Mark Hellinger's Broadway 1930s
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: short stories

MARK HELLINGER'S

BROADWAY 1930s

Mark Hellinger

2018

Contents

Introduction

1: Girl Who Loved A Writer

2: The Body In The Garage

3: Gentlemen of the Jury

4: The Charming Lord Dunberry

5: Wanted— A Job!

6: She Cried For A Lawyer

7: Mr. Lombardi Had A Friend

8: It Was Such A Perfect Plan

9: The Last Thought

10: A Fit Of Temper

11: The Man Who Stopped the Traffic

12: The Proposition

13: The Cheat

14: Manhattan Holiday

15: Reunion

16: The Ham

17: The March Of Time

18: The Double Cross

19: All's Well―!

20: The Greater Sin

21: The Girl Who Finally Changed

22: Story Without A Moral

23: Fright For A Purpose

25: Music On The Air

26: The Clean Up

27: School Days

28: Three Months To Live

29: Justice

30: The Breaking Point

31: The Endless Phrase

32: From Feinberg to Fitzroy

33: Two Who Are Gone

34:Killer Joe

35: The Tragedy Of Elvira

36: The Son's Revenge

37: The Fable Of Ambrose

38: The Anecdote

39: Tearful Tale Of Moses Rabinowitz

40: Useless Charlie

41: It's Fun To Be Fooled

42: He Wanted To Help Humanity

43: The Revenge Of Sydney Wilkens

44: Flirted Herself To Death

45: He Made The Couple Happy

46: Broadway Attorney

47: Gallant Lady And The Truth

48: Worker's Man

49: Superstition

50: Hail The Hero!

51: Leg Man

52: Last Request

53: The Goal

54: Benefits Of Experience

55: The Reason

56: The Ideal Man

57: Old Man's Story

58: The Boomerang

59: The Legacy

60: The Rebound

61: Crusader

62: Uriah Steps Out

63: The Beefer

64: New York Tale

65: The Promise

66: The Proof

67: Dream's End

68: Story Of Revenge

69: Greatest Of All

70: Court Scene

71: The Way Things Happen

72: The Big Chance

73: As Ye Sow

74: The Gourmand

75: The Alibi

76: Restitution

77: The Victor

78: Grins And Bitters

79: Prosper The Great

80: Reward Of Patience

81: Opportunity

82: Changing The Ticket

83: The Reporter And The Old Lady

84: Letter A Week

85: Theft From The Box-office

86: A Gentleman From Michigan

87: A Womanhater

88: Mr. Jones's Chauffeur

89: Revenge Is So Sweet

90: The Way It Goes

91: Drunk Tale

92: A Wise Woman

93: Daffy Tale

94: The Hero

95: What's Fair For One

96: The Farmer Stakes A Wife

97: The Kid

98: Irony De Luxe

99: A Frightened Man

100: The Reason

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Introduction

MARK Hellinger (1903-1947) lived a short but exciting life.  In 1925, aged just 22, he was hired by The New York Daily News to do the "About Town" weekly column, intended to be filled with news and gossip about Broadway. Instead, Hellinger wrote short-short stories with a twist in the tail, in the O. Henry mode. Later they became a daily feature.

The stories were very popular and by the late 1930s were syndicated and sold to many other newspapers. He is believed to have written some 6,000 of them.

The stories were very popular and by the late 1930s were syndicated and sold to many other newspapers.

In 1937 Jack Warner of Warner Brothers hired him to produce movies. He had spectacular success, with among other movies The Roaring Twenties with James Cagney and Humphrey Bogart, They Drive by Night, (George Raft and Humphrey Bogart) High Sierra (with Bogart) and The Naked City,  which was filmed on the streets of New York, rather than on the Warner Brothers' back lot. It was a huge success. He also provided the voice-over narration for the film, including the final words spoken over an aerial shot of the city: "There are eight million stories in the naked city. This has been one of them."

He didn't live to see The Naked City released, dying of a heart attack in 1947, two weeks before the movie premiere. (His bad heart had kept him out of the armed forces in WW2.)

In 1929 he married Ziegfield showgirl Gladys Glad; they divorced in 1932, then remarried in 1934, and they stayed together until his death.

THE STORIES in this collection were published in numerous Australian newspapers during the 1930s. A small number were published in Hellinger's  book The Ten Million (1934). The majority have never before been collected.

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1: Girl Who Loved A Writer

LOVE is really so simple. There are only two things that make it seem difficult. One is man. The other is woman.

In the city of New York there are thousands of girls exactly like Ruthie. They rush into subways in the morning, dash into lunch-rooms at noon, and are shoved into subways again in the evening. They're not very beautiful. They're not very brilliant. They are neither very wicked nor very good. They are just like the Ruthie of our story. And some of their backgrounds may be very much the same.

Our heroine was born in a small town upstate. Her parents died when she was very young, and she was brought up by a maiden aunt who was exactly the same as most maiden aunts. There's a complete story told in them thar words, and you will doubtless understand when I tell you that Ruthie headed for New York at an early age.

As we raise the curtain, we find the girl living in the section of town that is quaintly known as Greenwich Village. Not because the damsel had any artistic ambitions or literary aspirations, but for the homely reason that rooms were cheaper there than elsewhere. When weekly wages come to £3/10/, I can't think of a better reason. Her existence was an ordinary one. She shared a room with another girl, washed her stockings in the bathroom, investigated the most expensive gowns and bought the cheapest, ate her lunches at a soda fountain, and never looked back when the boys on the corner whistled to her. On pay nights she had dinner at the automat and then went to the Paramount or the State.

But all this was before she met Eddie. After he came into her life, everything was vastly different. Just like the Ruthies all over the world when the Eddies suddenly appear. Eddie was a pleasant young chap who— God pity him!— was trying to be a writer. And when I say trying I don't mean succeeding.

He was one of the struggling striving tribe who feels certain that the editors of the Saturday Evening Post will some day beat down the doors in order to get to him. To buy his stories, I mean, and not to kill him. Meanwhile, the poor bozo was selling a story every few months— and living on hopes in the interim. For every small acceptance there were dozens of rejection slips. For every small cheque there were many sheets of manuscript that might as well have been used under the kindling wood.

