hyde. just a year later, on wednesday, june 5, 1793, one hundred and twenty gentlemen sat down to a dinner provided by mr. hyde at the tontine coffee house to celebrate the anniversary of the laying of the corner-stone of that building. after dinner when fifteen toasts had been drunk, the chairman offered an additional toast, which was: "success to the tontine coffee house and may it long continue to reflect credit on the subscribers." [sidenote: the cap of liberty] during the french revolution the sympathies of the people of the united states were greatly excited, but many of those who wished success to france were filled with disgust and indignation at the behavior of the french minister genet, and of bompard, the commander of the french ship, l'ambuscade, who, after landing genet at charleston, south carolina, made his way north to philadelphia, boarding american ships on his way and seizing british merchantmen near the coast and even in the very bays of the united states. bompard and his officers were received at philadelphia with great enthusiasm. on the 12th of june, 1793, they arrived in new york. instantly there was great excitement. those friendly to them carried things to extremes. opposed to them were the supporters of government and good order, joined to the strong english faction that had long prevailed. two days after their arrival, the cap of liberty was set up in the tontine coffee house, according to one account, by "the friends of liberty, equality, and the rights of man, amid the acclamations of their fellow citizens, in defiance of all despotic tyrants. it was a beautiful crimson adorned with a white torsel and supported by a staff." the cap, "sacred to liberty," was declared to be under the protection of the old whigs, and the aristocrats, as the opposite party was tauntingly called, were defied to take it down. this defiance brought forth a threat that it would be done, and, in expectation that its removal would be attempted, for several days, hundreds of people gathered in front of the house. no attempt, at that time, seems to have been made to remove the cap, and the excitement gradually subsided. the cap of liberty remained undisturbed in its place for almost two years. a newspaper of may 19, 1795, states that "the liberty cap having been removed from the barr of the tontine coffee house by some unknown person, the ceremony of its re-establishment in the coffee house took place yesterday afternoon. a well designed, carved liberty cap, suspended on the point of an american tomahawk, and the flags of the republics of america and france, attached on each side, formed a handsome figure." a large gathering of people attended "the consecration of the emblem of liberty," and the meeting was highly entertained by numerous patriotic songs. voluntary detachments from several of the uniform companies joined in the celebration. on the 22d of may, only four days after being placed in the coffee house, the french flag was removed. an attempt was made to recover it and arrest the person who took it down. a boat was dispatched in pursuit of the person who was supposed to have taken it, but it returned without success. colonel walter bicker, in behalf of a number of citizens of new york, offered a reward of one hundred and fifty dollars for the capture of the thief who stole the french flag from the coffee house, with what result is unknown. [sidenote: new york stock exchange] an english traveler, who visited new york in 1794, writes that: "the tontine tavern and coffee house is a handsome, large brick building; you ascend six or eight steps under a portico, into a large public room, which is the stock exchange of new york, where all bargains are made. here are two books kept, as at lloyd's, of every ship's arrival and clearing out. this house was built for the accommodation of the merchants, by tontine shares of two hundred pounds each. it is kept by mr. hyde, formerly a woolen draper in london. you can lodge and board there at a common table, and you pay ten shillings currency a day, whether you dine out or not." as stated above, the tontine coffee house had become the stock exchange of new york. in the first directory of the city, published in 1786, there is only one stock-broker, archibald blair. on january 9, 1786, archibald blair announced that he "has a broker's office and commission store at 16 little queen street, where he buys and sells all kinds of public and state securities, also old continental money. he has for sale jamaica rum, loaf sugar, bar iron, lumber and dry goods." a few years later several announcements of such brokers are found in the newspapers, among others the following which appeared in the daily advertiser of december 9, 1790. "sworn stock broker's office. no. 57 king street. the subscriber, having opened an office for negociating the funds of the united states of america, has been duly qualified before the mayor of the city, that he will truly and faithfully execute the duties of a stock broker, and that he will not directly or indirectly interest himself in any purchase or sale of the funds of the united states of america, on his own private account, for the term of six months from the date hereof. the opinion of many respectable characters has confirmed his own ideas of the utility of establishing an office in this city upon the principles of a sworn broker of europe. the advantages of negociating through the medium of an agent no ways interested in purchases or sales on his own account, is too evident to every person of discernment to need any comment. every business committed to his care shall be executed by the subscriber with diligence, faithfulness and secrecy, and he trusts that his conduct will confirm the confidence, and secure the patronage of his friends and fellow citizens. john pintard." the first evidence of an approach to anything like organization was an announcement made in the early part of march, 1792, that "the stock exchange office" would be open at no. 22 wall street for the accommodation of dealers in stocks, in which public sales would be daily held at noon, as usual, in rotation. soon after this, on wednesday, march 21st, a meeting of merchants and dealers in stocks was held at corre's hotel, when they came to a resolution that after the 21st of april next, they would not attend any sales of stocks at public auction. they appointed a committee "to provide a proper room for them to assemble in, and to report such regulations relative to the mode of transacting business as in their opinion may be proper." this resulted in the first agreement of the dealers in securities, the oldest record in the archives of the new york stock exchange, dated may 17, 1792, fixing the rate of brokerage. it was signed by twenty-four brokers for the sale of public stocks. for some time the brokers do not appear to have had a settled place of meeting. their favorite place was in the open air in the shadow of a large buttonwood tree, which stood on the north side of wall street, opposite the division line of nos. 68 and 70. here they met and transacted business something like our curb brokers of to-day, but in a much more leisurely way. when the tontine coffee house was completed in 1793, it became the stock exchange of new york and remained so for a great many years. [sidenote: the roger morris house] a stage coach line was opened to boston in 1784 and to albany the next year, when the roger morris house on the kingsbridge road was opened by talmadge hall as a tavern for the accommodation of the stage coach passengers, and was probably the first stopping place going out. it continued to be kept as a tavern for many years after this and is said to have been a favorite place of resort for pleasure parties from the city. it became known as calumet hall. its landlord in 1789 was captain william marriner. in october, 1789, president washington visited, by appointment, the fruit gardens of mr. prince at flushing, long island. he was taken over in his barge, accompanied by the vice-president, the governor of the state, mr. izard, colonel smith and major jackson. on their way back they visited the seat of gouverneur morris at morrisania, and then went to harlem, where they met mrs. washington, mrs. adams and mrs. smith, daughter of the vice-president, dined at marriner's and came home in the evening. in july following a large party was formed to visit fort washington. washington, in his diary, does not state that mrs. washington was of the party, but it is to be presumed that she was; the others, beside himself, were "the vice-president, his lady, son and mrs. smith; the secretaries of state, treasury and war and the ladies of the two latter; with all the gentlemen of my family, mrs. lear, and the two children." this was a notable party. they dined at marriner's, who, no doubt, felt the importance of the occasion and exerted himself accordingly. [illustration: old sleigh] marriner's tavern, the roger morris house, was situated at such a distance from the city, on the only road of any length on the island, as to make it a good objective point for pleasure parties. an english traveler who visited new york in 1796, writes: "the amusement of which they seem most passionately fond is that of riding on the snow in what _you_ would call a sledge, drawn by two horses. it is astonishing to see how anxiously persons of all ages and both sexes look out for a good fall of snow, that they may enjoy their favorite amusement; and when the happy time comes, to see how eager they are to engage every sleigh that is to be had. parties of twenty or thirty will sometimes go out of town in these vehicles towards evening, about six or eight miles, when, having sent for a fiddler, and danced till they are tired, they will return home again by moonlight or perhaps more often by daylight. whilst the snow is on the ground no other carriages are made use of, either for pleasure or service." marriner's house was well suited for just such parties of pleasure and we can easily imagine that the large octagonal room was about this time, of crisp winter nights, the scene of many a merry dance. the english traveler is supported in what he says by the announcement of christopher colles in a new york newspaper in january, 1789, that so long as the sleighing lasted he would continue his electrical experiments and exhibition of curiosities, at halsey's celebrated tavern in harlem. it would seem from this that his lectures needed the incentive of a sleigh ride to make them more popular. captain marriner was still keeping the house in the summer of 1794 when it was visited by an englishman who thus writes about his visit to the place: "whoever has a vacant day and fine weather, while at new york, let him go to haarlem, eleven miles distant. there is _a pleasant tavern_ on an eminence near the church; a branch of the sea, or eastern river, runs close beneath you, where you may have excellent fishing. on the opposite side are two pleasant houses, belonging to colonel morris, and a captain lambert, an english gentleman, who retired hither after the war. mr. marriner, the landlord, is a very intelligent, well educated man; i fished with him for an hour and received a great deal of pleasure from his conversation." * * * "he pressed me very much to stay at his house for a week, and i should pay what i pleased. on our return mr. l---and myself drank tea and coffee at brannon's tea garden. here was a good greenhouse, with orange and lemon trees, a great quantity of geraniums, aloes and other curious shrubs and plants. iced creams and iced liquors are much drank here during the hot weather by parties from new york." brannon's tea garden was on the road leading to the village of greenwich at the present junction of hudson and spring streets, and had been there since previous to the revolution. captain marriner is said to have been eccentric, but whether this be so or not, he was undoubtedly a brave man and was engaged during the war in several daring adventures. he presented a picturesque character in the history of that period. [sidenote: capt. marriner's raid] when captain marriner was held as a prisoner in the early part of the war, on his parole, quartered with rem van pelt, of new utrecht, long island, one day at dr. van buren's tavern in flatbush, his sarcastic wit brought on him abusive language from major sherbrook of the british army. when marriner was exchanged, he determined to capture the major and some others. for this purpose he repaired to new jersey and procured a whale-boat, which he manned with a crew of twenty-two well armed volunteers, with whom he proceeded to new utrecht, landing on the beach about half-past nine o'clock in the evening. leaving two men in charge of the boat, with the rest he marched unmolested to flatbush church, where he divided his men into four squads, assigning a house to each party, who, provided with a heavy post, were to break in the door when they should hear marriner strike. general jeremiah johnson, in his account of the affair states that marriner captured the major, whom he found hidden behind a large chimney in the garret, but the new york newspapers state that he carried back with him to new jersey major montcrieffe and mr. theophylact bache. on another visit to long island, captain marriner carried off simon cortelyou, of new utrecht, in return for his uncivil conduct to the american prisoners. on a large rock in the north river, not far from the shore, stood a bath house surmounted by a flagstaff. noting this, marriner determined to give the english fresh cause for chagrin. he accordingly procured the new american flag which had just been adopted, and taking with him a few men, boldly rowed into the river one night and nailed it to the pole, where it was discovered early next morning. sailors, sent to remove it, were obliged to cut away the pole, amid the jeers and protests of the boys gathered on the beach. marriner was keeping a tavern in new york city before the war. an important meeting was held at marriner's tavern at the time of the election of delegates to the first continental congress, in 1774. after the war he returned to the same business, and in 1786 was the landlord of a house on the corner of john and nassau streets, where he offered to serve his customers "in the neatest and most elegant manner," with oysters, cooked in a variety of ways, beef steaks, etc., with the very best of liquors. he, at one time kept the ferry house at harlem, and ran the ferry to morrisania. in the early part of the nineteenth century captain benson built a large tavern at the junction of the kingsbridge road with the road from harlem, which was for some years conducted by captain marriner, who gained great celebrity for the excellent table he set, and for the stories of whale-boat exploits during the war, which he was never tired of relating. when the st. andrew's society celebrated their anniversary on november 30, 1790, at the city tavern, they had as guests at their dinner, governor clinton, the mayor of the city, general horatio gates and the principal officers of the other humane national societies of the city. in an account given of the dinner, it is stated that, "a few hours passed happily away, divided between the animating tale, the cheerful glass and the heart enlivening song." the annual election of officers of the society of the cincinnati was held on the 4th of july each year, after which there was a dinner, followed by toasts. for several year its meeting place was at corré's hotel in broadway. joseph corré, at one time landlord of the city tavern, opened, in 1790, a house at no. 24 broadway, which was for some years one of the best and most popular taverns or hotels in the city. meetings of societies, concerts, balls and political meetings were held here. [sidenote: dinners on evacuation day] on monday, november 25, 1793, the tenth anniversary of the evacuation of new york by the british troops, was celebrated in the city with great enthusiasm. at sunrise a salute was fired from the battery followed immediately by the ringing of all the bells in the city. this was repeated at noon, when the corporation, the officers of the militia, the french officers in town and many citizens waited on the governor to congratulate him on the occasion. the militia officers then waited on the mayor of the city, the chief justice of the united states and the minister of the french republic. the ambuscade frigate was elegantly decorated and at one o'clock fired a salute of twenty-one guns. the militia officers, honored with the company of the governor, general gates and a number of french officers, sat down to an elegant dinner prepared for them at the city tavern, "where they spent the remainder of the day in great spirits and good fellowship." toasts were drunk under the discharge of artillery. the gentlemen of the corporation celebrated the day at the tontine coffee house, where an elegant dinner was served up by mr. hyde and patriotic toasts were drunk. the society of tammany also celebrated the day. at the tavern of robert hunter, in wall street, a dinner was served up to a number of citizens in celebration of the day, and the same was done in several other of the principal taverns of the city. the dinner on evacuation day at bardin's was one of the last notable dinners given in the old city tavern. preparations were being made to take it down and build on its site a fine hotel. in 1793 the city tavern was still owned by john peter de lancey, son of lieutenant-governor james de lancey, who sold it to the tontine association, who, taking down the old house, built upon its site the city hotel. in the deed of transfer, dated march 3, 1793, john peter de lancey and elizabeth, his wife, for the consideration of six thousand pounds (£6,000), lawful money of the state of new york, convey the property to philip livingston, john watts, thomas buchanan, gulian verplanck, james watson, moses rogers, james farquhar, richard harrison and daniel ludlow, all of the city and state of new york, in trust for all the subscribers to the new york tontine hotel and assembly room and their heirs, upon such terms, conditions and restrictions, and with such right of survivorship as may be hereafter agreed upon and settled by the majority of the said subscribers or their representatives. in november, 1793, nicholas cruger, chairman of the committee having the business in charge, gave notice that they would pay a premium of twenty guineas for the best plan of the building about to be erected, to be handed in before the first day of january next, requesting that the plans may not be signed, but designated by a private mark, accompanied by a letter to the chairman, with the same mark on the outside. [sidenote: the city hotel] the new house which was erected in the early part of the year 1794 was called the tontine hotel, but it soon came to be more generally spoken of as the city hotel. robert hunter, who had been keeping a tavern in wall street, became its first landlord. he was in possession of it and meetings were being held there in the early part of june, 1794. it was considered the largest and finest hotel then in the united states. it became the meeting place of societies and associations and of the city assembly which continued to flourish as it had done for many years. on friday, october 7, 1796, there was great rejoicing in the city over the french victories, news of which had just been received. the church bells were rung from twelve to one o'clock, "and in the evening, as it were by patriotic sympathy, a hall full of old whigs and friends to the liberty of man, assembled at hunter's hotel, where a number of patriotic songs were sung, a cold collation was served up and sixteen toasts were given apropos of the news of the day." the nineteenth anniversary of the signing of the treaty of alliance between france and the united states was celebrated on monday, february 6, 1797, at hunter's hotel by a numerous assembly of patriotic citizens. hunter remained landlord of the city hotel until 1799, when he was succeeded by john lovett, under whose management the house became quite popular. [illustration: the city hotel] saturday, the 4th of july, 1795, the anniversary of our independence was celebrated in the city with more than usual attention, induced probably by the political excitement which then prevailed. the ringing of all the bells of the city with a federal salute from the battery ushered in the day, which was repeated at noon and in the evening. there was a large procession, which about eleven o'clock moved from the battery to the new presbyterian church where the declaration of independence was read by edward livingston and an elegant and patriotic discourse was delivered by the rev. mr. miller. on returning to the battery, where a feu-de-joie was fired the different