But did Ruthie care that he wasn't famous, or successful, or rich? One guess in all you need. She thought he was the most wonderful thing that ever cursed a typewriter ribbon. As far as she was concerned, George Bernard Shaw and Sinclair Lewis were a couple of novices compared with Eddie.

Don't ask me why it is, because I'm the last bird in the world who knows— but there's a certain class of people which considers anyone who can string two sentences together and put them on paper slightly above the mortal element. Ruthie belonged to that strange group. She frankly and honestly worshipped her hero.

And Eddie? Well, no doubt the admiration was pleasant enough. No doubt it was balm after the bales of rejection slips. And when lie discovered that she actually swallowed his line about having to know the editors personally and how you have to have a pull to get anywhere at all— well, he couldn't see enough of her. They were together all that winter. Meeting in each other's rooms and going to the movies when Ruthie had money for the tickets. Rushing to free lectures, to a free concert, or to the museums. And all the while falling more and more deeply in love.

For a while things went on in that manner. This was real love, I am sorry to say. The girl would sit for ! hours and gaze at her hero. The boy would pound out page after page of manuscript. Both occupations had one thing in common. Neither one meant anything.

Sometimes, of course, things were not so smooth. To May, the girl who still shared her room with her, Ruthie protested hotly that she didn't want to get married anyway. She spouted a lot of high-sounding phrases about "careers" and "temperament."

But if you don't think she dreamed about a two-room apartment and Eddie coming home from the office to find her in a gingham gown, then you don't know Ruthie. Came the day when Ruthie bought a ring in the five-and-ten cent store and went, under a phoney name, to see a doctor. When she left, she knew the simple truth.

It happens every day, or so they tell me. She was going to have a baby. On the way home she tried to figure it all out. To practically any other girl it probably would have been very simple. She would have rushed home, told her lover the happy news, been married— and all three could have starved happily ever after. But not Ruthie. She was thinking about the boy and his half-baked notion of what would ruin his "career." He had told her so many things about that "career" that she was afraid the slightest wrong move on her part would spoil it. Yet, on the other hand, she had no way of supporting herself much longer. While she was still undecided, Eddie took things into his own hands.

That night, for the first time in months, he failed to show up for his date. Ruthie didn't worry— much. But when the next two nights passed and still no Eddie, she began to grow frightened.

Fearing he might be sick, she called his rooming house. Eddie was just getting ready to go out. No, he told her, there was nothing wrong. Just a little busy, that's all. He would see her soon. Maybe some night next week.

A week went by. and Eddie hadn't pub in an appearance. Ruthie swallowed her pride and called on him. He seemed to be a little impatient. He was in a hurry, he said. The girl was going to tell him about the baby— but she didn't. She accused him; instead, of ceasing to love her.

"Sure I love you," Eddie insisted. "But listen, darling, I've got to go out. You know what my career means to me —and if I've been busy these last couple of weeks, can I help that? Meeting the right kind of people is the best thing in the world for me. I should think you'd know that.

"Be a good girl now, and run along home. I love you, honey, and I'll see you soon. I promise you that."

So Ruthie left. Without a word about the one thing they needed so vitally to discuss. The girl went home. Her heart was just so much lead. But if her eyes were wet, nobody noticed. Crying jags aren't exactly uncommon in the Greenwich Village sector.

Busy! Eddie had been too busy to talk with her for long.

To Ruthie, that could mean but one thing. He was tired of her. Perhaps he had found someone he liked better. Perhaps— oh, there were any number of perhapses. Too many. But they all narrowed down to the one thing  he didn't love her any more. The more she thought of it the more terrifying the future became. No Eddie. No money. A ward in a charity institution awaiting her. Nothing but blackness.

I'm afraid that Ruthie went a little mad. When May, her room-mate, came home later that night she found Ruthie stretched across the bed. She was moaning in agony, and her lips were swollen into a shapeless mass. May stifled an impulse to scream and ran downstairs to call a doctor. On the dresser was a note that May read when she returned. It showed the nature of Ruthie's soul.

"May, dear," it read, "I'm doing what I think is best. It's not Eddie's fault, and I ask you not to call him about this. I don't want him to see me again because my pride is too strong. Everything I have is yours. Good-bye, dear."

Her pride was too strong! Well, so it goes. There wasn't much about it in the papers. Just a line or two in one of the lesser sheets on an inside page. And when she died the following day there wasn't even an obituary notice. People like Ruthie aren't very important.

May accompanied Ruthie's body on its last journey. They took her upstate and buried her in the family plot. And May came back home again. Home lo look for another room-mate...

THE NEXT night Eddie called. I'm not going to tell you of May's words to him nor of the expression that came over his face when he heard the news. I'm going to tell you merely that the boy fainted dead away. And it wasn't until almost an hour later, in a small drinking-place, that he was able to talk coherently again. May sat with him. She felt almost sorry for him now.

"But why?" she asked. "Why did you give Ruthie the air? Why did you stay away for a week at a time? Why "

Eddie passed a hand across his forehead. He forced himself to speak. "You don't understand," he said hoarsely. "I never stopped loving Ruthie. I never will stop loving her. I stayed away because I took a job working nights. It was a terrible job; a bus boy in a cheap restaurant. I thought I might be able to save enough so that Ruthie and I could get married.

"I couldn't tell her about it. May. Don't you see that? She thought I was a great writer. It would have broken her heart to hear me admit that I was a flop. And then, too. I guess there was another reason why I couldn't force myself to tell her I was a bus boy." He paused for a moment. Then— "My pride was too strong," he said.

__________________

2: The Body In The Garage

THE Miltons were poor people. They lived in a little frame house on the outskirts of a large city, and I don't suppose either the husband or wife ever had much happiness together.

They had been married some five or six years when they moved into the neighborhood.

The husband's occupation was a mystery. Some said he drove a truck when he could find work and others insisted that he was a small-time gunman. None of them really knew, and I doubt if the wife was much wiser than they.

One thing, however, everybody knew. There wasn't a man or woman in the vicinity who wasn't aware that the Miltons were staging some excellent battles. There would be hoarse cries from the man and startling shrieks from the woman.

The neighbors, of course, blamed the man. They didn't know anything about the circumstances then, and they don't today. But when a husky male is living with a frail female and one of the two is getting slapped around, I imagine it's only human to give the lady the break.