societies that had taken part separated and at three o'clock sat down to entertainments prepared for them at different places in the city. after dinner, the corporation, the society of the cincinnati, the militia officers, the society of tammany, the mechanic and democratic societies and the merchants at the tontine coffee house sent deputations to each other with congratulations upon the return of the day. the festivities closed with a beautiful display of fireworks under the direction of colonel bauman. the merchants, who celebrated the day by a dinner at the tontine coffee house were honored by the company of governor jay, major-general morris, judge iredell, mr. reed, senator in congress from south carolina, judge hobart, judge lawrence, colonel hamilton, mr. king, the mayor of the city, doctor johnson, the secretary of the state, the attorney-general of the district, the treasurer of the state, captain dennis, captain talbot, captain thomson. after the dinner toasts were drunk as usual. [sidenote: the tammany wigwam] for some years the tammany society had their anniversary dinners and their fourth of july dinners at bardin's, the city tavern. the great wigwam of the society was in the old exchange in broad street, where it continued to be until the building was taken down in 1799. after this the long room of abraham b. martling's tavern on the corner of nassau and george (now spruce) streets, where the american tract society building now stands, became the wigwam of the society. during the period of political excitement, from 1793 to 1795 and later, the tammany society is said to have been opposed to radical measures, which might have involved us in european difficulties. a toast drunk at one of their festivals was, "the hawks of war--may they be harmless." in 1795, during the excitement about the jay treaty, the minority of the united states senate who voted against it were toasted, thus showing that there was then in the society a strong anti-federal sentiment. on july 4, 1798, the tammany society met in their great wigwam in the evening, where a newspaper states "they partook of a collation and drank toasts which were in unison with their political opinions." this was about the beginning of tammany's political career. the principles of jefferson were in the ascendant; it had become a republican society. martling's tavern was a low, wooden building, with a very rough exterior devoid of paint, having an entrance on nassau street. the long room was in the rear of the house, and its somewhat dilapidated appearance caused it to be called the "pig pen," by those not friendly to tammany. all the leading republicans of the day attended the meetings held here, and although the party was threatened by divisions of the burrites, the lewisites and the clintonians, it was held together. [illustration: martling's tavern] during the french revolution there were many frenchmen who had been driven from france and had taken refuge in new york city. one of these was the famous gastronome, anthelme brillât-savarin, author of la physiologie du gout, who tells us something of the way they enjoyed themselves while here. he says: "i sometimes passed the evening in a sort of café-taverne, kept by a mr. little, where he served in the morning turtle soup, and in the evening all the refreshments customary in the united states. i generally took with me vicomte de la massue and jean rodolphe fehr, formerly a mercantile broker at marseilles, both _emigrés_ like myself. i treated them to welch-rabbit, which was washed down with ale or cider, and here we passed the evening talking over our misfortunes, our pleasures, and our hopes." [sidenote: a drinking bout] michael little's tavern, or porter house, as it was called, was at 56 pine street, a little below william street, and it speaks well for the house that it should have been selected by brillât-savarin and his friends as a place for their suppers. brillât-savarin spent two years in new york, 1794-96, supporting himself by giving lessons in the french language and playing in the orchestra of the theater. he gives a very amusing account of a dinner party at little's place, of which he and his two friends formed a part. he had met there mr. wilkinson, an englishman from jamaica and his friend, whose name he never knew, whom he described as a very taciturn man, with a square face, keen eyes, and features as expressionless as those of a blind man, who appeared to notice everything but never spoke; only, when he heard a witty remark or merry joke, his face would expand, his eyes close, and opening a mouth as large as the bell of a trumpet, he would send forth a sound between a laugh and a howl called by the english, horse laugh; after which he would relapse into his habitual taciturnity. mr. wilkinson appeared to be about fifty years of age, with the manners and all the bearing of a gentleman (_un homme comme il faut_). these two englishmen, pleased with the society of brillât-savarin and his friends, had many times partaken of the frugal collation which was offered them, when, one evening, wilkinson took brillât-savarin to one side and declared his intention of engaging all three of them to dine with him. the invitation was accepted and fixed for three o'clock in the afternoon of the third day after. as they were about to leave the waiter quietly told brillât-savarin that the jamaicans had ordered a good dinner and had given directions that the wine and liquor be carefully prepared, because they regarded the invitation as a challenge or test of drinking powers, and that the man with the big mouth had said that he hoped to put the frenchmen under the table. for such a drinking bout brillât-savarin had no relish, but the frenchmen could not now very well avoid it without being accused of being frightened by the englishmen. although aware of the danger, following the maxim of marshal de saxe, "as the wine was drawn they prepared to drink it." ("_le vin etait tiré, nous nous preparâmes à le boire._") brillât-savarin had no fear for himself, but he did not wish to see his two friends go down with the others; he wished to make it a national victory, and not an individual one. he, therefore, sent for his friends and gave them a lecture. he instructed them to restrain their appetites at the beginning so as to eat moderately with the wine throughout the whole dinner, to drink small draughts and even contrive to get rid of the wine sometimes without drinking it. they divided among them a quantity of bitter almonds, recommended for such an occasion. at the appointed time they all met at little's tavern, and soon after the dinner was served. it consisted of an enormous piece of roast beef, a turkey (_dindon cuit dans son jus_), vegetables, a salad and a tart (_tarte aux comfitures_). they drank after the french fashion, that is to say, the wine was served from the commencement. it was very good claret. mr. wilkinson did the honors of the table admirably. his friend appeared absorbed in his plate and said nothing. brillât-savarin was charmed with his two friends. la massue, although endowed with a sufficiently good appetite, was mincing his food like a delicate young lady, and fehr was adroitly succeeding in passing glasses of wine into a beer pot at the end of the table. he himself was holding up well against the two englishmen, and the more the dinner advanced the more confident he felt. after the claret came port, after port, madeira, at which they stuck for a long time. on the arrival of the dessert, composed of butter, cheese and nuts, was the time for toasts. they drank to the power of kings, the liberty of the people and the beauty of women; particularly to the health of mr. wilkinson's daughter, mariah, who, he assured his guests, was the most beautiful person in all the island of jamaica. after the wine came spirits--rum, brandy and whiskey--and with the spirits, songs. brillât-savarin avoided the spirits and called for punch. little himself brought in a bowl of it, without doubt prepared in advance, sufficient for forty persons. no such vessel for drink was ever seen in france. brillât-savarin says that he ate five or six slices of buttered toast (_roties d'un beurre extremement frais_) and felt his forces revived. he then took a survey of the situation, for he was becoming much concerned as to how it would all end. his two friends appeared quite fresh and drank as they picked the nuts. wilkinson's face was scarlet, his eyes were troubled and he appeared to be giving way. his friend said nothing, but his head smoked like a boiling caldron. the catastrophe was approaching. suddenly mr. wilkinson started to his feet and began to sing rule britannia, but he could get no farther than these words; his strength failed him; he felt himself drop into his chair and from there rolled under the table (_coula sous le table_). his friend seeing him in this state, emitted one of his noisiest laughs, and stooping to assist him fell by his side. brillât-savarin, viewing the scene with considerable satisfaction and relief, rang the bell, and when little came up, after addressing him the conventional phrase, "see to it that these gentlemen are properly cared for," with his friends drank with him their health in a parting glass of punch. the waiter, with his assistants, soon came in and bore away the vanquished, whom they carried out, according to the rule, _feet foremost_, which expression is used in english to designate those _dead or drunk_, mr. wilkinson still trying to sing rule britannia, his friend remaining absolutely motionless. next day seeing in the newspapers an account of what had happened, with the remark that the englishmen were ill, brillât-savarin went to see them. he found the friend suffering from a severe attack of indigestion. mr. wilkinson was confined to his chair by the gout, brought on probably by his late dissipation. he seemed sensible to the attention and said to brillât-savarin, among other things: "oh! dear sir, you are very good company, indeed, but too hard a drinker for us." [illustration: anthelme brillat-savarin] brillât-savarin was a convivial soul, a lover of good cheer and openhanded hospitality. the time passed so pleasantly and he was so comfortable while in new york city, that on taking his departure for france, in 1796, he declared that all he asked of heaven was, never to know greater sorrow in the old world that he had known in the new. he settled in paris, and after holding several offices under the directory, became a judge in the cour de cassation, the french court of last resort, where he remained until his death, in 1826. while without special reputation as a jurist, as a judge and expounder of gastronomic excellence, his name has become immortalized. on the 16th of december, 1796, "the young men of the city who were willing to contribute to the preservation of the public safety, at that critical juncture," were invited to attend a meeting "at mr. little's porter house in pine street that evening at seven o'clock in order to form an association for that laudable purpose." soon after this little moved to no. 42 broad street, the old fraunces' tavern. at this place, on wednesday, july 28, 1802, the two friends of de witt clinton and colonel john swartwout met to make arrangements for the duel which took place at hoboken on saturday, july 31st. a meeting of the gentlemen of the bar of the city of new york was held here february 11, 1802. [illustration] xii the city hotel [sidenote: the black friars] the social ties that had existed before the revolution were all broken up, and new connections had to be formed. societies, like the st. andrew and st. george, were revived, and patriotic societies, such as the cincinnati and the tammany were formed. the first purely social club after the war, of which we have any knowledge, was the black friars, founded november 10, 1784, the officers of which were a father, chancellor, cardinals and priors. on may 9, 1789, the society held a festival at the friary, dinner being served at half-past four, and on november 10th of the same year celebrated its anniversary, an oration being delivered by dr. tillery. after dinner, eleven toasts were drunk, only eleven states having then come into the union. one of these toasts was: "the fair daughters of columbia, may they ever find a friend in a friar." the society was charitable as well as social, and met twice a month at the friary, no. 56 pine street. among its members at this time were josiah ogden hoffman, benjamin graves, john stagg, dr. james tillery, bernard hart, dr. benjamin kissam, richard harwood, john fisher and oliver glean. in 1802 the friary was at the hotel of john adams, jr., 68 william street. its meetings were also held at the merchants' coffee house; by order of the father. [sidenote: the drone club] the friendly club, under the presidency of general laight, existed for some years about this period, and included among its members many prominent men of the city. it met at the houses of its members in rotation every tuesday evening. it was the duty of the host to direct the conversation and at the close of the discussion light refreshments were served. the drone club, a select and literary circle, was instituted about the year 1792. its aim was intellectual advancement and the cultivation of letters rather than social or festive enjoyment. its members were recognized by proofs of authorship, and in its ranks was the best talent of the city. it seems to be a fact that social clubs that met at taverns had more vitality than those that held their meeting at the houses of members. [sidenote: the belvedere club] the belvedere house was built in the year 1792 by thirty-three gentlemen composing the belvedere club. it was situated near the east river, about a quarter of a mile beyond the paved streets of the east side of the city, its site being now about the center of the block bounded by montgomery, cherry, clinton and monroe streets. the original intention was to build merely a couple of rooms for the use of the club, but the beauty of the situation induced them to extend their plan and they erected a building to answer the purposes of a public hotel or tavern as well as for their own accommodation. the ball-room, which included the whole of the second story of the east front of the house was octagon, forty-five feet long, twenty-four feet wide and seventeen feet high, with a music gallery. this room, finished and decorated in admirable style, was retained by the club for their saturday evening meetings, during the summer season, the only exclusive privilege which the proprietors held. its windows opened to the floor, communicating with a balcony twelve feet wide which surrounded the eastern part of the house and afforded a most agreeable promenade. the room under this on the ground floor, of the same shape and size in length and breadth as the ball-room, was used as a dinner and supper room for large companies and public entertainments. on the west side of the house were two dining parlors, a bar-room, two card-rooms and a number of bed chambers. to the west of the house was a small courtyard with stables, coach house and other offices; to the east, although the grounds were small, was a bowling green, and there were graveled walks and some shrubbery. from the balcony of the house could be seen a great part of the city, the bay of new york, long island, the east river as far as hell gate, and the bold and magnificent pallisades bordering the north river on the jersey side. [illustration: belvedere club house] the house when completed, was taken by john avery, who in december, 1793, was prepared to supply ladies and gentlemen with dinners and suppers, and made it known that the use of the ball-room could be obtained on seasonable notice, for public or private parties, balls or concerts. in 1798, the society of the cincinnati, after transacting at federal hall, the usual business of their anniversary meeting, on july 4th, adjourned to the belvedere for the dinner which was served up to them in the usual style. the belvedere was an hilarious association, the main object of which was social enjoyment. its members were doubtless much interested in the pleasures of riding and driving and probably supported to some extent the races which are said to have been regularly held on the bowery lane, about the opening of the nineteenth century. [sidenote: improvement in the city hotel] john lovett was landlord of the city hotel until 1807, when he was succeeded by chenelette dusseaussoir, who had been a confectioner, with a store at no. 102, on the opposite side of broadway, below the hotel. he continued as landlord for two years, when in 1809, solomon d. gibson took charge of the house, and two years later, after making some alterations, informs the public that, "the ordinary of the hotel is always supplied with every variety and delicacy which the season will permit, while the bar can boast an ample stock of superior wines calculated to tempt the taste of the epicure. a new and elegant bar-room and coffee-room, fronting on broadway, have lately been added; which, unrivalled in point of pure air and salubrity, and commanding a delightful view of a street embellished with all the facinations of beauty and by all the graces of fashion, present irresistable attractions to gentlemen of taste." the city hotel afforded better accommodations for balls and concerts than any other place in the city, and the most important affairs of such a nature were held here. what was called the old assembly room in william street was also used for such purposes. in february, 1802, announcement was made that the second juvenile assembly would be held on the 18th at this place. this was probably a rival of the city assembly. in the announcement their rules are given out, which appear to have been very strict. [sidenote: city assembly] an english traveler who visited new york in 1807 states that the city hotel nearly resembles in size and architecture the london tavern in bishopgate street. he also says: "dancing is an amusement that the new york ladies are passionately fond of, and they are said to excel those of every other city in the union. i visited the city assembly, which is held at the city hotel in the broadway, and considered as the best in new york. it was the first night of the season, and there was not more than one hundred and fifty persons present. i did not perceive anything different from an english assembly, except the cotillions, which were danced in an admirable manner, alternately with the country dances. several french gentlemen were present, and figured away in the cotillions with considerable taste and agility. the subscription is two dollars and a half for each night, and includes tea, coffee, and cold collation. none but the first class of society can become subscribers to this assembly. another has, however, been recently established, in which the genteel part of the second class are admitted, who were shut out from the city assembly. a spirit of jealousy and pride has caused the subscribers of the new assembly to make their subscriptions three dollars, and to have their balls also at the city hotel. it was so well conducted, that many of the subscribers of the city assembly seceded, and joined the opposition one, or subscribed to both." [sidenote: musical societies] about the opening of the nineteenth century there were several musical societies in new york. some of these were short-lived, but others arose to take their places. the euterpean was of this period. it lasted until the middle of the century and exercised a considerable influence on the musical taste of the time. there was also a philharmonic society. on the 16th of february, 1802, the columbian anacreontic society gave their annual ladies' concert at the tontine assembly rooms, in the city hotel, broadway. it must have been considered a very fine affair, for the account of it in the evening post next day fills more than a column of the paper. the article states that the concert was "given in a style of superior elegance. the whole suite of apartments occupied by the city assemblies were thrown open on this occasion. no pains or expense had been spared to provide suitable entertainment. * * * the company assembled at an early hour and were numerous beyond any former occasion." between the acts refreshments were served from the tea-room, which part of the entertainment was received by the company with marks of appreciation. the newspaper article concludes: "we beg permission to express our hope that an institution so honorable to the taste and manners of our city, may continue to receive the electric applause of beauty and fashion." [sidenote: second hudson centennial] new york celebrated the second centennial anniversary of the discovery of the hudson river on monday, the 4th of september, 1809, under the auspices of the new york historical society. it was not so grand and elaborate an affair as that of the third centennial celebration, gotten up by the city two years ago, yet, nevertheless, it was an appropriate celebration. at the request of the society the rev. dr. samuel miller delivered a learned and interesting address concerning this event, before a large and respectable audience of ladies and gentlemen at the city hall, among whom were the governor, the mayor and the corporation of the city. at four o'clock the members of the society with the invited guests sat down to an elegant dinner prepared for them by messrs. fay and gibson at the city hotel. shell fish and other fish, with which our waters abound, were served, with wild pigeon and corn and beans or succotash, the old dutch or indian dish, the favorite dish of the season, and the different meats introduced into the country by the early settlers. such dishes were served as were common in the early history of the city. one of the toasts, which was offered by simeon dewitt, was: "may our successors a century hence celebrate the same event which we this day commemorate." the spirit of simeon dewitt may have been the guardian angel of our recent celebration. [sidenote: st. andrew's society dinners] the dinners of the st. andrew's society seem to have surpassed all others. the st. andrew's society of the state of new york celebrated its anniversary on monday, november 30, 1801, at the tontine coffee house. here, after disposing of the usual business of the society, they sat down to a dinner prepared by james rathwell, the landlord of the house, which, it is said "was never exceeded in this city for elegance and variety, and spent the evening to a pretty late hour with much conviviality and friendship." they were honored with the company of the mayor, his predecessor in that office, and that of the british consul. one account of the dinner states: "we have never heard so many original and appropriate songs as were sung on this occasion, and never witnessed more genuine satisfaction beam in every eye." in 1802, and in 1803, the society celebrated their anniversary at the same place and the dinner each year was prepared by mr. rathwell in the same superior style as in 1801. in 1804 the society celebrated their anniversary at the tontine coffee house, and at four o'clock sat down to a dinner prepared in the best style by mr. hyde, who was again the landlord of the house, "and spent their convivial hour with the dignified festivity of men attached to each other by personal respect, by love to their native and adopted country, and by a generous concurrance in extending a generous proportion of their own comforts to their suffering brethren." the mayor of the city, the british consul general, captain beresford, of the navy, and other gentlemen of distinction honored the society with their company. on the wall of the room hung a full length portrait of general hamilton, the property of the chamber of commerce. pointing to this, a member of the society gave the toast: "our silent monitor--may we ever emulate his virtues." when the society celebrated their anniversary, november 30, 1805, the landlord of the tontine coffee house was thomas vaughan, who prepared for them a dinner "unusually sumptuous and elegant." the guests were the mayor of the city, the british consul general, the hon. robert r. livingston and captain porteous. at this meeting the society passed a resolution, offered by dr. tillery "to erect a plain, neat monument in memory of that great and good man, major general hamilton, on the spot where he received the wound which terminated in his death and which deprived america of her greatest pride and ornament." the next year mr. vaughan again prepared the anniversary dinner for the society at the tontine coffee house, when "they allowed themselves to indulge in that degree of innocent mirth and decent conviviality, which comports with the character of those whose flow of soul must not extend beyond the feast of reason." after dinner toasts were drunk interspersed with scottish songs and "tales of other times." in 1810, honored by the company of several distinguished guests, the st. andrew's society celebrated their anniversary at the city hotel, then kept by solomon d. gibson. a newspaper states: "it would be a want of justice in us towards mr. gibson not to state that the style in which the dinner was gotten up and the quality of his wines were such as gave entire satisfaction to the company and did himself much credit." "after the cloth was removed a number of appropriate toasts were given and the social glass, the cheerful song and 'weel timed daffin,' kept a considerable party together till 'some wee short hour ayont the t'wai' hinted to each to 'tak the way that pleased himsel,' highly gratified with the agreeable manner in which the day had been spent." [sidenote: a supper at dyde's hotel] for more than ten years the long room of martling's tavern was the wigwam of the tammany society. immediately after the election of jefferson, when the tammany society had become thoroughly republican, a division arose between the friends of de witt clinton, chancellor livingston and colonel burr. each accused the other of faithlessness, dishonesty and duplicity. clinton became involved with colonel john swartwout, a friend of burr, which led to a duel between them at hoboken, in which swartwout was wounded. bitterness between these factions was intense until 1806, when a coalition was entered into between the clintonians and burrites, which was kept secret until the 20th of february, 1806, when they assembled at dyde's hotel to celebrate the union by a supper. the coalition was a surprise to all and was denounced in the strongest terms as an unnatural union, a public outrage, etc. one paper states that "verily a supper was very appropriate; for such deeds of dark and terrible infamy ought to be enacted in the night only," and calls it a political rascality. the factions had accused each other of all sorts of political crimes and now they had joined forces. "come let us chant our joys, we now are foes no more; now we are _honest_ boys, however so before." dyde's house was next door to the park theatre, facing the park. he called it the london hotel and proposed to keep it "in the true old english style, the principles of which are cleanliness, civility, comfort and good cheer." in march, 1806, the park theatre announced the play of macbeth, to be followed by the comedy of the farm house, the curtain to rise at half-past six o'clock. the announcement was followed by a card stating that there could be obtained "an excellent supper at dyde's hotel between the play and farce at 50 cents each; the same every other night at half-past 9 o'clock." verily our ancestors took their pleasures in large and heavy doses. for a time dyde's hotel was quite popular. on sunday, january 11, 1807, mr. foster preached a sermon here, and a meeting of the philharmonic society was held at dyde's hotel, next to the theater, on thursday, january 29, 1807. the philharmonic society met here again in december of the same year for the election of officers of the society when it was called the washington hotel. when a public ball was given here in february, 1808, by mr. armour, a teacher of dancing, it was still known as the washington hotel. in the early part of the year 1809, it appears to have been called the mercantile coffee house, and also the commercial coffee house, but neither of these names clung to it very long. [illustration: white conduit house] [sidenote: tea gardens] the so-called gardens, where ice cream, tea and other beverages were served to the sound of music, were, about the beginning of the century, and had been for some time, popular with the people of new york. during the war, while the city was occupied by the british, near the present corner of broadway and leonard street, there was a public house called the white conduit house, so called from a popular tavern of that name in london. on the 24th of june, 1779, the freemasons, in remembrance of st. john, their patron saint, went in procession to st. paul's church, where an excellent sermon was preached by dr. seabury; "from thence they proceeded, accompanied by the clergy and band of music to the white conduit house, where there was an elegant dinner prepared, and the day was celebrated with great harmony and brotherly love." at the close of the war the place became a public garden and pleasure resort. in 1796 it was under the control of william byram. soon after, when the street was cut through, it came into the possession of joseph corré, who some years before, had been the landlord of the city tavern, and was at the time keeper of an ice cream and tea garden on state street, called the columbian garden. under his management it was known as the mt. vernon garden. the cutting through of the street left the house high above the level, and it was reached by a flight of steps. flying horses and other like amusements were the attractions of the place. corré opened here a summer theater, in which members of the park theater company played during the time their own theater was closed. [sidenote: second vauxhall] bayard's mount, or bunker hill, as it was sometimes called, at the present junction of grand and mulberry streets, the highest point on the island near the city, was a well known landmark in its time, overlooking the city and a wide extent of country including the north and east rivers. there is no sign to-day that such an elevation ever existed at that place. nearby was the bayard homestead which had been the residence of the bayard family for fifty years. in 1798, this, with the surrounding premises, was converted by joseph delacroix, a frenchman, into a popular resort, known as vauxhall garden. it was the second of the name, the first, at the corner of warren and greenwich streets, which, before the war, flourished under the management of sam francis, having been converted, some years previous, into a pottery. on independence day, 1802, particular exertions were made by the summer gardens to attract visitors. it was announced that the open air theatre at the mount vernon garden, under the management of john hodgkinson, of the park theatre, would open the season on monday, july 5th, in celebration of independence day, with the play of "all the world's a stage," after which would be recitations and songs, followed by "the sailor's landlady or jack in distress"; concluding with a grand display of fireworks. tickets to box, six shillings, pit and gallery, four shillings. refreshments as usual. joseph delacroix informed his friends and the public in general that on monday, july 5th, the anniversary of american independence would be celebrated at vauxhall with great splendor, surpassing everything ever yet exhibited in america. a beautiful drawing of the triumphal car which was to take part in the spectacular scene could be seen at the tontine coffee house. doors open at four o'clock. tickets, four shillings. grand illuminations and transparencies were promised at the columbian garden, in state street, opposite the battery. open from six o'clock in the morning until ten o'clock at night. tickets, two shillings. [sidenote: third vauxhall] another place of great notoriety for many years was situated south of the present astor place, between the bowery and broadway, the narrower end of the property on broadway, the entrance being on the bowery. jacob sperry, a native of switzerland, although he had studied physic, purchased the property and for many years devoted himself to the raising of fruits and flowers. in 1803 he sold the garden to john jacob astor for nine thousand pounds (£9,000), then considered a good sale. astor leased it to joseph delacroix, who was then conducting the vauxhall garden on the bayard estate, at grand and mulberry streets, and who, when he moved to it, carried with him the name. under his management it became a noted resort. vauxhall garden was an inclosure said to contain three acres of ground, handsomely laid out with gravel walks and grass plots, and adorned with shrubs, trees, flowers, busts, statues, and arbors. in the center was a large equestrian statue of general washington. there were summer houses, and tables and seats under the trees on the grounds, and boxes or rather stalls around the inside, close up to the high board fence which inclosed the garden, where visitors were served with light refreshments. in the front of the grounds was a building where a theatrical company performed during the summer season. the price of admission was fifty cents to box, pit or gallery, for they were all one and the same thing, the spectators sitting in the open air. the orchestra was among the trees. a resident of philadelphia relates how on a visit to new york, in 1806, he was carried out to the garden in a hackney coach with three other passengers for twenty-five cents each, and there, for fifty cents, saw performed "the agreeable surprise," in which twaits played the principal part. delacroix succeeded in making the garden a very popular resort. all the town flocked to it. it was to the new york of that day something like what coney island is to the new york of to-day. with its numerous lamps among the trees and shrubbery and arbors, its artistic adornments, its fireworks and balloons, its music and its theatrical performances and singing, the people of new york considered it about as gay a place of recreation as could be found anywhere. lafayette place was cut through the property in 1826, but the garden continued to flourish for more than twenty years after. during the later years of its existence it became a favorite place for public meetings. [sidenote: the old coffee house] about the time that the tontine coffee house was built, in 1793, mrs. bradford, who had kept the merchants' coffee house since the death of her husband, in 1786, retired. she lived in cortlandt until her death, in may, 1822. she was succeeded in the old house by john byrne, who opened it as the new york hotel, but it was generally called "the old coffee house." byrne remained there until 1798, when he crossed over to the tontine and was succeeded by edward bardin, who had been a well known tavern-keeper in new york since 1764. many of the old societies continued to patronize the house. the free masons clung to it. the sons of st. patrick celebrated here their anniversaries, and the black friars--a social club--met here by order of the "fathers." the marine society continued here their regular meetings. bardin was in possession of it when it was burned down in the fire of 1804. the building, which was of brick, was valued at $7,500. when the house was rebuilt, bardin returned to it and opened it as the phoenix coffee house, and continued in it until he, too, like his predecessor, went over to the tontine, in 1812. [sidenote: dinner to robert r. livingston] a grand dinner was given to the honorable robert r. livingston at the tontine coffee house, december 7, 1805. although circumstances prevented many from attending, yet the room was crowded, and it is said that on no similar occasion was there ever witnessed a more elegant entertainment or a more respectable company. john watts presided. among those who attended were: the reverend doctor rodgers, the lieutenant governor, the mayor, the foreign consuls, mr. morris, mr. king and mr. van rensselear. after dinner, mr. livingston being called on by the president, gave the toast, "new york--its ports fortified--its commerce prosperous--its mechanics encouraged and its citizens united and happy." mr. livingston having retired amidst the applause of the company the president gave: "robert b. livingston--the successful negociator--the friend of agriculture and the patron of fine arts," which was received with cheers. [illustration: robert r. livingston] [sidenote: the embargo] the embargo of 1807 prostrated the business of the city. in the spring of 1808, the streets, wharfs and quays along the east river appeared almost deserted; the bustle and activity of former days no longer prevailed. there were many ships at the wharfs, but they were dismantled and laid up; their decks were cleared, their hatches were fastened down and hardly a sailor was to be seen. not a box, barrel, bale or package was on the wharfs and many of the counting houses were closed. a few merchants, clerks, porters and laborers could be seen aimlessly strolling about with their hands in their pockets. where there used to be sixty to a hundred carts standing in the street for hire there were scarcely a dozen, and they were unemployed. a few coasting sloops and schooners, clearing out for the ports of the united states, were all that remained of that immense business which was carried on only a few months before. the tontine coffee house was almost empty, the few to be seen, appearing to be there merely to pass away the time, which hung heavy on their hands. there appeared to be little or no business doing there except perhaps a few transactions in securities or stocks. grass had begun to grow upon the wharfs, and the people seemed to have taken leave of all their former gaiety and cheerfulness. the embargo did not accomplish the results desired. it was lifted in the early part of the year 1809, and the activities of business were again resumed. [sidenote: mechanics' hall] the general society of mechanics and tradesmen, founded november 17, 1785, incorporated march 14, 1792, erected a hall of their own on the corner of broadway and robinson street (now park place), in 1802. they held their annual celebration in it for the first time on the 6th of january, 1803. after the election of officers and other business before the society, the two hundred and fifteen members in attendance sat down to a dinner prepared for them by mr. borowsen, who was then in charge of the house. the day was spent with the utmost hilarity and good humor, enlivened by appropriate toasts and songs. the mayor of the city was a guest of the society. mechanics' hall is described as a building eighty by twenty-seven and a half feet. in the basement was a spacious kitchen, etc.; on the first floor a large coffee room, bar, dining room and landlady's room; on the second floor, ceiling sixteen feel high, a large hall fifty-two by twenty-five feet, with a handsome orchestra and a drawing room twenty feet square. on the third floor were five spacious rooms for the use of clubs and meetings of any kind and on the fourth twelve bedrooms. in the spring of 1803, the house was taken by michael little, and soon became a popular place for balls and concerts. it was for some years one of the prominent hotels of the city. the twelfth anniversary of the society was celebrated here in 1804, when mr. little was the landlord of the house. [sidenote: new england society] new york, as headquarters of the british forces in the revolutionary war, had attracted much attention to her advantageous situation, and when peace returned men of energy flocked to it, as offering a good field for enterprise. among these were many from new england, and it is claimed that the city owes much to this element, endowed with intelligence, vitality and perseverance. soon after the opening of the nineteenth century the new england society was formed. their first dinner was given december 21, 1805. for some years their meetings were held at the tontine coffee house and at other prominent public houses, but about 1812 the society settled on niblo's bank coffee house as the regular place for their annual dinners. on december 22, 1807, the society held a grand celebration of their anniversary at the city hotel, where at three o'clock in the afternoon, four hundred gentlemen sat down to an elegant dinner prepared by mr. dusseaussoir. the reverend doctor rodgers and several of the venerable clergy from new england sat at the head of the table on the right of the president. it seems to have been a very merry dinner. an account of it, with the songs and toasts, fills over a column of the evening post. to honor the day, the proprietors and masters of all vessels in the port of new york, belonging to new england, were requested to hoist their colors on the 22d. [sidenote: washington hall] the washington benevolent society was organized on the 12th of july, 1808. on washington's birthday, february 22, 1809, after electing officers of the society, they repaired to zion church, where an oration was delivered. in the evening, about one thousand members of the society sat down to suppers provided for them at five different houses. on the next fourth of july the society celebrated the day with more than usual enthusiasm, taking a leading part. they had a grand parade and laid the corner stone of washington hall on the corner of broadway and reade streets. the