Came the night when there was the fiercest fight of all. The woman screamed violently. The foulest of language poured from the man's lips. A chair went through a window and fell to the walk below. Several of the neighbors were tempted to rush in and put a stop to the battle. But suddenly, after one piercing shriek from Mrs. Milton, everything grew very still. A few seconds later, the lights went out, and the neighbors went back to bed.

Several days went by before anybody missed the woman. As a matter of fact, I think the neighbors missed the quarrels before they suspected that anything had happened to Mrs. Milton.

People can become so accustomed to a routine that when anything is omitted they grow suspicious. When a week had passed, and there was still no sign of the woman, the police were called. The next day, in the husband's absence, the officers walked in.

They found very definite traces of the last brutal fight between husband and wife. Bloodstains on the rug. Torn dresses. A broken table that had evidently been hurled, causing the hole in the wall. And so on. When the husband returned, he was immediately seized and questioned. His explanation was simple.

"If you fellers think I killed her," he muttered, "you're crazy. I hit her: sure I did. I've been hittin' her right along because she's been crazy about another guy. She'd throw his name at me when I had a coupla drinks under my belt and that would drive me nuts.

"I was pretty stewed the last time I seen her. We had a fight. And when I waked up in the morning, she was gone. That's all I know, fellers, and you ain't gettin' nothin' more outa me."

They quizzed him, of course, at length. They asked him where the other man lived. He said h didn't know. They did everything possible to get a confession from him. But they got nowhere. Everything pointed to the belief that the husband had murdered his wife. The neighbor's testimony about the violent quarrels. The husband's unsavory past. The bloodstains The complete disappearance of the wife. The stillness after the last terrific shriek.

Yes, everything was present for an iron-clad murder charge. Everything but the body. And without that, where were the police? They held the husband for some time while they searched and searched.

They let him go, and then they picked him up again. And just about four months after the first quiz they found a woman's body in the tiny garage in the rear of the frame house.

The body had been hacked to bits. Nobody was willing positively to identify the remains. It was in such a state that identification was almost impossible. But the police dug up a distant relative and brought her on. She looked— and she nodded. Yes, that was Susie. Susie had had a mark on her left hand just like that. Yes, she was positive.

Milton was tried for the murder or his wife. He was lucky enough to have a conscientious attorney assigned to him, and the evidence against him was purely circumstantial. He finally wound up by being convicted of one of the lesser degrees of murder, and was sent to the penitentiary at Joliet, Ill., for some 15 years. He had been let off, I guess, comparatively lightly.

THE man served 14 years before he was again turned loose In the world. He skipped the big city this time and wandered into one of the smaller towns in the Middle West in search of a job. He was sitting in a beanery and gazing gloomily through the window when he saw his wife walk by. She had been alive ail this time, and had made no effort to save him from the murder charge. And all she would have had to do, of course, was walk into the court room.

He raced from the restaurant and trailed her. The man was wild with rage. His nails digging into his palms, and his lips in a bitter line, he followed her every step. She walked into a dingy house and up a flight of stairs.

Just as she opened the door he nailed her. He placed a hand over her mouth, slammed the door behind him, and threw her into a chair.

"You're the lowest rat that ever lived. You let me spend 14 years in hell for something I never did. Well, I'll fool them. They said I did it— and I'm going to make good for them. You're going to dip "

This time there was no question about it. He knocked the woman out with a punch, dragged her into the kitchen, and finished the job with a bread knife.

He was just stealing from the apartment when another man walked in. There was a struggle. The police arrived. The body was discovered.

So, for the second time, Milton was arrested and charged with the murder of his wife...

That is all of the Milton case that I can give you. The man who told it to me dropped from sight, and I could find nothing about it in the newspapers. So the story must stand as written. You will tell me, I suppose, that no man can be convicted twice for the same crime. Milton, many lawyers state, must be released. But is it the same crime? How can it be when one happened some 15 years after the other? Yet there it is. The man was punished for the killing of his wife, even though it was a crime he didn't commit. He paid his debt. Has society the right to punish him again?

It's a swell problem I think.

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3: Gentlemen of the Jury

IMAGINE a courtroom during one of those cases when neither side placed a pretty woman with shapely legs on the stand. The spectators were bored. The opposing attorneys scowled at each other and said a great deal about nothing. The Jury was having a tough time remaining awake. The judge was sipping a glass of water, wishing it were a highball, and hearing absolutely nothing of what was going on. The case was one involving negligence.

A woman had walked over a grating in front of an apartment house. The grating, she claimed, was loose. She tripped and fell. The ambulance and the lawyer arrived almost simultaneously. And a short time later, the owner of the property was sued for 25,000 dollars by the fallen woman— or rather the lady who fell.

The attorney for the plaintiff could have asked for much more money. As a matter of fact, in cases such as these, it is nothing to sue for 100,000 in the hope that the defendant will settle for 1000 dollars.

But this lawyer— let's call him Mr. Moore — didn't see any sense in carrying this action that far. His case was of the cheese variety, better known as a "schmear-case," and nobody knew it better than he. He had taken the matter on the usual fifty-fifty basis and he had to go through with it. But exactly how little he thought of his chances was plainly indicated when he sued for a measly 25,000 dollars.

Here they were in court, and it was almost time for the jury to retire. Mr. Moore stood before that jury— twelve good men, and most of them untrue— and bellowed what he considered an excellent piece of oratory. There was no reason why it shouldn't have been excellent. He had been delivering it for twenty years.

With great fervor he pointed out that his client had suffered untold anguish since the sad day she fell upon that grating. He pictured her great agony as she twisted and tossed on a hospital cot. He rang in her grey old mother who was dependent upon her for support. He dramatised the facts to such an extent that he, himself, was actually beginning to feel sorry for the woman

Some twenty minutes later the jury retired. Mr. Moore went over to the attorney for the defence. Harsh words had passed between these two men during the trial. As a matter of fact it looked at one time as though they were going to come to blows.

Mr. Moore looked squarely at his rival. The other man returned the gaze. It was an excellent scene and you would have enjoyed being there. Who knew what pearls o wisdom and cynicism would drop from the lips of these two noted New York attorneys?

Mr. Moore spoke first. "Let's go over to Charlie's for a drink." he said.

"Okay, pal." replied the other man.