president of the society, isaac sebring, after going through the formalities of the occasion, turned to the society and thus impressively addressed them: "while i congratulate the society on this occasion, i cannot but express the hope that the hall, to be erected on this spot, may be sacredly devoted to the cultivation of friendship, of charity, of correct principles and of ardent patriotism. built by the friends of washington, may it never be polluted by the enemies of that illustrious and revered statesman. * * * designed as the seat of rational republican sentiments, may it be forever preserved from the infuriated footsteps of monarchy, aristocracy, anarchy and jacobinism. and may our descendants in the latest generation, meet at this spot to commemorate the virtues of their revolutionary ancestors." [illustration: washington hall] although the washington benevolent society was not organized as a political association there is no doubt that its members were mostly of the federal party. the hamilton society, whose headquarters were at the hamilton hotel in cherry street, was very friendly. this, too, no doubt, was strongly federal, and washington hall, where the two societies joined in celebrating washington's birthday, became, soon after its completion, the headquarters of the federal party, in opposition to tammany hall, completed about the same time, as that of the republicans or democrats. washington hall, at the time of its erection, was considered one of the handsomest structures in the city. although intended to be used as a public hall for meetings, assemblies, etc., it was also kept as a hotel. its first landlord was daniel w. crocker. [sidenote: tammany hall] the corner-stone of tammany hall, corner of the present park place and frankfort street, was laid on monday, may 13, 1811, the twenty-second anniversary of tammany society. abraham m. valentine was the grand marshal of the day. the members of the society appeared in aboriginal costume, wore the buck-tail as usual and marched in indian file. clarkson crolius, grand sachem, laid the corner-stone and made a short and spirited address. alpheus sherman delivered the oration. joseph delacroix, proprietor of vauxhall garden and a good tammanyite, celebrated the twenty-second anniversary of the tammany society and the laying of the corner-stone of the great wigwam by an unusual exhibition and a grand feu-de-joie at the garden at half-past eight o'clock in the evening. when the hall was completed, besides being used as the great wigwam of the tammany society, it was taken by abraham b. martling, and with his nephew, william b. cozzens, conducted as a hotel. [illustration: tammany hall] the fraunces tavern in broad street during the first decade of the nineteenth century continued to be one of the prominent taverns or hotels of the city. the society of the cincinnati had their annual dinner here on the fourth of july, 1804, after a meeting at federal hall. it was then kept by david ross, who had succeeded michael little as its landlord when he went to mechanics' hall. shortly after this, and for some years, it was known as washington hotel. in 1813, on the celebration of the thirtieth anniversary of the evacuation, the independent veteran corps of artillery, after performing the duties of the day, partook of a dinner at this old historic tavern, which seems to have been their headquarters. it was then kept by rudolphus kent. this was repeated the next year on evacuation day. [illustration: fraunces' tavern about 1830] [sidenote: the battery] between state street and the hay was the battery, a beautifully situated open space of ground, where military parades were frequently held. on the fourth of july and other anniversary days, there were brilliant exhibitions here of the artillery and other uniform troops. it was a public ground, where the citizens could enjoy the fresh breezes from the bay and the cool shade of the trees on hot summer days. the prospect afforded of the jersey shore, staten island, long island and the other small islands, of the ships at anchor and of others passing and repassing, made a scene at once variegated and delightful. for those who desired it, music, ice cream and other delicacies could be had at corré's public garden on state street, not far away. [sidenote: the second ranelagh] we have described vauxhall garden, but there was also a ranelagh, a suburban resort, situated about at the junction of grand and division streets, near corlear's hook. it had been formerly known by the name of mount pitt. the adjoining grounds were shady and agreeable and from in front of the house was an extensive view of the city and of the eastern and southern parts of the harbor. at a short distance were the ruins of a battery erected during the revolutionary war, behind belvedere, and on these mouldering ramparts was a pleasant walk and prospect. behind ranelagh were considerable remains of the line of entrenchments, made by the british in 1781, across the island from corlear's hook to lispenard's brewery, to defend the city against the american army. [sidenote: the ugly club] on the 4th of july, 1807, the society of the cincinnati partook of their annual dinner at the house of joseph baker, no. 4 wall street, corner of new, which for many years after this was a well known and popular house. about 1815, a select little circle, composed of the handsomest and most companionable young men of that day to be found in new york city, made this little tavern their rendezvous, where they held frequent convivial meetings. this was the ugly club and baker's tavern, or porter house, was styled ugly hall. fitz-greene halleck was a member of this club and was honored by the appointment of "poet laureate to the ugly club." baker's tavern was for a time the starting place, or terminus of the route, of the stages which ran to greenwich village. on the road to greenwich a little beyond canal street was tyler's, a popular suburban resort, some years before known as brannon's tea garden. many of the old graduates of columbia college, who were living not so many years ago, cherished pleasant memories of commencement suppers indulged in at this place. the sportsman could find not far from the city, on manhattan island, abundance of game; and it was no unusual thing in the gaming season to see well known men with guns on their shoulders and followed by their dogs, making their way up broadway or greenwich street to the open country. in the bowery lane, at the second mile stone, was the dog and duck tavern, which was frequented by those who chose to visit the salt meadows which were covered in the autumn with water-fowl. further up the island, near the five mile stone, was the dove tavern, where those had their quarters who sought the woodcock and quail in the fields and glades, or the wild pigeon in the woods which covered a large part of the land. xiii the shakespeare tavern [sidenote: war] on june 19, 1812, president madison issued his formal proclamation of war with great britain. the news reached new york at nine o'clock on the morning of saturday, june 20th. on the same day orders came to commodore rodgers to sail on a cruise against the enemy. he was in entire readiness and put to sea within an hour after receiving his instructions. he passed sandy hook on the afternoon of june 21st, with his squadron consisting of the president, 44; the united states, 44; the congress, 38; the hornet, 18; and the argus, 16--in all, five vessels, carrying 160 guns. the british force cruising off the coast consisted of eight men-of-war, carrying 312 guns, with a number of corvettes and sloops. in a few months the victories of the american ships thrilled the country with satisfaction and delight and fairly stunned the english who had regarded the american navy as beneath contempt. [illustration: the great naval dinner at the city hotel] [sidenote: dinner to naval heroes] on tuesday, december 29, 1812, a magnificent banquet was given by the corporation and citizens of new york at the city hotel, then kept by gibson, in honor of captain decatur, captain hull and captain jones, to celebrate their recent victories. the dinner was served at five o'clock in the afternoon and five hundred gentlemen sat down to table. it was a naval dinner and marine decorations prevailed. the large dining-room "was colonaded round with the masts of ships entwined with laurels and bearing the flags of all the world." each table had on it a ship in miniature flying the american flag. at the head of the room, at a long table raised about three feet above the others, sat the mayor of the city, dewitt clinton, the president of the feast, with decatur upon his right and hull upon his left. in front of this, in a space covered with green grass was a lake of real water, on which floated a miniature frigate. across the end of the room, back of all, hung on the wall the large main sail of a ship. at the toast, "to our navy," the main-sail was furled, exposing to view two large transparent paintings, one representing the battles between the constitution and the guerriere, the united states and the macedonian and the wasp and the frolic, and the other representing the american eagle holding in his beak three civic crowns, on which were the following inscriptions: "hull and the guerriere"--"jones and the frolic"--"decatur and the macedonian," which produced great enthusiasm among the guests. the dinner was a great success. at the very time it was being served, commodore bainbridge, in the constitution, was engaged with the british frigate, java, in a hot action, lasting nearly two hours, in which he silenced all her guns and made of her a riddled and dismantled hulk, not worth bringing to port. in this same banquet room, the decorations having been retained, the crew of the united states were entertained on thursday, january 7, 1813, by the corporation. alderman vanderbilt delivered the address of welcome to the sailors, of whom there were about four hundred present. after dinner, by invitation, they attended the park theatre, where the drop-curtain had on it a painting representing the fight of the united states and the macedonian. [illustration: stephen decatur] [sidenote: dinner to captain lawrence] on the 13th of may, 1813, by a vote of the common council, a dinner was given to captain lawrence, of the hornet, and his gallant crew at washington hall. the seamen landed at whitehall slip about half-past two o'clock in the afternoon, attended by the band of the eleventh regiment and marched through pearl street, wall street and broadway to washington hall. at half-past three o'clock the petty officers, seamen and marines sat down to a bountiful repast. paintings representing the victories of hull, decatur, jones and bainbridge decorated the walls of the room, and over the chair of the boatswain of the hornet, who was the presiding officer, was an elegant view by holland of the action of the hornet with the peacock. the table was decorated with a great variety of flags and with emblems appropriate to the occasion. after the meats were removed a visit to the room was made by the common council, accompanied by captain lawrence. at the sight of their commander the sailors rose from their seats and heartily cheered him with three times three. perfect order and decorum were preserved and the bottle, the toast and the song went round with hilarity and glee. [illustration: isaac hull] [illustration: j. lawrence] in another room a dinner was served to the corporation and its guests, among whom were captain lawrence and all his officers, the commanders of all the ships of war on the new york station, many of the judges of the courts and colonel joseph g. swift, the commander of the corps of engineers. this room was decorated by many emblematic paintings by mr. holland, descriptive of our naval victories; some of them had been used at the great naval dinner given to decatur, hull and jones at the city hotel in the previous december. the crew were invited to attend the performance at the theater that evening, the front of the theater being illuminated and the pit set apart for their accommodation. they marched in a body from the dinner table to the theater at six o'clock. [sidenote: dinner to general harrison] a dinner was given to general harrison in the afternoon of december 1, 1813, at tammany hall under the direction of the state republican (democratic) general committee of new york. besides the distinguished guest, there were governor tompkins, major-generals dearborn and hampton, judge brockholst livingston, of the united states supreme court, and a great number of officers of the army and navy and of the volunteer corps of the city. the dining hall was handsomely decorated under the direction of mr. holland. there were five tables, containing sixty covers each, ornamented by representations of castles, pyramids, etc., provided by martling and cozzens, the proprietors, in their usual elegant and liberal manner. [sidenote: dinner to commodore bainbridge] the federalists, in their turn, on the 8th of the same month, in the afternoon, gave a splendid dinner to commodore bainbridge at washington hall, at which john b. coles presided. notwithstanding the unpleasant weather there were nearly three hundred persons present. among the number were governor tompkins, mayor clinton, major-generals dearborn and stevens, judges brockholst livingston, van ness and benson and the officers of the navy on the new york station. the room was handsomely decorated and the dinner was provided by captain crocker and served up in a very correct and elegant style. [sidenote: dinner to commodore perry] the next public dinner during the winter season was given to commodore perry on the afternoon of the 11th of january, 1814, at tammany hall, at which about three hundred and fifty persons were present. major james fairlie presided. there were seven tables; one of these, on an elevated platform, at which the honored guests were seated, crossed the eastern end of the room, the others led from it to the lower end, and all were beautifully embellished with numerous ornaments. the pillars of the hall were surrounded with clusters of american flags, and the decorations of the hall were arranged under the gratuitous direction of mr. holland. five transparent paintings from his pencil adorned the walls. one of these, covering about one hundred and fifty square feet, represented a large eagle bearing in his beak and talons a scroll inscribed in large capitals: "we have met the enemy and they are ours." in the evening commodore perry attended a ball at washington hall which followed a concert given at that place. [sidenote: patriotic demonstrations by the two parties] as before the war, the people were divided into two great parties, one for war, the other for peace, but both claiming to be acting for the good of the general government and the welfare of the people, while the fear of disunion of the states hung heavily over the country. at the anniversary dinner at washington hall on the 4th of july, 1813, one of the volunteer toasts was: "our country--disgraced by the folly of democracy, may its character soon be retrieved by the virtue and talents of federalism." the war made the celebration of the fourth of july particularly important, and the two parties vied with each other in patriotic demonstrations. the celebration of independence day, 1814, was made by two grand processions; one was led by the tammany society, which was joined and followed by several other societies; the other was led by the washington benevolent society, joined by the hamilton society. the military parade, headed by the governor, was made entirely independent of any procession. after the procession the members of the tammany society sat down to a repast prepared by martling and cozzens, proprietors of tammany hall hotel, and the members of the washington benevolent society and of the hamilton society dined in the afternoon at washington hall, but in separate rooms. the state society of the cincinnati held their annual meeting at the city hall, after which they retired to the tontine coffee house where a dinner was served to them at four o'clock. commodore decatur, lately elected an honorary member, dined with the society. after dinner, eighteen toasts were drunk, each followed by an appropriate piece of music by moffit's military band. at vauxhall the celebration in the evening surpassed in display and grandeur any previous exhibitions of the kind. [sidenote: news of peace] at the close of the war of 1812 the news of peace was received in new york with the greatest joy. mr. carroll, the bearer of the treaty, on his arrival in the british sloop-of-war favorite, about eight o'clock in the evening of saturday, february 15, 1815, went directly to the city hotel, which he made his quarters; and in less than twenty minutes after he entered the house most of the windows in the lower part of broadway and the adjoining streets were illuminated, and the streets were densely filled with people who came forth to see and to hear and to rejoice. samuel g. goodrich, who was at a concert in the city hotel, writes: "while listening to the music the door of the concert-room was thrown open and in rushed a man breathless with excitement. he mounted on a table and, swinging a white handkerchief aloft, cried out: "peace! peace! peace!" the music ceased, the hall was speedily vacated, i rushed into the street, and oh, what a scene! in a few minutes thousands and tens of thousands of people were marching about with candles, lamps, torches, making the jubilant street appear like a gay and gorgeous procession. the whole night broadway sang its song of peace." swift expresses were sent out to philadelphia, baltimore, washington, boston, providence and albany, and when the news was received from washington of the ratification, which, by a combination of four newspapers was brought to new york in twenty-three hours, extensive preparations were made for a grand celebration and illumination on february 22, which on account of unfavorable weather was deferred and took place on the 27th. fire works were gotten up and exhibited on a stage in front of the government house under the superintendence of joseph delacroix, of vauxhall garden, which is said to have exceeded any former exhibition. the descriptions of the illuminations filled column after column of the newspapers. among many others, lengthy descriptions were given of the illuminations of tammany hall, washington hall and the city hotel. [sidenote: the grand ball] great preparations were soon made for a "superb ball" in honor of the joyful peace, which was given on march 16 at washington hall. the company consisted of upwards of six hundred ladies and gentlemen. the dancing room, eighty feet by sixty, was arranged to present the appearance of a beautiful elliptical pavilion, formed by eighteen pillars, on each of which was inscribed the name of a state, connected with the center of the lofty ceiling by garlands or festoons of laurel, and between the garlands, suspended from the ceiling, chandeliers composed of verdant and flowery wreaths. the garlands extending from the pillars were attached to a light central canopy, beneath which was a golden sun made to revolve rapidly, by means of machinery above the ceiling, so as to diffuse from its dazzling surface the reflected radiance of eight hundred lights. this was styled the temple of concord. on one side of the room, on a raised platform under a canopy of flags and surrounded with orange and lemon trees loaded with fruit, was the bower of peace, furnished with seats from which a good view of the cotillion parties could be had. the seats in each end of the room were also shaded with a profusion of orange trees and various rarer plants brought from the gardens and greenhouses of the vicinity. "the supper tables at which all the ladies were accommodated with seats at one time, though in two different apartments, were arranged and decorated in the most brilliant style; being lighted from above by illuminated arches entwined with flowers and supported by grouped columns from the center of the tables, and forming a line of arches from one extremity to the other. in short, the whole scene was one of the most splendid ever exhibited in this city; reflecting the highest credit on the managers and displaying a picture of female beauty, fashion and elegance not to be surpassed in any city of the union."[5] the landlord of washington hall at this time was peter mcintyre, who had in february succeeded daniel w. crocker. he had formerly kept a porter house at 33 nassau street. [sidenote: the shakespeare tavern] in the description of the grand illumination on the evening of february 27, the decorations of the shakespeare tavern are particularly mentioned by the newspapers. this tavern had been for some years and continued to be for many years after, the resort of actors, poets and critics, as well as the rendezvous of the wits and literary men of the period. it stood on the southwest corner of fulton and nassau streets, a low, old-fashioned, solid structure of small, yellow brick, two stories high, with dormer windows in the roof. thomas hodgkinson, brother of john hodgkinson of the park theatre, became its landlord in 1808, and continued in it for sixteen years. he had formerly been the proprietor of a porter house at 17 fair (fulton) street. in its early days the entrance to the house was by a green baize-covered door on nassau street, opening into a small hall with rooms on either side, the tap-room being the south front room on nassau street, in which was a circular bar of the old english pattern. it had been built many years before the revolution, and in 1822 a modern extension was added on fulton street, three stories high. on the second floor was a large room for public meetings and military drills, and on the third floor another large room with arched ceiling for concerts and balls and for the accommodation of the political, literary and musical patrons of the house. the euterpian society met here once a month and once a year gave a public concert at the city hotel, followed by a ball; while the older members of the society had a supper below. this was one of the events of the season, and the assembly room was crowded. [illustration: the shakespeare tavern] for many years the shakespeare tavern was closely connected with the military history of the city. the veteran corps of artillery usually had their dinners here. a dinner was served here to captain swain's company of the third regiment of artillery on evacuation day, 1813. a few years ago a bronze tablet might have been seen on the corner of fulton and nassau streets on which was the following inscription: on this site in the old shakespeare tavern was organized the seventh regiment national guards s. n. y. august 25, 1824. [illustration: "as choice spirits as ever supped at the turk's head"] the old shakespeare tavern has been compared to the "mermaid" of london in the days of johnson and shakespeare and to the "turk's head" in the time of reynolds, garrick and goldsmith. to what degree this comparison may extend is left to individual opinion, but there is no doubt that the best talent of the city in many departments were at times to be found within its walls. fitz-greene halleck and robert c. sands, james g. percival, james k. paulding and willis gaylord clark were frequent visitors and passed here in each other's company many a merry evening. here sands first recited to his friends, william l. stone, gulian c. verplanck and john inman, his last and most remarkable poem, "the dead of 1832." here dewitt clinton discussed with his friends his pet project, the erie canal, and demonstrated the feasibility of that great undertaking. here some of the liveliest of the "croakers" were conceived and brought forth. william l. stone, a frequent visitor, says: "the old shakespeare has entertained coteries composed of as choice spirits as ever supped at the turk's head." [sidenote: the krout club] under the management of hodgkinson the shakespeare became noted for the excellence of its wines and for the quaint style and quiet comfort of its suppers. about 1825 he was succeeded by james c. stoneall, his son-in-law, who was an exceedingly courteous man and an attentive and obliging landlord. before and after stoneall became proprietor of the house it was the meeting place of the krout club, a social institution of the period, most of the members of which were supposed to be descendants of the early dutch settlers. when the grand krout, as the presiding officer of the society was called, each year nodded his assent to a meeting and dinner, the announcement was made by piercing a cabbage and displaying it on the end of a long pole projected from an upper window of the place of meeting. it was customary, immediately after his election to his exalted position, to crown the newly-elected king of the krouts with a cabbage head nicely hollowed out to fit his head and, at the same time, to throw over his shoulders a mantle of cabbage leaves. while thus arrayed as master of the feast, dr. samuel l. mitchill delivered a very amusing address on the cabbage, the closing words of which were: "thy name has been abused as if 'to cabbage' were to pilfer or steal. i repel with indignation the attempt to sully thy fame." the annual meeting of the krouts was opened at nine o'clock in the morning and the fun and frolic was kept up until late at night. just before the dinner the secretary read his annual report, which consisted of a humorous relation of some things that had occurred, but more especially of many things that had not occurred. at dinner were served smoked geese, ringlets (sausages), sauerkraut and cabbage in a great variety of dishes. pleasant memories of the old vine-clad tavern were cherished by many who only a few years ago passed over to the great beyond. [sidenote: dinner to the peace commissioners] two of the five american commissioners who had negociated the treaty of peace at ghent and the commercial treaty at london, messrs. albert gallatin and henry clay, arrived in new york on september 1, 1815, and on the afternoon of the 5th a complimentary dinner was given them at tammany hall. judge brockholst livingston presided. william bayard, james fairlie, john hone, thomas farmer and gilbert aspinwall were vice-presidents and among the distinguished guests were the hon. rufus king, the hon. a. j. dallas, the mayor, general macomb, general swift, etc. the evening post, a federal paper, expressed surprise and regret that the dinner, instead of appearing to be given as it ought to have been, by the respectable citizens of new york without distinction of party, should have been "made to wear an invidious complexion by being brought forward in the public papers as having been gotten up by 17 gentlemen, all of whom, with a single exception are considered to be of the democratic party." [sidenote: president monroe's visit] from the time of washington no president of the united states, while in office, had visited new york city until president james monroe, in june, 1817, made his tour of inspection. on the morning of june 11th he came up from staten island, where he had been the guest of vice president tompkins, in the steamboat richmond, escorted by the sloop of war saranac, captain elton, and the revenue cutter, captain cahoone. he landed on the battery about twelve o'clock from commodore evans' elegant barge, accompanied by the vice president, general swift and secretary, captains evans and biddle of the united states navy, major-general morton and suite, major-general mapes and suite and the committee of the corporation, who had gone to staten island for that purpose, and was welcomed by a salute from a division of general morton's artillery, under the command of brigadier-general scott, of the united states army. the president, after reviewing the line of troops, was escorted up broadway to the city hall, where, in the audience chamber, the mayor, in the presence of the governor and other prominent officials, presented him with an address. the state society of the cincinnati, headed by their vice-president, general stevens, also presented him a short address. after these ceremonies were concluded the president was escorted by a squadron of cavalry to the quarters provided for him at gibson's elegant establishment, the merchants' hotel in wall street. after visiting the united states arsenal, the president returned to the hotel at five o'clock and sat down to a sumptuous dinner prepared for the occasion. among the guests were the vice president of the united states, governor clinton, hon. rufus king, general swift, general scott, mr. mason, secretary to the president, general stevens, general morton, col. willett, col. platt, major fairlie, the president of the united states bank and the committee of the corporation. the merchants' hotel at 41 and 43 wall street had been established there some years, and when solomon d. gibson, a landlord of experience and reputation, had taken charge of it and it had been selected as a proper place to lodge and entertain the president of the united states, there is hardly a doubt that it was considered second to none in the city. in the evening the city hall and other public buildings were illuminated. [sidenote: general jackson at the ball] there was a grand military ball at the city hotel in celebration of washington's birthday, on the 22d of february, 1819, and at the same time the opportunity was embraced to honor general jackson, who was a visitor to the city at that time. "everything was in great style. seven hundred persons were present. when the general entered, he was saluted by a discharge of artillery from a miniature fort raised on the orchestra." the supper room was thrown open at twelve o'clock. over the table was a transparency with the motto: "in the midst of festivity, forget not the services and sacrifices of those who have enabled you to enjoy it." after supper there was a flagging in the dancing from exhaustion, when suddenly, to the surprise of all, was displayed a flag with the revivifying motto: "don't give up the ship." "the effect was electric--the band struck up 'washington's march,' and the ball seemed but beginning! the diffusion of light upon an assemblage, the most brilliant we ever beheld, the taste with which the room was decorated with nearly two hundred flags, including those of almost all the nations of the world, combined with the military glitter of about two hundred gentlemen in uniform, interspersed in the dance with the female beauty and elegance of the city, produced an effect of the most pleasing nature." [sidenote: general jackson's toast] jackson's visit was the occasion of much merriment by the wits of the town on account of the toast offered by the general, not at the city hotel, as has been related by some, but at a dinner given in his honor at tammany hall, by the tammany society or columbian order, on the 23d. at this dinner, general jackson being called on for his toast, his honor the mayor, who presided, rose, and to the consternation and dismay of sachem william mooney and other prominent members, announced the toast: "dewitt clinton, the governor of the great and patriotic state of new york," after which the general left the room, according to one account, "amidst reiterated applause," but according to another, "there was a dead silence for the space of three minutes at least." a certain alderman, recovering his astonished senses a little, said, loud enough to be heard by all, that what he had just witnessed put him in mind of what sir peter teazle says: "this is a damn'd wicked world we live in, sir oliver, and the fewer we praise the better." the republicans, or democrats as they were afterwards called, were at this time divided into two factions. jackson was an admirer of clinton, but the "bucktails" of tammany hall considered him as their bitterest foe. the dinner was a grand affair, the tickets to it being sold at five dollars each. [illustration: dewitt clinton] [sidenote: the erie canal] there was a memorable meeting held at the city hotel in the fall of 1815. its purpose was to advance the project for building a canal to connect lake erie and the hudson river, which had been before the public for some years and which was considered by some as abandoned. judge jonas platt, thomas eddy and dewitt clinton, all earnestly interested in the enterprise, discussed the matter and agreed to make an effort to revive interest in it. it was proposed to send out invitations to the most prominent and influential citizens of new york to meet at the city hotel. this was done. william bayard was made chairman of the meeting and john pintard secretary. jonas platt and dewitt clinton delivered addresses, and although there was some opposition, a resolution was nevertheless passed by a large majority in favor of the object, and a committee consisting of dewitt clinton, thomas eddy, cadwallader d. colden and john swartwout was chosen to prepare and circulate a memorial to the legislature. this celebrated paper was written by dewitt clinton and attracted great attention. it gave new life to the enterprise, which was ultimately successful. [sidenote: the first savings bank] in the autumn of 1816, at a meeting in the city hotel, the first savings bank in new york was organized. the necessary capital was not raised until 1819, when it went into operation with william bayard as its first president. [sidenote: what englishmen said about the city hotel] h. b. fearon, an english traveller, writes in 1817: "there are in new york many hotels, some of which are on an extensive scale. the city hotel is as large as the london tavern. the dining room and some of the apartments seem to have been fitted up regardless of expense." quite different is the description given by lieutenant fred. fitzgerald de roos of the royal navy, who visited new york in may, 1826. he says: "we lodged at the city hotel, which is the principal inn at new york. the house is immense and was full of company; but what a wretched place! the floors were without carpets, the beds without curtains; there was neither glass, mug nor cup, and a miserable little rag was dignified with the name of towel. the entrance to the house is constantly obstructed by crowds of people passing to and from the bar-room, where a person presides at a buffet formed upon the plan of a cage. this individual is engaged, 'from morn to dewy eve,' in preparing and issuing forth punch and spirits to strange-looking men, who come to the house to read the newspapers and talk politics. in this place may be seen in turn most of the respectable inhabitants of the town. there is a public breakfast at half-past seven o'clock, and a dinner at two o'clock, but to get anything in one's own room is impossible." let us digress and note the happy return of this man to _english soil_. on his way back to halifax to join his command, he crossed from maine to nova scotia, stopping in the little town of windsor. he writes: "never in my whole life did i more fully appreciate the benefits of our good english customs, or feel in better humor with my country in general, than when i sat down in a clean parlor by myself, to the snug dinner prepared for me by the widow wilcocks, landlady of a comfortable inn in the good town of windsor. how different from an american _table d'hote_! where you are deafened by the clamor, and disgusted by the selfish gluttony of your companions; where you must either bolt your victuals, or starve, from the ravenous rapidity with which everything is dispatched; and where the inattention of the servants is only equalled by their insolence and familiarity." englishmen never forgot that the united states was a brilliant gem plucked from the british crown, and the vein of sarcasm and resentment running through books of travel written by them about this time is apparent; so that their descriptions and opinions should be taken with some allowance for this feeling. nevertheless, there was a foundation of truth in many of the disagreeable things they said, which made them, on that account, the more irritating to the people of the united states. [sidenote: the price-wilson duel] about the year 1818 or 1820, there was living for a time at the washington hotel, or as it was more generally called washington hall, captain wilson, of the british army, who, in conversation one day at dinner, remarked that he had been mainly instrumental in bringing about the duel between major green and benjamin price, and detailed the circumstances leading to it. a few years before this, benjamin price, a brother of stephen price, lessee and manager of the park theater, was at the theatre one evening in the company of a very handsome woman. in the adjoining box was major green, a british officer, who took the liberty of turning and staring the lady full in the face, which annoyed her and of which she complained to price, who, on a repetition of the offense, reached over, caught the officer by the nose and gave it a vigorous twist. the officer soon after knocked at the door of price's box, and when he opened it asked him with charming simplicity what he meant by such behavior, at the same time declaring that he had intended no offense, that he had not meant to insult the lady by what he had done. "oh, very well," replied price, "neither did i mean to insult you by what i did." upon this they shook hands and it was supposed that the matter was settled and ended. when major green returned to his command in canada the story of this affair followed him or had preceded him and was soon the subject of discussion among his comrades. it was brought to the attention of his brother officers, one of whom, captain wilson, insisted that green should be sent to coventry unless he returned to new york and challenged price. this he did after practising with a pistol for five hours a day until he considered himself sufficiently expert. they fought at weehawken on sunday, may 12, 1816. price was killed at the first fire. spectators viewed the transaction from the neighboring rocks, and a more horrible sight could not have been imagined. the seconds ran off, and green look a small boat, crossed the river and boarded a vessel about to sail for england. when the news that captain wilson was at the washington hotel and a statement of what he had said were carried to stephen price, who was lying ill of the gout at his home, his friends say that he obeyed implicitly the instructions of his physician and thereby obtained a short cessation of the gout so that he was able to hobble out of doors, his lower extremities swaddled in flannel. as soon as possible he made his way to the washington hotel, where he inquired for captain wilson. ascertaining that he was in, he requested to be shown to his room. with a stout hickory cane in his hand he hobbled upstairs, cursing with equal vehemence the captain and the gout. arriving at the room, as the captain rose to receive him he said: "are you captain wilson?" "that is my name," replied the captain. "sir," said he, "my name is stephen price. you see, sir, that i can scarcely put one foot before the other. i am afflicted with the gout, but sir, i have come here with the deliberate intention of insulting you. shall i have to knock you down or will you consider what i have said a sufficient insult for the purpose?" "sir," replied the captain, smiling, "i shall consider what you have said quite sufficient and shall act accordingly. you shall hear from me." in due time there came a message from captain wilson to stephen price; time, place and weapons were appointed. early one morning, a few days later, a barge left the city in which were seated stephen price, captain wilson and two friends. they all landed on bedlow's island. captain wilson never returned. he fell dead at the first fire. his body was buried on the island and many of his friends thought that he had been lost or died suddenly at sea. xiv road houses [sidenote: prejudice against dancing] we have the evidence of persons who lived in the early part of the nineteenth century that among the old dutch and puritan families there was a strong prejudice against dancing, especially by young ladies in public places, and there is hardly a doubt that this was much increased by the introduction of the waltz, quite different from the dancing of old colonial days. notwithstanding this, we find that in the accounts of the balls given on important occasions there does not seem to have been any disinclination to indulge in this pleasing diversion. there were dancing masters, and shortly after the erection of washington hall and tammany hall they were both being used by the instructors of dancing, and they held in them their "publics," which appear to have been well attended. concerts, as formerly, were generally followed by balls. [sidenote: bachelors' ball] like the old province arms of colonial days, the city hotel was used for a great many years for the assembly balls. these continued to be held here until after the close of the war of 1812, but a few years later seem to have ceased. it was about this time that, as related by abram c. dayton, the old ladies defeated the young men in a contest over dancing. the young men gave a series of sociables at the city hotel, at which none but subscribers were admitted. although very select, the old ladies, backed by the minister, denounced them. "the battle for supremacy was bravely waged on both sides, but the old ladies beat young america and the city hotel sociables were discontinued." but it was only a lull. some years later the social feature