That jury was out almost three hours. Mr. Moore couldn't understand it. The case didn't merit that kind of consideration. Not by a long shot. Still and all, there they were. And Mr. Moore began to feel rather happy. When a jury stayed out that long, it could mean but one thing. They were arguing about the amount of money to be given.

As the minutes went by, Mr. Moore began to beam. Anything could happen now. Why, they might award his client 2,000 dollars — or they might even go to 3,000 dollars! What a break this was going to be! And how totally unexpected!

Suddenly the jury filed back. They wanted, it appeared, to ask a question. The judge put away his Racing Form and went back on the bench. The foreman stood up. The rival attorneys looked on with puzzled expressions.

"We would like to know," said the juryman, "about something of which we are in doubt. Is it possible for us to return a verdict of more than 25,000 dollars?"

More than 25,000 dollars! Mr. Moore almost fell through the floor. Good Lord, what a surprise! Absolutely amazing— but it was just as he had always maintained. You never know what a jury will do.

The judge was speaking.

"The answer to your question is 'No' " he asserted. "You are limited to the amount claimed in this action and cannot find a verdict in excess of 25,000 dollars."

The jury filed out again. Mr. Moore swallowed hard and raced to the nearest telephone.

He called his wife.

"Frances," he cried joyously, "I just knocked a jury cold with one of my summations. I'm going to split the largest verdict I ever received in my life. Start to pack, honey, because we're going to spend a month abroad. Maybe we'll spend two months. I don't know. I'm the happiest guy in the world. I'll call you back. Goodbye!"

Another ten minutes and the jury was back again. The defence attorney was biting his nails while Mr. Moore made no effort to conceal his great joy. The judge asked the foreman for his verdict.

The latter gentleman smiled.

"We have decided," he said, "that the defendant is not guilty of negligence."

Not guilty! Mr. Moore turned white. The court room buzzed. What the devil had happened? Here was a jury which had asked about a huge amount and then, a few minutes later, reversed itself completely.

The judge looked as puzzled as the others, but he had the power to do something about it. He dismissed the jury and called the foreman before him.

"This is off the record," he said. "For my own satisfaction, I would like to know just what happened in there. What made you come out and ask that question before if you weren't going to award any damages?"

The foreman shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, Judge," he replied, "it was this way. On the very first vote it was 11 to one for the defendant. The one man who was holding out was the silliest guy I ever saw. No matter what we said, he disagreed. We sat around and sat around and sat around while he kept talking and arguing.

"He finally made a statement that got me nervous. He said that a jury could do anything it wished. He said that, in a case such as this, we could even bring in a verdict for more than the amount asked.

"That was too much for me, your Honor, and I got sore. I said he was wrong and we wound up by making a bet about it. The bet was for 100 dollars in cash and, in addition, he was to give in to us on the verdict if he lost. So we came in and asked you the question. I lost. And that ended the case.

"That's all there is to it, Judge. All you did was settle the bet...."

Out in the corridor Mr. Moore was talking to his wife again. "You can stop packing, Frances," he murmured sadly. "You never know what a jury will do."

________________

4: The Charming Lord Dunberry

THERE WAS plenty of excitement among the employees of the Hotel Alabaster. Lord Dunberry was scheduled to arrive that morning, and it was the Alabaster that he had chosen for his stay.

There really shouldn't have been so much commotion, for the Alabaster was one of the best hotels in the nation and had been catering to social lions for! some time. But you know how it is when a lord or a duke is mentioned in an American hotel.

The manager issued many instructions to the assistant manager, and personally saw to it that flowers were despatched to Lord Dunberry's suite. The telephone girls smiled happily as they considered the new thrill of listening in on a royal voice, and the head waiter sent his vest to the cleaner for the second time in a month.

If Lord Dunberry had known of all this excitement, I doubt very much whether he would have gone to the hotel at all. For, while his Lordship enjoyed being catered to, it was not his desire to become too conspicuous. There were many reasons for that caution. But I will mention only the police, and let the rest of the reasons go by.

Much as I hate to shock the sensitivities of my readers, I am compelled to state at this point that Lord Dunberry had long been known as one of the cleverest confidence men in the racket. His real name is known only to himself. But in the underworlds of three or four nations he is always referred to as "the Duke." Nothing more. Nothing less. Which is probably the way he prefers it.

There is a definite reason for the title of "the Duke." As soon as you look at him, he impresses you as royalty. Why? Perfect dress, perhaps. And perfect manners. And a beautiful flow of English that is studded with high-sounding names. As distinction goes, the Duke is a most distinguished crook.

Regardless of the racket— from operating a bucket shop to the gentle art of tapping wires— he is a jolly old pip, as the saying is. All his life the Duke had travelled first class. The mention of policemen and jails frightened him somewhat, but not sufficiently to make him give up his taste for high living. The ocean liners, Cannes, Monte Carlo— all of these haunts and many more had entertained the Duke at their own expense.

The only trouble with the situation was that once he had graced a place with his impressive presence, it would not have been too wise for him to make a return visit. So, a short time ago, he seated himself with a pal.

"Buggsy," he confided smilingly. "I have a slight surprise for you. I have been giving the matter some deep consideration and I have decided that I have been living too dangerously. I will no longer live as I have been living." His friend's eyes opened wide.

"You're not gonna turn honest?" he croaked anxiously.

"Good God, no," replied the Duke. "Stop talking nonsense. What I meant to imply was merely that I would no longer take the chances. Instead, I will become the contact man and let the others do the active work.

"It's all very simple. During my extensive travels I have learned that the humans who appreciate charm and good manners find considerable pleasure in my company. If I have sometimes found it necessary to separate. such individuals from a bit of lucre, I can assure you that I did it with a great deal of regret.

"I now find that I do not care for any additional regrets. Under a very appropriate name, I will mingle among the elite and pick a proper chicken for the plucking. I will then turn the chosen one over to the mob— and they will do all the― er— dusty work. It's just a little business deal in which the police will find nothing wrong on my part. And you have no idea, my good Buggsy, how it will relieve my conscience."

And that, my friends, is how the Hotel Alabaster came to receive a wire with the announcement that Lord Dunberry, a nobleman of much distinction, would shortly arrive to grace that distinguished establishment.