was the annual ball given by the young men known as the bachelors' ball. it was the social event of each winter and exceeded anything of the kind ever previously attempted, being very select and gotten up with great care. all the managers wore knee breeches, silk stockings and pumps. the most noted of these was the bachelors' grand fancy ball given at the city hotel on the 18th of march, 1831, which had long been the theme of conversation and the subject of preparation. philip hone, in his diary, says that "no expectations had been formed which were not realized by the results. my daughter mary went as sweet anne page and looked lovely in the part of leslie's inimitable picture." later the bachelors' balls were given on the evening of st. valentine's day. the tickets, printed on cardboard from elaborately engraved plates, were sold at ten dollars each. [sidenote: the forum] for the entertainment of those opposed to dancing there were meetings of the forum, which were in 1817 at mechanics' hall, corner of broadway and park place, and later at the city hotel on friday evenings. the exercises consisted of debates and addresses and the tickets of admission were sold at two shillings each, the debate commencing promptly at seven o'clock. prominent members of the forum were j. p. c. sampson, orville l. holley, thomas g. fessenden, hiram ketchum, rev. richard varick dey, william paxton hallet and charles g. haines. at a meeting in the first part of january, 1817, the question discussed was: "ought legislative or other aid to be afforded in order to render the united states a manufacturing nation?" about these meetings fitz-greene halleck has given us a few descriptive lines: "resort of fashion, beauty, taste- the forum hall was nightly grac'd with all who blush'd their hours to waste at balls--and such ungodly places; and quaker girls were there allow'd to show, among the motley crowd their sweet blue eyes and pretty faces." [sidenote: a british veteran] john batten, the garrulous friend of "felix oldboy," who considered him a valuable repository of reminiscences, was a veteran soldier who had come out with the british troops in the early part of the revolutionary war. better educated than the most of his companions in arms, he is said to have taught school in the old dutch church while the british occupied new york. he used sometimes to say in a pleasant, joking way: "i fought hard for this country," and after enjoying the effect produced on his young auditors, who were ready to admire his patriotic devotion, would slowly add, after looking around and winking at some elderly person who knew his history, "but we didn't get it." on one occasion batten was present at a grand fourth of july dinner and was taken to be a revolutionary soldier, as of course, he verily was. the company drank his health in patriotic toasts and at last called upon him to respond. this he did and spoke so touchingly of the events of the war that his audience was very much affected, especially the feminine part of it. then he said: "yes, i did fight all through the old revolution. i fought as bravely as the others. i liked this country and decided to stay here; so, when my regiment was preparing to embark, i slipped over to long island and stayed there until they had sailed for england." the astonished company realized that they had been cheering a british soldier and that johnny batten was not the sort of veteran they were accustomed to admire. batten thought it a good joke. [sidenote: the blue bell] after the war batten opened a tavern at jamaica, long island, and a few years after he came to new york city, where, in 1786, we find him the landlord of the blue bell in slote lane. after several changes he settled down at no. 37 nassau street, which he kept as a first-class tavern for several years. after this he became a merchant and opened a hosiery store on the west side of broadway, between dey and cortlandt streets. he was here in 1817. batten lived to be a very old man. he was one of those they called "battery walkers" or "peep o' day boys," who used to go down to the battery at daybreak and walk about until breakfast time. [sidenote: the city hotel] when, in 1816, gibson became landlord of the merchants' hotel in wall street, he was succeeded in the city hotel by chester jennings, who was the landlord of the house for more than twenty years. under his management it acquired a high reputation, and in 1836 he retired with a competency. the very next year his fortune, which had been invested in united states bank and other stocks, was swept away by the great revulsion of 1837. samuel g. mather was landlord of the city hotel in 1838, but john jacob astor, the owner of the house, induced jennings to again undertake its management with willard, his former assistant, and together they assumed control of it and succeeded so well that in the course of a few years jennings had placed himself in a position to retire again in comfort. during nearly the whole of the first half of the nineteenth century the city hotel was not only the most celebrated house of entertainment in the city, but travellers declared that it had no equal in the united states. on its register were found the names of the most distinguished men of the nation as well as prominent citizens from every section of the land. it was a plain structure of four stories with no architectural pretensions, and the interior fittings and the furniture were also plain, but good and durable. the dining room was spacious, light, well ventilated, neat and scrupulously clean. the service was good and the table furnished with an abundant supply, selected with the greatest care. chester jennings was the unseen partner who provided supplies and superintended the details of the running of the house in all departments except the office. willard's duties were in the office, where he was clerk, book-keeper, cashier, bar-keeper and anything necessary. he attended closely to business and was a well known man, though never seen outside of the hotel. other hotels were built with greater pretensions but the old city hotel maintained its prestige through all. it had become a general rendezvous for merchants and friends on their return from business to their homes, and there was about it a social atmosphere which could not be transferred. the national hotel, on the corner of broadway and cedar street, nearly opposite the city hotel, erected by joseph delacroix of vauxhall garden, was opened for business in march, 1826, and the adelphi hotel, a building six stories high, on the corner of broadway and beaver street, was erected in 1827. [sidenote: club at the city hotel] in the palmy days of the city hotel there were a number of men who made it their home, or dining place, and, brought together by similarity of tastes or for social enjoyment, had formed a coterie or sort of club. they were all men of some leisure who could afford to sit long after dinner and sip their wine and crack their jokes and discuss the gossip of the town. "this band of jolly good fellows, who lingered day after day for long years over their wine and nuts, were well known characters in the city and were especially familiar to such as visited the city hotel, where they lived and died."[6] colonel nick saltus, a retired merchant of wealth and a confirmed old bachelor, was the acknowledged chairman and spokesman of this peculiar group. in those days the captains of the packet-ships which sailed twice each month for european ports, were men of much importance. many of them made the city hotel their headquarters when in port and became boon-companions of the select coterie of the house, who often, when an arrival was announced at sandy hook, would proceed to the battery to meet their friend who had been commissioned to procure some new gastronomical luxury for the company. when billy niblo had resolved to abandon his pine street coffee house and open a suburban place for refreshment and entertainment on what was then upper broadway, he invited many of his old customers and friends to the opening of his new garden, among whom were some who were residents of the city hotel. they accepted the invitation of niblo and determined that willard should be one of the company. when the time arrived and he was duly notified he was noticed to be desperately in search of something that he could not find. at last he confessed that he had not been the owner of a hat for many years, and that he had been in search of one which had been long lying around without an owner, but had now disappeared. a hat was procured from a hatter directly opposite and everyone in the neighborhood was quite interested in the fact that willard was going out. the cellar of the old hotel is said to have been stocked with wines of the finest brands, selected with the greatest care, which were pronounced by connoisseurs as unsurpassed in purity and flavor, and it was the delight of chester jennings to carefully uncork in person some choice variety for a favorite or important guest. with new yorkers of an earlier date the dinner hour was at noon, but those returning from abroad and those who wished to imitate the customs of european cities were urgent for a change, and to fall into the line of modern ways the dinner hour of the hotel was gradually moved to three o'clock, although a mid-day meal was served to those who would not conform to the innovation. [sidenote: contoit's garden] a well known public place of resort in the early part of the nineteenth century was john h. contoit's garden, in 1801 at 39 greenwich street, in 1802 at 253 broadway and in 1806 and for many years after at 355 broadway, on the west side between leonard and franklin streets, when it was known as the new york garden. this was a long, narrow plot of ground densely shaded with trees; on either side were ranged boxes or compartments, brightened with whitewash and green paint, in each of which was a plain, bare table with seats to accommodate four persons. it appears to have been an eminently proper place for ladies of a summer afternoon and in the evening, lighted by many globes filled with oil and suspended from the lower branches of the trees, in each of which floated a lighted wick or paper, was well patronized by the ladies and gentlemen of the period. colored waiters with white jackets and aprons supplied customers with vanilla and lemon ice cream, pound cake and lemonade, which made up the bill of fare. the inexpensive fittings of the place enabled contoit to serve for a shilling an allowance of ice cream sufficient to satisfy any ordinary appetite and his place became very popular. although the garden was supposed to be conducted on the temperance plan, it is said that wine or even cognac could be obtained without difficulty by those who knew how. [illustration: contoit's garden] [sidenote: the bank coffee house] in 1814 william niblo, an enterprising young man, who afterwards became well known as a landlord, opened the bank coffee house in the house formerly occupied by frederick phillips, a retired british officer, on the corner of pine and william streets, in the rear of the bank of new york. he was the son-in-law of david king, a well known tavern-keeper, who for many years kept a tavern in the little frame house at no. 9 wall street and some years later at no. 6 slote lane. niblo's house soon became very popular. a group of prominent merchants met here regularly, forming themselves into a sort of club, with a president and other officers. it was a famous place for dinners and dinner parties. on the news of peace at the close of the war of 1812, niblo issued a card under date of february 20, 1815, from the bank coffee house, stating that "william niblo, in unison with the universal joy at the return of peace, invites his friends to regale themselves at his collation on tuesday at 11 o'clock, in celebration of this happy event." in the great cholera epidemic of 1822 he removed his coffee house to the village of greenwich and it was there the office of the union line to philadelphia, the boston mail coach and the new haven steamboat line, where passengers were notified to apply for seats. [sidenote: the great horse race] when the great horse-race of may, 1823, between the northern horse eclipse and the southern horse henry took place on the union course, long island, niblo rented the building on the grounds belonging to the "association for the promotion of the breed of horses," where he offered to serve refreshments of all kinds, especially green turtle, at all hours during the races. he also announced that at the termination of the match race he would dispatch a rider on a fleet horse with the result, which would be made known by displaying a white flag from the top of the bank coffee house if eclipse should be victorious. if his opponent should win the race a red flag would be raised. by this arrangement the result, he stated, would be known in the city in about forty minutes after the race. should the race not take place the united states flag would be displayed. this great horse-race attracted to new york city people from all parts of the country; the hotels and boarding houses were full to overflowing and the demand for vehicles of all or any kind was away beyond what could be supplied. it was estimated that there were as many as fifty thousand people at the race-course. the wager was twenty thousand dollars a side and excitement was very great. [sidenote: niblo's garden] william niblo opened a restaurant and pleasure garden or rural resort in 1828 at the corner of prince street and broadway which he called sans souci. in the middle of the block, north of prince street on broadway, were two brick houses, one of which had been occupied for some time by james fenimore cooper, the novelist. in the rear of these was a large building which had been used by a circus called the stadium. niblo occupied all these premises. the interior of the garden was spacious and adorned with shrubs and flowers; cages with singing birds were here and there suspended from the branches of trees, beneath which were placed seats with small tables where were served ice cream, wine negus and cooling lemonade; it was lighted in the evening by numerous clusters of many-colored glass lamps. [illustration: niblo's garden] shortly after niblo had established himself in this place the new bowery theatre burned down and charles gilfert, the manager, opened a summer theater in the old circus building, then still standing in the middle of niblo's garden, where he gave theatrical performances, while his own theatre was being rebuilt, which was done in ninety days. niblo continued to give here theatrical performances of a gay and attractive character which became so popular that he was induced to erect a new building with a blank wall on broadway, the entrance being made from the garden. the garden was entered from broadway. some years later, this was destroyed by fire, but it was succeeded by another theatre, one of the finest in the city, with entrance from broadway, and known for a great many years as niblo's garden, although there was no garden attached to it. about the year 1820 there stood on the corner of thames and temple streets an ale house kept by william reynolds, which became a favorite place for englishmen in the city and the resort of many prominent merchants and politicians on account of the quality of the steaks and chops served up in this small and unpretentious looking place. fitz-greene halleck frequented the place and formed a friendship for the gruff englishman and his family which lasted for life. when reynolds gave up the business and retired to fort lee, new jersey, halleck was there a frequent and welcome visitor. the old chop-house maintained a reputation for many years under the management of reynolds' successors. [illustration: reynolds' beer house] [sidenote: road houses] on or near the old boston post road, of which bowery lane and the kingsbridge road formed a part, there were taverns that gradually became rendezvous for those who drove out on the road for pleasure or diversion. while the old-fashioned chaise and gig were in use, the driver's seat in a box directly over the axle, there was little desire or demand for a fast road horse. the great popularity of the trotter began with the introduction of the light wagon or buggy with elliptic steel springs. before this period practically the only fast trotting was done under the saddle. as early as 1818, the first trotting match against time of which we have any knowledge, took place on the jamaica turnpike and was won by boston blue, or, as some say, by the boston pony, on a wager of one thousand dollars that no horse could be produced that could trot a mile in three minutes. the first race between trotters of which we have definite record took place in 1823 between topgallant, owned by m. d. green, and dragon, owned by t. carter. the course was from brooklyn to jamaica, a distance of twelve miles, and the race was won by topgallant in thirty-nine minutes. the next year topgallant, fourteen years old, won a three-mile race for stakes of two thousand dollars on the turnpike against washington costar's betsy baker, doing the distance in eight minutes and forty-two seconds. the advent of the light wagon created a great desire in those who drove out on the road to own a fast trotting horse. there was great rivalry and excitement and many of the wayside inns, formerly very quiet places, blossomed into profitable notoriety. the meeting of congenial spirits at these places, the gossiping of groups where the talk was all of the horse, the stories of the speed and stamina of the rival trotters produced much entertainment; matches were made at these places and decided on the road nearby. [illustration: cato's house] for nearly half a century cato alexander kept a house of entertainment on the old boston post road about four miles from the city. cato had a great reputation for his "incomparable" dinners and suppers which brought to his house everybody who owned a rig or could occasionally hire one to drive out to his place. after third avenue was laid out and macadamized a bend in the old post road extending from forty-fifth street to sixty-fifth street was for some time kept open and in use. on this bend of the old road cato's house was situated and it became known as cato's lane. it was about a mile long and was a great spurting place for drivers of fast horses. among the reminiscences of those who used to go to cato's in these days is the fact that cato sold cigars--real cigars and good ones, too--at the rate of five for a shilling (12-1/2 cents) and pure brandy, such as can not now be obtained on the road at any price, at six pence (6-1/4 cents) per glass. when the trotting horse became popular cato's became one of the noted halting places. cato was black, but his modest, unpretending dignity of manner "secured for his humble house such a widespread reputation that for years it was one of the prominent resorts of our citizens and attracted many of the prominent sightseers who made pilgrimages to the island of manhattan."