A few days later, with a valet and several trunks that contained old newspapers, Lord Dunberry arrived. With much pomp and flourish he was welcomed to the hotel. The manager bowed until the floor almost hit him in the nose— and he would not leave until Lord Dunberry assured him that he was more than satisfied.

The manager gone, his Lordship turned to his valet.

"A bit of a swell dump, eh, Jenkins?" he said.

His valet took a long drink of rye, and nodded affably.

"But we'll have to labor rather rapidly," he went on. "We'll have to pay our bills here if we intend to keep operating in this manner. And at the rate they're charging me, we'll be able to linger no longer than six or seven days.

"Accordingly, I will have to work fast. After a short nap, I will begin operating. Draw the blinds, my dear Jenkins."

EXACTLY twenty-four hours later his Lordship was in a very nervous mood. Sad to relate, something happened to spoil his carefully-laid plans. It was simply that Lord Dunberry was made aware of the presence of the house detective of the Alabaster Hotel.

Would you believe that a common, garden variety of house detective could disturb the even flow of Lord Dunberry's thoughts? Well, he did— and he did it thoroughly. It wasn't that he said anything. As a matter of fact, he was most pleasant. But his actions told his Lordship to beware.

Whenever Lord Dunberry would engage a proposed sucker in conversation, that detective was certain to be in the vicinity. No matter where his Lordship went, the detective was never far behind. And it didn't take the Duke long to realise that somebody had put the finger on him. It was obvious that the detective was hep. One false move— and that would be the end.

His Lordship stayed the week out. Watching carefully for his opportunities, he made several guarded attempts to land a sucker who might later be turned over to the mob. But it was no use. He couldn't fool the house detective. Once, when he brought an elderly millionaire to his suite for a cocktail, he thought he had succeeded. But when he opened his door, there was the detective pacing the corridor. At the end of the week, his Lordship checked out. The detective stood at the door, and watched him climb into a machine with his valet.

As he was driven away, the Duke cursed softly. "Damn that detective." he muttered. "I wonder who tipped him off?"

BACK in the hotel, the detective was talking to the room clerk. "It just goes to show you how them rich folks are." he complained bitterly, "I know every swindle in the hotel racket, and I watched over that Lord Dunberry for a week like he was a baby.

"And did he slip me a tip when he left? Not a quarter!"

_______________

5: Wanted— A Job!

THE DRAMAS that Fate directs in the theatre of Life don't have theatre programmes. The casts are too big sometimes, and often the director changes the action to suit his moods. Yet we can give this drama a title: u Bread."

And we can tell this about it :

THE Time: Winter of 1933.

The Place: Times Square, not geographically, but sentimentally, the Heart of New York.

Dramatis Personae: Men in a bread-line.

The audience needs no tickets: the actors do. And while Broadway scrambles and unscrambles itself in and out of theatres, the actors in this drama stamp their feet and blow on their hands while waiting hours for a piece of doughy bread and a mug of sweetened mud.

Jerome knew what it was like. He was one of them. It must have been pretty tough for a man like him. It was obvious, just from looking at him, that life had once been very good to Jerome. He has a last name, this Jerome. But I wouldn't tell it, even if I knew. He has kept his plight secret this long, and it wouldn't help either him or this story to divulge his name now.

At any rate, this man of dignified bearing stood on many a breadline that  winter. At Times Square, twice a day, you might have seen a tall man with snowy hair and a sensitive mouth shuffle forward with the line. He never wore a hat. because he didn't have one. And, as hours passed, you might have noted his progress: how he moved up inch by inch, towards the big brown truck where food could be had for nothing.

Well, almost nothing. All you paid was pride.

Jerome was on his way to exchange pride for bread one morning when he j picked a newspaper out of a refuse can. Idly he turned the pages over until he reached the Want Ad. section. Less idly his eyes travelled down the columns. They stopped at a small advertisement in the fourth column.

"Wanted," it read. "Men and women of all ages and crafts for depression jobs. Call between 9 a.m. and 5 ! p.m. at the City Employment Agency,  55 ――Street, No charge."

Jerome refolded the paper and smiled at nothing at all. He had tried every other means of getting a job, so he had nothing to lose by trying this one. As he was refolding the paper, a man with whom he had spoken several times during their wait on the breadline came near.

"Hello, Jerome." he hailed. "How's U.S. Steel today?"

Jerome looked up and smiled.

"I'm going job hunting again." he I explained. "I don't care what I land as long as it's honest. And unless you want to read this paper. I'm going to i put it to good advantage. Do you mind?"

The other man shrugged. Jerome sat down on the doorstep of a vacant store, and carefully removed his shoes. Looking into them, he could see a good deal of Broadway where the soles had once been. He tore strips from the newspaper and carefully folded them. Then, just as carefully, he placed them inside of each shoe.

An hour later, he was several miles south of Times Square, walking briskly. He might have asked passers-by for a nickel for subway fare, but he didn't. He might have hailed passing cars for a lift, but he knew that would be foolish. Motorists are afraid of bums.

His heart sank when he came within sight of the City Employment Agency. Evidently, every other down-and-outer in New York had seen the ad. The line extended for a full block, and around the corner. Still, with hope in his heart, he took his place at the end, and waited.

Inside the agency office, men tramped endlessly up to rows of desks. The clerks asked a few questions, and handed each applicant a blank form.

"Fill this out. stick it in that big green box, and come back tomorrow. We may have something for you."

The words never varied. And the long line of applicants shuffled out just as they had shuffled in. After four hours, Jerome reached a desk. A man with glasses asked what his name was. Jerome told him.

"What was your occupation?" asked the clerk.

"Wall Street," replied Jerome. "I used to do some work down there."

"Fill this out. stick it in that big green box, and come back tomorrow. We may have something for you."

Jerome did as directed, and started the long walk back to Times Square and bread.

He came back the following day. And the day after that. And the one after that, until he despaired of ever getting a job. He was there every day faithfully. Until after a while the man with the glasses got to recognise him in the line.

"Jerome," he'd call out. "nothing today for you. Come back tomorrow."

Then the break came. He stood in line as usual one morning, when he saw the man with the glasses looking at him. His heart sank. He waited for the words: "Come back tomorrow." But he didn't hear them.

"Jerome," said the clerk, "come over here. I've got something for you."

Smiling and brushing his white hair back, Jerome left the line and walked up to the desk.

"Something for me?" he repeated. "I can't tell you how grateful―"

"Never mind that." said the man with the glasses. "I'm getting paid for this, so you don't owe me a thing. The job I have in mind isn't much, but it will keep you in food, and room rent, too."

Jerome gulped. He said nothing. "Go over to Fifth Avenue," said the clerk, "to the Mid-Town Brokers' Club. It's one of the most exclusive outfits in town. They need a porter; to clean and dust around the sitting-room. You'll get 15 dollars a week. Now. take this card with you, and hurry up before somebody grabs it."

The clerk looked up. Jerome was not even reaching for the card.

"I'm sorry," said Jerome. "I don't want that job."

He started to walk away. The man with the glasses almost exploded.

"You don't want the job!" he yelled. "You don't want it. Who the hell are you? J. P. Morgan? Too good for a porter's job. eh? Too swell to work with your hands? That's the trouble ; with you bums. None of you want jobs. You want salaries, that's all.

"Well, you listen to me, Jerome. If you don't want it, you don't have to take it. There are a thousand others here who would give their right arms for that job. Imagine passing up a chance to work in the exclusive Mid-Town Brokers' Club! Just imagine it!"

For once in his semi-official career, the employment clerk talked to the motley group of job hunters as his equals. Out of long habit, they turned their smirking gazes on Jerome. They nodded as the clerk ended his tirade.

"Just a bum! Look at 'im. Too! snooty to work. Turning down a job because maybe he has to put on a uniform. That's the thanks I get."

Jerome turned as he reached the door. All eyes were on him. and contempt could be seen in most of the glances.

"You can't possibly understand," Jerome said, half aloud. "I happen to be a member of that club."

_____________

6: She Cried For A Lawyer

"IT ACTUALLY happened to me, Mark," wrote the young attorney from Chicago. "You can put it in your own words."

I did....

Frank Jones was a young lawyer. These were bad days for young lawyers, and they weren't so hot for the older ones, either. So, with his feet on the desk in his tiny office, he gazed gloomily from the window and considered the situation. His clients were few and far between. His income was extremely light. It was five o'clock, and there wasn't much use hoping for anything further that day.

He sighed heavily, put on his hat, and strolled to the elevator. As he walked through the lobby of the building he noticed a middle-aged woman standing in a corner.

The poor lady was crying bitterly. Other people stopped, looked at her curiously, and passed on. Not so with young Mr. Jones. He stepped over to her, placed a sympathetic hand upon her shoulder, and asked if he could help her in any way.

"I'm thinking of my husband," she cried. "He's in such terrible trouble. Such terrible, terrible trouble. I cry all the time, no matter where I am. Oh, what am I going to do?"

The lawyer rubbed his chin. "Madam," he said, "you are only going to embarrass yourself by doing this. People are staring at you as though you were a freak of some sort. If I can be of any service to you, I might tell you that I am a lawyer, and that I have an office in this building."

The woman looked at him with large eyes.

"That's very kind of you. I want to talk to somebody, and I need a lawyer  very, very badly. But I must tell you that I am a poor woman. I haven't a penny to pay a lawyer."

Mr. Jones shook his head. "It doesn't make any difference, madam," he offered. "We're all in the same boat these days. Come up to my office with me and tell me what this is all about. Then, if I can advise you, I will."

The woman nodded, and up they went to Mr. Jones's office. The moment they were seated the woman unfolded her sad story:—

"A few weeks ago my husband went to Chicago on some business. We had a few dollars saved up, and he went there to see if he couldn't close some sort of deal that might make us a little money.

"Unfortunately, he wasted his time. The deal fell through, and he was back home within a week. He did, however, find a young housemaid out there who was willing to come to New York and work very cheaply. He knew I wasn't very strong, so he brought the girl back with him."

If the lawyer saw anything fishy about the fact that a penniless woman should be hiring a housemaid, he said nothing about it. He merely coughed and told her to continue.

"Well, she wasn't with us more than two days when we found out that the girl had run away from her home. Yesterday detectives came around and took her away to a detention house. I don't know what she told those officers, but they learned that my husband had brought her on from Chicago.

"So they came back and took my poor man away with them, too. He is being held now on charges of violating the Mann Act. He's in jail. I know he's innocent, but I can't help him. I have no money, and I can't afford to hire a lawyer to get him out."

Mr. Jones drummed the table. Here was an interesting case, but it would take a great deal of his time. True, he wanted something to occupy his mind while waiting for clients, but he expected some recompense for his trouble. But the young man had too big a heart to refuse this woman's plea. He saw the tears welling in her eyes again, and he nodded abruptly.

"All right," he agreed. "I will represent your husband in this affair. And since you have no money, I am going to do it free of charge. I am only too glad to help."

The wife did everything but fall to her knees in gratitude. "You're such a good man. May God bless you. You're such a good man."

Mr. Jones really went to work on that case. He interviewed the husband on several occasions and made copious notes in his own handwriting. He hadn't reached the stage where he could afford a typist. More, he stayed in his office in the evenings for a week, digging up angles on the case and searching for loopholes. In short, he put everything he had into the case. And, before he was through he had lined up a defence that would have done credit to anybody. About a week before the trial the wife stepped into his office early one afternoon.

"Sit down, Mrs. Brown," he smiled. "Sit right down. I suppose you want to know about your husband's case. Well, let me tell you right here and now we are doing very well indeed. Doesn't that please you?" The woman shrugged her shoulders.

"I'm sorry you said that," she replied, "because I've got some news for you."

Mr. Jones wrinkled his brow. "News? What news?"

"Well," was her startling response, "I've decided that I don't want you to handle my husband's case after all."

The lawyer almost fell off his chair. "Did I understand you correctly?" he muttered. "Did I hear you say you don't want me as your husband's attorney? After I took the case for nothing and after I have put in so many days and nights of hard labor?"

"That's right," said the woman laconically. "I don't want you."

The young man gulped and asked her why. "Well, I'll tell you," was the woman's explanation. "I talked the whole thing over with some of my friends, and they told me it was a very serious case. Then they said I should have a really good lawyer.

"So I went down town this morning and cried for one of the best lawyers in town. Now he's taken the case for nothing— and you're fired!"