[7] [illustration: the old hazzard house] on yorkville hill at eighty-second street was the hazzard house, famous in its day as being the resort of those who delighted in speed and loved to indulge in the talk of the horse to be heard at such places. its stables were generally filled with horses awaiting purchasers, whose merits and good points were told of in a manner so truthful, so confidential, so convincing that purchases were numerous. in 1835, and until a much later period, third avenue was a magnificent drive, being macadamized from twenty-eighth street to the harlem river, and was much used by our sporting citizens of that period. races were of almost daily occurrence and the hazzard house was the center of much activity in that line. about a mile further up, at one hundred and fifth street, a lane on the east side of the avenue led down to the celebrated red house, located on a plot of many acres. the main building was the old mcgown house of colonial days, roomy and well adapted to a road house. on the place was a well kept half-mile trotting course, which offered extraordinary inducements to horse owners and consequently made it a popular resort. one of its earliest proprietors was lewis rogers, who is described by abram c. dayton as a dapper little man, always dressed in the tip of fashion and as neat and trim in the appointments of his house as in his personal attire. one mile beyond the red house was bradshaw's, on the corner of third avenue and one hundred and twenty-fifth street, not far from harlem bridge, and for most the turning point of their drive. a long rest was taken here by many who made it the only stopping place on the road, consequently, on a favorable day for driving it was crowded. widow bradshaw was noted for her chicken fricassee, universally acknowledged to be a marvel of excellence. on the bloomingdale road, a more quiet drive and more used by those who took with them their families or ladies, was burnham's mansion house, at first, as early as 1825, at seventieth street, and at a later period the fine vanderheuval mansion and grounds at seventy-eighth street. this was fitly styled the family house on the drive and on fine summer afternoons the spacious grounds were filled with ladies and children who sauntered about at their leisure and convenience, having no fear of annoyance. [illustration: burnham's mansion house] across the river on long island the jamaica turnpike was the great drive for horsemen. on this road were many notable public houses, frequented by horsemen. at jamaica, nearly opposite the union course, was john r. snedeker's tavern, a large three-story white frame house with a piaza along its whole front. for more than a quarter of a century this was the accepted rendezvous of the trotting-horse fraternity. the first authentic record made by a trotting horse on a track in the presence of judges was made in may, 1826, on the new track of the new york trotting club at jamaica and a new york newspaper of may 16 states that "the owner and friends of the winning horse gave a splendid dinner and champagne at snedecor's tavern." snedeker's dinners became celebrated far and wide and horsemen from every section came to feast on his game, fish and asparagus which no one else could surpass or equal. [sidenote: visit of lafayette] the year 1824 is notable for the visit to this country of general lafayette, who, accompanied by his son, george washington lafayette, arrived at new york in the ship cadmus on the 16th of august. besides the committee of the corporation, members of the society of the cincinnati, revolutionary officers and soldiers, a deputation from west point and distinguished guests and official personages, more than six thousand persons went down the bay to meet him, and his welcome to our shores was such as no man had ever received before. the day was delightful, and the surface of the bay was dotted with every conceivable kind of craft. the ships and vessels were liberally decorated with all kinds of flags and signals. as the grand flotilla with the _guest of the nation_ approached the city, continual salutes rolled out their signs of welcome above the shouts of the people, while on shore hundreds of bells were ringing. the military, three thousand in number, formed in line, and on landing, lafayette was received with a salute of twenty-one guns. after a review of the troops commanded by general james benedict, he was conducted to the city hall in a barouche drawn by four horses, escorted by a troop of horse and followed by a long line of citizen soldiery. here a public reception was held till five o'clock, when the general was escorted to his quarters at the city hotel, where a dinner was given in his honor by the civil and military authorities. in the evening the town was illuminated and fireworks and transparencies were displayed in honor of the occasion. at the city hotel lafayette was waited on by the clergy of the city, by the officers of the militia, by social societies, by the french society, by delegations from baltimore, from philadelphia, from new england and from up the hudson; and when on friday morning the general prepared to leave the city, the military paraded at seven o'clock and repaired to the city hotel, whence at eight o'clock lafayette, the committee appointed to accompany him to boston and the military escort, commanded by general prosper m. wetmore, moved up broadway to bond street and thence up third avenue. [sidenote: grand banquet at washington hall] on lafayette's return from new england he arrived by steamboat about noon on the 4th of september amid salutes from the men-of-war, and on his landing was given the same hearty welcome he had received on his first arrival, and was escorted to his old lodgings at the city hotel. he was informed that the society of the cincinnati intended to celebrate the anniversary of his birth on the 6th of september and was invited to dine with them at washington hall. "about 4 o'clock in the afternoon of that day a long line of venerable gentlemen, members of the society of the cincinnati, arrived at the hotel, preceded by a military band. the general was received into their ranks and an insignia of the society, which had been worn by washington, was attached to his coat. the old soldiers then marched to the hall where they were to dine. crowds filled the streets through which they passed slowly and many feebly." the banquet hall was decorated with trophies of arms and banners bearing the names of revolutionary heroes. at the top of the room, directly over the seat of lafayette at the upper end of the table, was erected a rich triumphal arch of laurel, roses, etc., reaching to the ceiling. directly in front, at the center of the arch, was a large spread eagle with a scroll in its beak on which was inscribed "sept. 6, 1757" (the birthday of the "nation's guest"), and grasping in its talons a ribbon or scroll, one end passing to the right on which was "brandywine, sept. 11, 1777," the other to the left bearing the words "yorktown, oct. 19, 1781." behind the general's chair was planted the grand standard of the society entwined with the thirteen stripes of the flag of the nation. on the right was a shield bearing a rising sun and on the left a shield with the new york state arms. in the center of the room was a splendid star surrounded by others of less magnitude. from this star two broad pennants from the franklin 74, were crossed and carried to the four corners of the room. at the lower end of the room was the transparency by childs. a number of trophies of the navy were loaned by captain rogers and lieutenant goldsborough. towards the close of the festival a grand transparency showing washington and lafayette holding each others' hands standing before the altar of liberty, receiving a civic wreath from the hands of america, caused great applause, which was followed by the reading of the order of the day at yorktown by general swartwout. then, amidst cheering, the gallant veteran, general lamb, sang a ballad composed in 1792, while lafayette was in the austrian dungeon. the night was far spent when the old gentlemen reached their several homes. in the evening of september 11, lafayette attended a dinner given by the french residents of new york at washington hall in celebration of the forty-seventh anniversary of the battle of brandywine. a novel and remarkable decoration of the table on this occasion was a miniature of the new canal which traversed the state. it was sixty feet long and several inches deep, filled with water and the banks sodded. the bridges, locks and towns were properly indicated. [sidenote: ball at castle garden] the honor and respect shown to lafayette culminated in the great ball given at castle garden on wednesday, september 14, which, it is said, for splendor and magnificence surpassed anything of the kind ever seen in america. six thousand persons attended, which included all the beauty and fashion of new york and vicinity. the castle, which was a circle, was enclosed with an awning to the height of seventy-five feet, the dome being supported in the center by a column, dressed with the colors of the cincinnati. it was a magnificent affair, long remembered in the city. lafayette and a large party went from the ball on board the steamboat, james kent, chartered by the committee to take the nation's guest up the hudson. [illustration: fitz-greene halleck] [sidenote: clubs] there were several social clubs in the city holding their meetings at hotels, and fitz-greene halleck, the poet, a man whose society was sought and desired, appears to have been a member of every club in the city, great or small. he was one of a small circle who met occasionally at the city hotel. tuckerman says: "there was a select club many years ago in new york, the members of which dined together at stated intervals at the old city hotel on broadway; the utmost freedom of intercourse and good faith marked their prandial converse, and one day when a sudden silence followed the entrance of the host, it was proposed to elect him to the fraternity, that they might talk freely in his presence, which was frequent and indispensable. he kept a hotel after the old _régime_, was a gentleman in his feelings, an honest and intelligent fellow, who prided himself upon his method of serving up roast pig--in which viand his superiority was such that the gentle elia, had he ever dined with the club, would have mentioned him with honor in the essay on that crispy and succulent dish. the proposition was opposed by only one individual, a clever man, who had made his fortune by buying up all the bristles at odessa, thus securing a monopoly which enabled him to vend the article to the brushmakers at an enormous profit. his objection to boniface was that he was famous for nothing but roasting a pig, and no fit associate for gentlemen. 'your aristocratic standard is untenable,' said halleck, 'for what essential difference is there between spurs won from roasting a porker or by selling his bristles?' and amid the laugh of his confreres, mine host was elected." the bread and cheese club was organized in 1824 by james fenimore cooper. it included among its members conspicuous professional men in science, law, letters and philosophy, of whom were fitz-greene halleck, william a. and john duer, professor renwick, philip hone, james de kay, the great naturalist, charles augustus davis, dr. john w. francis, charles king, verplanck, bryant and sands. the selections for nomination rested entirely with cooper; bread and cheese were used in balloting and one of cheese barred the way to membership. the club met at washington hall fortnightly and for fifteen years, either here or at the houses of its members were entertained nearly every distinguished person who visited new york during that period. meetings of the club, often a large assembly, were attended by members of congress and distinguished strangers, among whom were often found daniel webster, henry r. storrs, william beach lawrence and the french minister, hyde de neuville. [illustration: j. fenimore cooper] a little later was the book club. although said to have been founded by the rev. dr. wainwright, and in spite of its name, it was rather convivial than literary. philip hone describes it as a club which met every other thursday at washington hall, "where they sup, drink champagne and whisky punch, talk as well as they know how and run each other good humoredly." he did not understand why it should be called a book club, for the book of subscriptions to expenses was the only one it possessed. he declares that they were a very pleasant set of fellows, and sat late. the first time he met with them after being made a member of the club was in march, 1835, and when he came away at one o'clock he left them at the supper table. the party that evening consisted of about twenty, viz.: davis, president duer, charles king, wilkins, william kent, harvey, arthur barclay, isaac hone, halleck, ogden hoffman, patterson, blunt, dr. francis, baron behr, mr. trelauney, author of "the younger son," beverly robinson, etc. [sidenote: semi-centennial of washington's inauguration] the semi-centennial anniversary of the inauguration of washington as the first president of the united states was celebrated in the city of new york by the historical society on the 30th of april, 1839. at twelve o'clock an oration was delivered in the middle dutch church by john quincy adams, the venerable ex-president of the united states, to a numerous and appreciative audience. at four o'clock the members of the society and their invited guests dined at the city hotel. the president of the society, peter g. stuyvesant, sat at the head of the table, with two venerable contemporaries of the american revolution, general morgan lewis, once governor of new york, and colonel john trumbull, the one at his right hand and the other at his left. among the guests were william pennington, governor of new jersey, general winfield scott, commodore claxton, samuel southard and other distinguished individuals, together with delegates from other historical societies. mr. adams was toasted, and replied in a speech in which he claimed for the era of the american revolution the title of the heroic age of america, and that it deserved this title with more justice than the title of heroic age bestowed upon the early history of greece. in the course of the evening speeches were made by general scott, commodore claxton of the american navy, mr. southard and others, and an original ode was sung. in 1842, john jacob astor was the owner of the city hotel, and by deed dated march 9th of that year conveyed to his granddaughter sarah, wife of robert boreel, and daughter of dorothea langdon, a life interest in the property after his death, which after her death is to be divided among her children. the deed states: "whereas i am desirous of providing by deed for my granddaughter sarah, wife of robert boreel, and of disposing in the manner in these presents expressed, of the property which in my will i had designated for her," etc., "and whereas her husband is an alien, and although one of her sons is born in the state of new york, other children may be born to her without the united states, who will be aliens," etc. "now these presents," etc. the property is described as "all the lands and buildings in the city of new york now known as the city hotel." the deed allows her, in case the buildings are destroyed by fire to mortgage the land for the purpose of rebuilding and under certain conditions she may sell the property and place the proceeds in trust. the deed seems to be confirmatory or supplementary to the will. [sidenote: the city hotel ends its career] chester jennings was still the landlord of the city hotel in 1847, and it was in the following year or soon after that it terminated its career as a house of entertainment, which, including the city tavern on the same site, had lasted for very close to one hundred years, an eventful period in the city's history. the building was taken down and on its site was erected an office building seven stories high which was called the boreel building. it was the largest and for a long time was considered the finest building devoted to office purposes in the city. it was a conspicuous structure and well known to the citizens of new york. sarah boreel died in 1897. her heirs sold the property in 1901. plans had been made to acquire this and contiguous properties in order to erect an immense building. this, in the course of three or four years, was accomplished, and under the same control, the united states realty building and the trinity building, the two sometimes called the twin trinity buildings, were erected. on april 6, 1906, the board of estimates and apportionment passed a resolution by which an exchange of land was made by the city and the owners of this property. temple street, between thames and cedar streets, and thames street, between broadway and trinity place, were vacated, and in return cedar street was widened on the south side between broadway and trinity place or church street, and a new thames street was laid out between broadway and trinity place, with lines somewhat different from those of the former street, but covering nearly the same ground. this exchange of land allowed the united states realty building to be constructed so as to cover what had been formerly two blocks, extending from broadway to trinity place. the large double brick house no. 39 broadway, built in 1786 by general alexander macomb, and occupied by washington when president of the united states, with the houses adjoining it on either side, was opened in the year 1821 by william i. bunker and was known as bunker's mansion house. it became quite famous, being considered, in its most prosperous days, as a very large and commodious house. kept with the utmost neatness and attention and usually filled with the best of people, being largely patronized by southern families, it possessed much of the comfort and quiet refinement of a private residence. bunker, who was a very courteous and affable man, succeeded so well that in the course of a few years he sold out and retired from business. [illustration: bunker's mansion house] in the year 1833 stephen holt erected on fulton street, from pearl to water, an hotel, which was the largest and most magnificent building for hotel purposes, up to that time, in the country. it was at first called holt's hotel, afterwards the united states hotel, and its rate of one dollar and a half a day was thought to be exorbitant. here steam was used probably for the first time in an hotel to save labor. passenger elevators had not yet been thought of, but baggage was carried to the upper floors by steam power, and it was also used in turning spits, grinding and cleaning knives, etc., but the main purpose of the engine was the digging of an artesian well, which was sunk to the depth of over five hundred feet, and subsequently put down much further. holt's experiment proved to him disastrous. the expenses exceeded the receipts. he failed and the hotel passed into other hands. the next large hotel to be erected in the city was the astor house, three years later. the advent of the railroad and the great increase of travel created a decided change in the taverns or, as they had come to be called, hotels. it was no longer the custom of the landlord to meet the traveller at the door and welcome him as a friend or attend in person to his comfort. it was the beginning of a new era, in which the old tavern and the old-style landlord is unknown. with the opening of this era the story which i have undertaken to tell about the _old taverns of new york_ comes to an end. index ackland, james, 130. adams, john, 269, 272. adams, john quincy, 474. adams, samuel, 269. adelphi hotel, 451. admiral warner, sign of, 191. agar, edward, 189. alexander, cato, 461. alexander, james, 101, 103. alexander, william, 192. alsop, john, 209, 267, 268. amory, john, 295, 346. anbury, lieutenant, 292. andré, major, 286, 300. anne, queen, 76, 77, 84. andros, governor, 81. aorson, aaron, 395. arding, charles, 154, 255, 357. arnold, benedict, 300, 302, 303, 304. aspinwall, gilbert, 434. assembly balls, 148. astor henry, 348, 349. astor house, 478. astor, john jacob, 449, 474. atwood, judge, 75. avery, john, 388. ayscough, doctor, 133. bache, theohylact, 282, 337, 368. bainbridge, commodore, 419, 421, 423. baker, joseph, 414. baker, roger, 69, 71, 74, 76, 83. baker's tavern, 414. bank coffee house, 455, 456. barclay, arthur, 473. bard, s., 249. bardin, edwin, 195, 196, 216, 217, 221, 230, 234, 250, 251, 337, 403. bardin's tavern, 265. batten, john, 447, 448, 449. bauman, colonel, 352, 374. baxter, captain, 10, 44, 45. bayard, nicholas, 60, 69, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75. bayard, samuel, 112, 119. bayard, william, 433, 439. bayeaux, thomas, 342, 347. beaulieu, captain, 28. beekman, christopher, 341. bell & brookman, 199. bellomont, earl of, 55, 60, 70, 72, 73, 82, 134. belvedere, 413. belvedere club, 386. belvedere house, 386, 387, 388, 389. benedict, james, 466. benson, captain, 288, 369. benson, egbert, 249, 251. benson, judge, 423. beresford, captain, 394. bevan, captain, 122. bicker, henry, 238, 241, 242, 243. bicker, walter, 360. blaaw, widow, 343. black, friars, 385, 403. black horse tavern, 91, 99, 100, 104, 105, 106, 108, 110, 112, 156, 157, 158. "black john," 20. black sam's, 164. blair, archibald, 259. blair, john, 344. bloom, daniel, 128, 129, 130, 253, 357. blue bell, 161, 449. boelin, jacob, 67. bogardus, dominie, 10. bolton, richard, 245, 246, 247, 255. bolton & sigell, 227, 229, 243, 244. bompard, captain, 358. book club, 473. boreel, robert, 474, 475. boreel, sarah, 474, 475, 476. boston letter, the, 232, 234. bowery lane, 48. bowling, 185, 187. bowling green, 14, 16, 187, 218. bowling green, new, 188. bowling green, old, 187, 188. bowling green garden, 186. bradford, cornelius, 266, 278, 318, 319, 321, 322. bradford, widow, 322, 397, 402, 403. bradford, william, 97. bradshaw's, 463. bradshaw, widow, 457, 463. brannon's tea garden, 366, 367, 414. bread and cheese club, 471. brewitson, george, 157. brillât-savarin, anthelme, 377, 378, 379, 380, 381, 382. brock, walter, 252. brooklyn hall, 289, 292. brooks, david, 326. broome, john, 333, 356. brownjohn, william, 253, 293. buchanan, thomas, 371. buckley, john, 62. bull baiting, 184, 289, 290. bull's head tavern, 157, 314, 347, 349. bunch of grapes, 269. bunker's mansion house, 277. bunker, william i., 477. burke, edmund, 168. burns', 