___________________

7: Mr. Lombardi Had A Friend

CONSIDER now the tale of Mr. Esposito and Mr. Lombardi. Two gentlemen of Italian extraction, they had been friends throughout the years. They started humbly enough in the game of life, but they moved along in nimble fashion.

Mr. Lombardi became an architect— and a good one. Mr. Esposito turned to Wall Street, which was fine— since it was long, long before October, 1929.

The former gentleman married when he was about 33 years of age, and was blessed with a son some two years later. At least, he thought he was being blessed. He was an architect— not a fortune-teller. His pal, the genial Mr. Esposito, remained single. At all times he and Lombardi were devoted friends.

And when, four years after the baby had been born, Mrs. Lombardi eloped with an Englishman who had nothing in this world except a waxed moustache and a taste for good brandy, it was Esposito who handed out to his friend the old familiar words of cheer and comfort.

"You see, Tony," he said, "things are never as bad as they look at the moment. You loved your wife very much. I know that. But if she could do what she has done, aren't you far better off in the long run?

"And another thing. You have your son. He's a grand boy, and he is now yours alone. Surely it will be a comfort to you to watch him grow and develop; to see him move ahead in life."

Lombardi's eyes began to sparkle. He gripped Esposito's arm. "Joe, you're right. I must forget about that woman in order to care for my son. He is a wonderful child, and he has a keen brain for one so young. It is easy to see that he takes after his father.

"But he must take after his father in more ways than one. Do you know what I am going to do with him, Joe? I am going to make him one of the greatest architects in the world. That's what I will work for from now on. He is only four years old now, but the time flies very rapidly."

The boy grew older. And much as it pains me to report it, he didn't turn out as his father expected at all. If the truth must be told, and told very bluntly, he developed rapidly into a first-class bum. He was one of those kids that annoy you terribly; the kind, you know, whom you itch to poke directly in the nose the moment you meet him. Even his father must have recognised it because he generally spoke rather apologetically to his friends.

"Vincent is a little wild," he would say, "but that is because he is so young. As he grows older, he will have more sense. He will startle the world some day as an architect. Just wait and see."

When the boy landed in college the folks were still waiting— but they weren't seeing. All he learned in his freshman year was that the bootleggers could still make the stuff just a little more quickly than he could drink it, and that it was absolutely impossible to run an automobile through a tree, no matter how fast it was driven. That last item of education almost cost him his life, and it also earned him an ultimatum from his father.

"Vincent," said the senior Lombardi, "I have given you many chances. But this one is going to be your last. My heart is set upon your becoming an architect, and if you don't want to go through with that kind of a career, you and I are finished."

The boy nodded. "Father," he said, "I'll do it. From now on, you'll see a definite improvement. Will you let me have £20 to buy some things?"

So the old man gave him £100.

How he did it I'll never know— but Vincent finally managed to become an architect. And it was only a few days after his father had supplied him with a magnificent suite of offices that the old man passed from the picture.

Vincent naturally inherited his father's coin, and went through it in expert fashion. The only architecture he went in for was to build castles in Spain for pretty ladies. Within two years he was absolutely broke and with less future than the hobble skirt.

You know who came to his rescue, don't you? Right you are.

His father's old pal, the affable Mr. Esposito, called him in one day and offered him the job of building a house in the country. He told Vincent that he would pay him a lump sum when the job was finished and that he would leave everything in the young man's hands.

Vincent leaped at the opportunity. He saw a splendid chance to make money out of his father's old friend. The thought that he would be doing a rotten thing by double-crossing a man who was obviously trying to help him never entered his mind.

So the young man went to work. And what a job he did! Instead of mixing two bags of cement with three bags of sand, he'd use but one bag of cement. In other words, if 200 bags of cement were ordered, there would be 400 on the bill. Just a nice sweet boy to trust with anything of value. What difference, was the way Vincent figured it out, if the house were weakly constructed? Some poor dope would come along and buy it. It wouldn't bring much money, but was that his worry?

In due time the house, such as it was, was completed. The young man marched into Mr. Esposito's office and informed him of that very important fact. He was waiting for the other man to produce his cheque-book, when Mr. Esposito suddenly leaned forward.

"Vincent," he said sincerely, "you know I have always loved you. Out of respect for your father's memory, I planned this little surprise for you a long time ago.

"I am not giving you any fee. No, sir; instead, I make you a present of the house you built!"

____________________

8: It Was Such A Perfect Plan

MAYBE Jane should never have fallen in love. Come to think of it, you'd imagine she would have been smarter than that. Certainly she had been through enough to know better .

But as she herself would have been only too happy to tell you— "when that funny little feelin' keeps crawlin' up and down your spine, what are you gonna do about it?" And that, I imagine, is as good an answer as any.

Of course, she had one good break. Tommy was just as much in love with her as she was with him. I call that a good break only because it reads nicely in type. If you want my honest reaction, she'd have been better off if Tommy had given her plenty of air. And my reasons are very simple. A cutie such as Jane should have fallen in love with dough.

Why? I'll tell you. She hadn't known anything but poverty, as long as she lived, which wasn't very long if you say it swiftly. She started as a telephone operator, but that fancy map of hers looked far too good in a mirror. She went into a dance hall one night, rolled those eyes at the manager and— the very next day— she changed from numbers to rumbas.

A few months of that, and she was searching for bigger and better things. Chorus work looked good to her, and all she had to do was to answer a call. One of New York's most expert producers picked her out of the line immediately. And boom! Before her honest old father could get sober enough to argue with her, she was out on the road with a musical comedy troupe. It wasn't long before she had developed a definite philosophy.

"I'm staying straight until I get married," she informed one of her friends in the chorus. "Not that I got any hot ideas about morals. Nope. It's just because I'm goin' out after the heavy dough. And I don't care what nobody says. A dame that stays straight has got a lot more chance to cop the big coin than one that don't.

"I'm no dope. Not me, girlie. Maybe I ain't been around much— but what little Janie knows, she knows. If I fall, I'm fallin' for a guy with plenty of jack. None of those Arrow Collar birds without a quarter for me. No, ma'am, I may not know much, but I know what money can do. And you'd be surprised what it's gonner do for me."