164. burns' coffee house, 193, 197. burns, george, 115, 117, 130, 140, 141, 191, 193, 195, 196, 202, 203, 205, 208, 213, 222, 223, 228, 233. burns' long room, 195. burnham's mansion house, 160. burr, aaron, 396. byram, william, 399. byrne, john, 403. cape, john, 311, 315, 324. cape's tavern, 312, 315, 323, 324. carleton, sir guy, 308, 310. carroll, mr., 419, 425. carroll, general, 316. cato's house, 461. carter, t., 460. charles ii, 68. chamber of commerce, 228, 229, 230, 256, 260, 293, 320, 337. chambers, captain, 262, 263. chambers, john, 103, 187. champe, sergeant, 300, 301, 302, 305. cherry garden, 185. child, francis, 128, 178. chrystie, colonel, 338. cincinnati, society of the, 323, 324, 326, 327, 328. city arms tavern, 208. city coffee house, 336. city hotel, 141, 372, 373, 389, 392, 395, 407, 417, 425, 427, 429, 430, 436, 437, 438, 439, 440, 445, 446, 447, 449, 450, 451, 452, 466, 467, 470, 474, 475. city tavern, 312, 323, 324, 325, 326, 337, 339, 353, 354, 369, 370, 371, 375, 475. city, tavern, dutch, 6, 7, 8. clapp, john, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53. clark, willis gaylord, 431. clarke, george, 113. claxton, commodore, 474. clay, henry, 433. clinton, dewitt, 383, 396, 418, 423, 432, 435, 437, 438, 439. clinton, george, 137, 138, 310, 313, 314, 315, 316, 343, 369. clinton, sir henry, 299, 303. clubs, 60, 62, 131, 134, 135, 247, 248, 282, 469, 473. coach and horse, 118. coats, edward, 54. cobb, colonel, 310. cock, annetje, 25. cock, peter, 11, 12, 13, 15, 16, 24, 25. coffee house, 65, 67, 73, 75, 77, 112, 114, 120, 121, 152, 154, 155, 162, 177, 208, 231, 233, 240, 254, 262, 267, 268, 271, 273, 275, 276, 277, 278, 281, 291, 313, 318, 324, 331, 332, 334, 335, 337, 345, 354. colden, lieutenant-governor, 206, 207, 225, 245. colden, cadwallader d., 439. coles, john b., 423. colles, christopher, 366. columbian garden, 399, 401. comforts of an inn, 167. commercial coffee house, 397. compton, captain, 106. compton, general, 108. contoit's garden, 453, 454. contoit, john h., 453. cooke, richard clarke, 115. cooper, james fenimore, 456, 471, 472. corbett, abraham, 44. cornbury, lord, 72, 74, 77, 78, 81. cornell, john, 184. cornell, timothy, 182. cornelissen, adrien, 48, 49. cornwallis, general, 158. corporation house, 287. corre, joseph, 324, 325, 331, 369, 370, 399, 413. cortelyou, simon, 368. cosby, governor, 93, 94, 96, 105, 106, 112, 113. coupar, captain, 263. cox, david, 114. cozzens, william b., 411. crawford, hugh, 124. crawley, john, 202. creiger, john, 158. crigier, martin, 13, 15, 16, 17, 28. crocker, daniel w., 410, 423, 428. croker, thomas, 123. crolius, clarkson, 410. crown and thistle, 155, 191. cruger, henry, 209. cruger, john, 229, 230, 233. cruger, john harris, 256. cruger, nicholas, 366, 372. cushing, thomas, 269. cushing, william, 344. dallas, a. j., 434. damen, jan, 19, 20. davenport, captain, 280. davis, charles augustus, 411. dawson, roper, 156, 182. day's tavern, 161, 269, 313. dayton, abram c., 446, 463. deane, nesbitt, 255, 275. dearborn, general, 422, 423. decatur, stephen, 417, 418, 419, 421, 425. de honeur, john, 90, 92, 106. de kay, james, 471. delacroix, joseph, 400, 401, 410, 426, 450. delafield, john, 356. de la montagnie, abraham, 234, 236, 238, 239, 240, 295. de la montagnie, jacob, 346. de lancy arms, 184. de lancy, james, 95, 96, 98, 141, 142, 144, 146, 147, 151, 183, 209, 233, 245, 371. de lancy, john peter, 282, 371. de lancy, oliver, 136, 140, 182, 202. de lancy, peter, 179. de lancy, robinson & co., 202. de lancy, stephen, 142, 200, 251. delanoy, abraham, 7. delaval, captain, 185. de neuville, hyde, 472. dennis, captain, 375. de peyster, abraham, 71. de peyster, johannes, 70. de reidesel, baroness, 297, 298. de ross, fred. fitzgerald, 440. desbrosses, elias, 225, 229. de witt, simeon, 393. dey, richard varick, 447. dickinson, jonathan, 172. dirks, annetje, 25. dog and duck tavern, 415. dog's head in the porridge pot, 176. dongan, governor, 68. doran, thomas, 151, 260, 283. dove tavern, 168, 415. drake, jasper, 261, 273. draper, sir william, 245, 246. drone club, 386. drover's tavern, 179. drummond, lord, 245, 246, 247. duane, james, 251, 267, 268, 340, 344. duer, colonel, 338. duer, john, 471. duer, william a., 471. duke of cumberland, 130, 131. dunks, john, 127, 129. dunmore, earl of, 245. dusseaussoir, chenelette, 389, 407. dutch festivities, 82. dutch houses, 4. dutch tavern, 26. dyckman, jacob, 158, 159, 163. dyde's hotel, 396, 397. eastham, edward, 123. eddy, thomas, 438, 439. edmonds, george, 118. edwards, lieutenant, 280. elkin, john, 165. elliott, andrew, 310. ellis, john, 76. elms, thomas, 283, 289. ernest, matthias, 188. exchange coffee house, 112, 114, 115, 129, 136, 141, 194. fairlie, james, 423, 434, 435. farmer, thomas, 434. farquhar, james, 371. farrell's, 164. fearon, h. b., 439. fehr, jean rodolphe, 377, 379. "felix oldboy," 447. ferrari, mrs., 253, 254, 255, 278. ferry house tavern, 175, 287, 369. ferry tavern, 27, 28. fessenden, thomas g., 447. fighting cocks, 115, 123, 124, 176. fish, colonel, 311, 317. fisher, john, 385. fletcher, benjamin, 54, 55, 62, 66, 75, 82, 134, 162. flypsen, frederick, 162. forster, william, 95, 96, 98. forum, the, 447. fowler, joseph, 98. fountain inn, 136, 164. fox hunting, 288, 290, 291. foy, captain, 245. francis, john, 344. francis, john w., 104, 471. francis, samuel, 198, 202, 209, 218, 219, 227, 247, 248, 252, 253, 308, 309, 310, 311, 344, 400. francis' tavern, 263, 264. franklin, william, 295. fraunces, samuel, 311, 322, 338, 341, 343, 352. fraunces' tavern, 310, 311, 315, 316, 344, 411. frederick, kryn, 4. freeman, thomas, 106. french arms, 311. friendly club, 386. gabbet, colonel, 196. gage, general, 246, 247, 256, 264. gallatin, albert, 433. galloway, samuel, 183. gates, horatio, 316, 369, 370. genet, minister, 358. gentlemen's coffee house, 115, 194. gerard, philip, 17, 18, 19, 20. gerritsen, adriaen, 7. gerritsen, philip, 7, 10. gibson, solomon d., 389, 395, 417, 435, 449. giles, major, 328. gilfert, charles, 458. glass house, 164, 182, 183. glean, oliver, 385. golden hill, battle of, 236, 237. golden hill inn, 118. goldsborough, lieutenant, 468. goldsmith, oliver, 168. gould, edward, 250. "governor's garden," 68. graham, james, 45, 46. graves, benjamin, 385. graydon, alexander, 280, 282. green, daniel, 313. green, jacob g., 171. green, m. d., 460. green, major, 441, 442. greene, nathaniel, 316, 317. grim, david, 357. guion, isaac, 328. haines, charles g., 418. half way house, 163. hall, talmadge, 341, 363. halleck, fitz-greene, 414, 431, 447, 458, 459, 469, 470, 471. hallet, william paxton, 447. halsey's tavern, 366. halstead, john, 156. hamilton, alexander, 316, 329, 339, 375, 394. hamilton, andrew, 100, 102, 105. hamilton, governor, 121. hamilton hotel, 409. hampden hall, 239, 240, 241, 242, 243, 257, 265. hampton, general, 422. hand, colonel, 288. hard drinking, 170, 176. hardenbrook, bernard, 87. hardy, charles, 146, 147, 148. harris, richard, 83, 84, 85. harrison, richard, 249, 371. harrison, robert, 344. harrison, william henry, 422. hart, bernard, 384. harwood, richard, 384. hay, john, 249. hayes, hetty, 197. hazzard house, 462, 463. hepburn, j., 295. hicks, whitehead, 209, 251. hicks, mr., 282, 299. hick's tavern, 295. hillsborough, earl of, 232. hobart, judge, 375. hodgkinson, john, 400, 429. hodgkinson, thomas, 429, 426. hoffman, josiah ogden, 385, 473. holley, orville l., 447. holt, henry, 200. holt's hotel, 478. holt, john, 283. holt's long room, 200. holt, stephen, 478. hone, isaac, 473. hone, philip, 446, 471, 473. hone, john, 434. home, john, 54. horse and cart, 116, 117, 118, 142. horse-racing, 177, 183, 288, 290. houssacker, colonel, 281. howard, william, 209, 211. hudson, hendrick, 1. hull, isaac, 417, 418, 419, 421. hull, robert, 255. hull's tavern, 256, 257, 269, 282. hum drum club, 134. humphreys, colonel, 310, 317. hunt, obadiah, 88, 89. hunter, governor, 81. hunter, robert, 371, 372. hunter's hotel, 372, 373. hutchins, john, 65, 66, 67, 73, 74, 75, 77. hutchinson, governor, 267. hyatt, caleb, 347. hyde, john, 357, 361, 371, 394. imlay, william, 250. inman, john, 432. iredell, judge, 374. irving, washington, 33. izard, ralph, 364. jamaica arms, 120. jamaica pilot boat, 127, 129. james, major, 206, 218. jackson, andrew, 436, 437. jackson, jacob, 291. jackson, major, 364. jauncey, james, 209, 233. jay, john, 248, 251, 259, 267, 268, 321, 337, 344, 374. jennings, chester, 449, 450, 452, 475. jochemsen, andries, 23. johnson, doctor, 374. johnson, jeremiah, 368. johnson, samuel, 165, 166, 167. jones, captain, 417, 419, 421. jones, john, 209, 219, 221, 227, 230, 242, 243, 265. jones, samuel, 251. jourdain, elizabeth, 87. jourdain, henry, 87. kearney, michael, 182. keen & lightfoot, 136. kelly, henry, 250. kempe, john tabor, 246, 247. kennedy, henry, 346. kent, rudolphus, 412. kent, william, 473. ketchum, hiram, 447. kidd, captain, 116. kieft, governor, 6, 12. kiersted, hans, 10. kierstede, benjamin, 120. king, charles, 471, 473. king, david, 455. king george, 85. king, rufus, 434, 435. king william, 108. king of prussia (sign of the), 165. king's arms, 65, 67, 69, 77, 114, 115, 116, 141, 149, 164, 191, 193, 194, 196, 197, 198, 216, 217, 221, 251. king's birthday, 124. king's college, 144. king's head, 69, 70, 71, 75, 84, 192, 193, 195, 202, 284, 285, 289, 290, 292. king's head, london, 210. kissam, benjamin, 251, 385. knight, sarah, 51, 162. knox, general, 310, 313, 314, 316, 317, 354. knyphausen, general, 398. kosciusko, general, 316. kray, teunis, 29, 30. krout club, 432, 433. la chair, solomon petersen, 29, 30. laight, general, 386. laight, william, 356. lafayette, george washington, 465. lafayette, general, 465, 466, 467, 468, 469. lamb, general, 468. lambert, captain, 366. la montagne, doctor, 12. landlord, the, 169. langdon, dorothea, 474. lawrence, captain, 420, 421, 422. lawrence, judge, 375. lawrence, susannah, 122, 130. lawrence, william beach, 472. leary, john, 182. le count, william, 97. lee, general, 316. lee, major, 300, 301, 303, 304. leendersen, sander, 37. leete, samuel, 44. leisler, jacob, 49, 51, 53, 58, 66. lenox, robert, 321. leppers, thomas, 130, 131, 133, 188. lewis, francis, 249, 265. lewis, morgan, 249, 272. liberty cap, 359, 360. liberty pole, 215, 216, 217, 234, 236, 237, 238, 239, 240, 243, 244, 257, 346. lincoln, general, 316. lispenard, leonard, 249. little, michael, 377, 379, 380, 381, 383, 407, 412. little's tavern, 377, 383. litschoe, annetje, 23. litschoe, daniel, 22, 23, 28. livingston, brockholst, 353, 422, 423, 433. livingston, chancellor, 396. livingston, edward, 374. livingston, henry, 249. livingston, john, 249. livingston, philip, 172, 233, 267, 268, 371. livingston, robert, 324. livingston, robert r., 205, 248, 321, 394, 403, 407. livingston, robert r., jr., 247. livingston, william, 209, 251, 252. lockyer, captain, 261, 263. "locust trees," 45. london hotel, 397. london tavern, 390, 439. loosley, charles, 283, 289, 292. loosley & elms, 283, 285, 288, 289, 293. loring, commissioner, 299. lorelace, governor, 40, 43, 81, 134. lovett, john, 373, 374, 389. low, isaac, 267, 268, 271. ludlow, daniel, 249, 371. ludlow, george, 249. ludlow, william, 249. macomb, alexander, 476. mackraby, alexander, 176. madison, james, 417. malcolm, general, 354. mapes, general, 434. marriner's tavern, 364, 365, 368. marriner, william, 364, 366, 369. marshall, john, 187. martling, abraham b., 375, 411. martling & cozzens, 423, 425. martling's tavern, 375, 376, 395. mason's arms, 199. mason william, 54. massue, viscombe de la, 377, 379. mather, samuel g., 449. matthews, david, 251. matthews, james, 43. matthews, peter, 62, 75, 134. mccomb, general, 434. mcdougal, alexander, 151, 239, 241, 320, 324. mcgillivray, alexander, 353, 354. mcgown, andrew, 158. mcgown's pass tavern, 158. mcgown, widow, 158. mcintyre, peter, 428. meal market, 127, 128. mechanics' hall, 406, 447. melyen, samuel, 172. mercantile coffee house, 397. merchants' coffee house, 117, 128, 131, 133, 136, 137, 141, 154, 155, 168, 201, 206, 207, 215, 225, 253, 255, 264, 265, 267, 271, 275, 278, 279, 280, 293, 294, 318, 321, 326, 356, 357, 386, 403. merchants' exchange, 43, 135. merchants' hotel, 435, 454. meschianza, the, 286, 287. miller, john, 186. minhorne, jacob, 53, 58, 66. minuit, peter, 2, 3. minvielle, gabriel, 60, 69. mitchill, samuel l., 433. monckton, general, 182. monroe, james, 434, 435. montagu, william, 179. montcrieffe, major, 368. montgomerie, governor, 91, 114. moody, sir henry, 23. mooney, william, 437. moore, sir henry, 207, 208, 225, 233, 245. moore, john, 248, 250. moore, thomas w. c., 248. moot, the, 250, 251, 252. morris, general, 314. morris, gouveneur, 101, 248, 251, 265, 364, 366. morris, lewis, 95, 99, 101, 104, 108, 181, 331. morris, lewis, jr., 180, 181, 183. morris, richard, 251. morris, robert hunter, 143. morris, roger, 243. morris, william, 70. mortier, paymaster general, 163, 189. morton, general, 434, 435. moultrie, general, 316. mount pleasant, 187, 218, 252. mount vernon garden, 399, 400. murray, john, 337. nanfan, lieutenant governor, 72, 73. national hotel, 450. new england society, the, 407. negro plot, 123, 318. new york coffee house, 318. new york arms, 142, 143, 144, 148, 202, 213, 222, 228, 233, 245, 246, 247. new york garden, 453, 454. new york hotel, 403. new york society, the, 247. new york stock exchange, 360, 363. niblo's coffee house, 407. niblo's garden, 458. niblo, william, 452, 458, 459, 460, 462. nicolls, governor, 37, 39, 178, 198, 199. noel, garrat, 155. noel, thomas, 65. non-importation agreement, 205. non-importation agreement, second, 228. norris, sir john, 108. norris, matthias, 103, 106, 118. norris, mrs., 108. north, lord, 267. o'brien, 155. ogden, jonathan, 156. old coffee house, 403. opdyck, gysbert, 10. osborne, sir danvers, 139, 140. pain, benjamin, 115, 120. paine, robert treat, 269. palmer, benjamin, 163. parker, james, 202. parmyter, john, 85, 86. parmyter, susannah, 86. pattison, general, 296, 297, 299. paulding, james k., 431. pelow, vincent, 88. pemberton, robert, 328. pennington, captain, 282. pennington, william, 474. percival, james g., 431. perry, commodore, 423, 424. phillips, frederick, 455. phillips, general, 296. phillipse, adolph, 92. phillipse, frederick, 56, 95, 96, 98, 163, 187. phoenix coffee house, 403. pine apple, the, 120. pintard, john, 331, 362, 439. pirates, 57, 59. pitt, william, 215. platt, jonas, 438, 439. platt, richard, 328, 435. porteous, captain, 394. porterfield, james, 131, 132, 133. post, widow, 87, 88. powers, george, 322. price, benjamin, 441, 442. price, captain, 316. price, stephen, 441, 443, 444. privateers, 119, 120, 121. province arms, 142, 147, 203, 205, 244, 246, 255, 282, 295, 297, 299, 300, 305, 311, 323, 445. purdie, alexander, 270. putnam, general, 207, 316. queen's head, 168, 202, 227, 230, 243, 245, 247, 253, 294, 295, 317. radel, margaret, 37. ramsay, andrew, 114, 125, 129. randolph, edmund, 344. ranelagh, 218, 221, 413. rapelye, stephen, 250. rathwell, james, 393, 394. rawson's tavern, 345. reade, john, 250. red house, 463. red lion, 130. refugee club, 295. regulation of taverns, 20, 21. renwick, professor, 471. revere, paul, 260, 266. reynolds' beer house, 459. reynolds, sir joshua, 168. reynolds, william, 458. riedesel, baron, 296. ritzema, rudolphus, 251. rivington, james, 284, 288, 323. road houses, 459. robertson, alexander, 299, 345. robin, isaac, 86. robinson, beverly, 202, 473. robinson, joseph, 201. rodgers, commodore, 417. rodgers, doctor, 401. rogers, captain, 468. rogers & humphrey, 225. rogers, lewis, 463. roger morris house, 159, 363, 364. rogers, moses, 371. roome, luke, 154, 255, 357. roosevelt, john, 187. ross, david, 412. roubalet, 299, 305. royal bowling green, 188. royal oak, 44. rutgers, anthony, 182, 199, 219. rutherford, walter, 209. rutledge, john, 344. sacket, richard, 185. saint george and the dragon, 37, 130. saltus, nick, 451. sampson, j. p. c., 447. sands, robert c., 431. sans, souci, 455. santen, lucas, 52. schuyler, arent, 81. schuyler, peter, 148, 149. schuyler, philip, 328. scotch johnny, 191, 195. scotch johnny's, 164. scott, john morin, 209, 251, 275, 310. scott, winfield, 435, 474. scurlock, thomas, 165. seabury, doctor, 399. seagrave, james, 249. sears, isaac, 151, 215. sebring, isaac, 408. seton, william, 320. shakespeare tavern, 428, 429, 430, 431, 432. shank, matthew, 62. sherbrook, major, 367. sherman, alpheus, 410. shirley, william, 143. shoemakers' pasture, 116. simmons, john, 340, 341. simmons' tavern, 340, 341, 342. slave market, 127. sloughter, governor, 66. smith, colonel, 310, 364. smith, edward, 234, 238. smith, ephraim, 287. smith, melancthon, 345. smith, mrs., 293. smith's tavern, 286. smith, thomas, 251. smith, william, 103, 251, 310. smith, william, jr., 209. snedeker, john r., 465. social club, the, 248. sons of liberty, 208, 212, 214, 230, 231, 234, 236, 238, 239, 243, 244, 257, 259, 261, 273, 351. southard, samuel, 474. sperry, jacob, 401. sports and amusements, 174. spring garden, 116, 122, 165. spring garden house, 165, 199. stagg, john, 354, 385. stamp act, 204, 205, 202. stark, general, 316. state arms, 307. steel, sarah, 194, 195, 196. steenwyck, cornelis, 39, 198. steuben, general, 316, 326, 328, 337. stevens, ebenezer, 423, 435. stevens, j., 250. stevens, john austin, 255. stewart, anthony g., 295. stirling, lord, 182. stockton, anne, 115. stone, william l., 431, 432. stoneall, james c., 432. storrs, henry r., 472. strachan, john, 293, 294. strachan's tavern, 295. stuyvesant, peter, 13, 20, 22, 34, 35, 47. stuyvesant, peter g., 474. swain, captain, 430. swartwout, john, 383, 396, 439, 468. swift, general, 434, 435. swift, henry, 81. swift, joseph g., 422. talbot, captain, 375. talmadge, colonel, 317. tammany hall, 410, 422, 423, 427, 433, 437, 445. tammany hall hotel, 425. tammany society, 351, 375, 395. tavern life, 78, 79. tavern regulations, 41. tavern signs, 167. taylor, john, 189. tew, thomas, 54, 58, 59. thomas, widow, 122. thompson, gabriel, 69, 70. thompson, john, 155, 156. thomson, captain, 375. thurman, john, jr., 209. tillery, james, 385, 394. todd, robert, 105, 110, 112, 114, 121, 200. tollemache, captain, 282. tompkins, daniel d., 422, 423, 434, 435. tontine coffee house, 154, 356, 361, 371, 374, 393, 395, 400, 403, 404, 407, 425. tontine hotel, 371, 372. trumbull, john, 310, 474. tryon, governor, 293, 296. turk's head, the, 168, 431. two-mile tavern, 48. tyler's, 414. ugly club, 414. ugly hall, 414. underhill, john, 11, 12. union flag, the, 158, 176. united states hotel, 478. ury, john, 123. valentine, abraham m., 410. van borsum, annetje, 28, 29. van borsum, egbert, 27, 28, 29, 185. van borsum, hermanus, 29. van buren's tavern, dr., 367. van cortlandt, pierre, 328. van cortlandt, stephen, 200. van dam, rip, 92, 93, 94, 95, 101, 104, 110, 112, 113. vandenberg, adam, 179. vandenberg's, 189. vanderbilt, john, 419. vandercliff, dirck, 45, 46. vandercliff's orchard, 45. vanderspiegel, john, 209. van dyck, hendrick, 20. van horne, cornelius, 92. van horne, david, 205. van ness, judge, 423. van pelt, rem, 367. van purmerendt, claes jansen, 25. van shaack, peter, 249, 251. van tienhoven, cornelis, 13. van twiller, wouter, 11. van vorst, annetje cornelissen, 25. varian, richard, 347. varick, colonel, 310. vaughan, thomas, 394, 395. vauxhall, 187, 206, 218, 247, 252, 425. vauxhall garden, 218, 400, 401, 402. vermilye, thomas, 163. verplanck, gulian, 219, 356, 371. verplanck, gulian c., 432. vineyard, the, 68, 185. wainwright, doctor, 473. waldron, adolph, 287. waldron, samuel, 239. wales, prince of, 108. walker, benjamin, 324. wallace, hugh, 229. walters, robert, 66. walton, jacob, 233. walton, william, 256. warren, sir peter, 182. washington, george, 159, 300, 302, 308, 309, 310, 313, 317, 336, 339, 341, 364, 367, 368, 473, 476. washington hall, 408, 409, 410, 420, 423, 424, 425, 427, 441, 443, 445, 467, 469, 472. washington hotel, 397, 412, 435. waters, a. w., 183. watson, james, 371. watson, john, 175. watts, john, 182, 249, 356, 358, 371, 404. watts, john, jr., 247. wayne, general, 316. webb, james, 37. webb, samuel b., 326, 328. webber, wolfert, 46, 47. webster, daniel, 472. weissenfels, frederick, 312. welch, thomas, 118. wessels, metje, 28, 30, 32, 33. wetmore, prosper w., 467. white conduit house, 398, 399. whitehall coffee house, 225. white horse tavern, 18. white lion, 70, 71. wickham, william, 251. wilcocks, widow, 440. wilkinson, james, 245. willard, mr., 449, 450, 452. willett, edward, 118, 141, 143, 144, 148, 202. willett, marinus, 273, 274, 275, 353, 435. williams, erasmus, 252. wilson, captain, 441, 444. wilson, james, 344. wragg, elizabeth, 255. zenger, john peter, 101, 102, 104. footnotes: [1] new york gazette or weekly post-boy. [2] new york gazette or weekly post-boy. [3] new york mercury. [4] new york gazette. [5] new york evening post. [6] dayton. [7] dayton. 