And then, from out of nowhere, along came Tommy. He was a good-looking kid who was acting as a cashier in a Broadway night club. If he had five dollars in his pocket at one time, he felt as though he were dragging the mint around with him. He was as close to Jane's idea of wealth as a polar bear is to the equator. But love snickers at philosophies, as the saying goes; and when it comes to emotion, nothing succeeds like excess.

I think I'm a trifle mixed up In that particular maxim, but it doesn't make much difference, because it all boils down to one thing:— Janie was daffy about Tommy. And he was so nuts about her that his heart forced off a vest button every time her name was mentioned. The wise men say that love conquers all. All what, is what I want to know? Here were two kids who were completely in love with each other. The only thing for them to do would be to get married Immediately. They could then be divorced in a short time and live happily ever after. All very simple.

But as Janie put it; On what were they going to get married?

Not a bad question when you come to think it over. Tommy wasn't making enough money to pay the first instalment on a Frigidaire, disregarding the fact that he'd have no place to put it If he did have a Frigidaire. Janie was earning £10 a week. But with show business in a state of nervous prostration, her job might end before you could say "Standing room only."

So what? Well, believe it or not, my friends, these two charming people turned to a racket for additional funds. They meant no harm by the racket. Absolutely none. All they wanted was sufficient money to get married and start a little home. It was Janie who first suggested the idea. And she made it sound as though it had been invented by the angels. Tommy was to open a tiny speakeasy in a convenient location. Jane had a few dollars saved— and the rest she was quite sure she could borrow.

As far as opening such a place was concerned, there wasn't going to be much trouble. The trouble would arrive when they tried to keep it open. But Janie had a solution for that problem, too. She would play the various hotels when she was not working in the show. She'd sit in a lobby, watch for a man who looked encouraging, start a mild flirtation— and steer him to Tommy's place. In a flirtation bit, Jane could hardly miss. And if the sucker was clipped a little in Tommy's joint, what of that? Wasn't it all for love?

Tommy wasn't so keen about the flirtation angle, but Jane talked him into it.

"What's the diff., honey?" was her argument. "We're cuckoo about each other, and we're only doin' it so we'll be happy in the long run. You know I ain't goin' for none of these guys. And as long as we're gonna be partners for life, we wanna start on the right foot.

"It looks like our only chance for a bank roll, honey. And we gotta forget the little things when we're goin' after the big. I love you, Tommy. You love me?"

That question always ended any argument that Janie wanted to win

TOMMY'S place started slowly, but it picked up in fair shape. The kids in Janie's show helped her out on several occasions by steering their own boy friends to the spot. And Tommy, of course, had plenty of friends who wanted to see the kid get a break.

But it was Jane who helped most in making the spot show a decent profit. What she did to those suckers was little less than a shame. She played the hotel lobbies like a veteran. If a man looked too tough, he was left severely alone. Jane was after the college-boy type, or the stout travelling man from the Middle West whose wife didn't understand him. Once she had her subject in hand, he never got away until he'd paid a visit to the cafe of Janie's boy friend.

You may be quite certain that, when he paid his cheque, that was the last he saw of Jane. And never once had there been a squawk of any kind. That's how our Janie handled them.

Enter Charlie. He didn't look more than twenty-two, and he spelled ready money. The moment she saw the boy walk through the lobby, Janie went to work. He was a willing subject if ever she saw one.

As usual, she was right. Charlie was an absolute and downright cinch. When she gave him that soft smile, the boy almost went through the floor. When she suggested Tommy's place, he was more than eager to go. Never had Janie found a more abject slave in so short a time.

As they sat together at a corner table and Charlie pressed her hand tightly, Jane had one of her ideas. The more she thought of it, the better she liked it. She looked at Charlie. And she smiled sweetly. "You like me, Charlie?" she asked. "I'm crazy about you, Jane," was his reply. "I only met you tonight, but there's nothing in the world I wouldn't get you: nothing I wouldn't do if you asked me. But you. Do you like me, too?"

"You betcha," whispered Jane

Later that night, as soon as Jane was able to get away from Charlie, she returned to Tommy's place. She got Tommy in a corner, kissed him fervently, and unfolded her idea. "Now look, dearest. This is our big chance. If you'll listen to me, we can have all the money we need— and be out of New York tomorrow night. We've got £1000 in the bank now. We want £2000. The way we're goin' we might have it in six months— and we might have nothin'.

"You saw that kid I had in here tonight? Did you notice I didn't want him clipped for any dough and that I even told the waiter to cut down his check? I thought you would, you jealous mug. Well, I did it for a reason. And if this don't work, I'm crazy."

Briefly, Jane told Tommy her plans. He was to withdraw their £1000 and have everything ready for a getaway the following night. She was going to work on Charlie for the other £1000. And why not? The kid seemed to have a lot of dough and he was absolutely insane about Jane. Just before he left her, he had begged her to marry him. And furthermore, he had promised that— no matter what she wanted— he would get it for her. She was going to ask for £1000 the following afternoon— and promise to go away with him that same night.

When he gave her the money, she was going to slip away on some pretext and join Tommy in the little cafe. She'd have everything packed and ready downstairs. She'd just leave a cheap suitcase and a few small things behind. And while Charlie waited and waited. Tommy and she would be riding away into a future of honeysuckle and roses. Pretty?

Tommy didn't like it. He pointed out the various flaws. Jane looked up at him with those pretty eyes. "Do you love me?" she asked. And that was the end of that.

It was ten o'clock the following night. Everything had gone off without the slightest hitch. Janie was packing that phoney bag in her hotel room and Charlie was watching her with loving eyes. There was a merry song in the girl's heart. Charlie had been the finest of all suckers. He had walked in and handed her the £1,000 without a question. All she had to do now was to slip away. And then— nothing but love for the rest of her life.

The kid's voice broke the quiet.

"Before we go, Jane," he said, "I've got to tell you something. I'm not as sweet as you think I am. As long as you love me, it isn't going to make any difference.

"I'm a stick-up man, honey. A crook. But I'm going to go straight for you. The job I pulled for that £1,000 is the last one I'm going to do. With you by my side, sweetheart, I'm going straight from now on."

The girl stopped packing. "Are you telling me," she said nervously, "that you— you held somebody up for that £1,000?"

Charlie nodded. "That's right," he answered, "and I want to tell you about that, too. I only knew one spot in town because I just blew in when we met in the lobby. That spot was the joint you took me to last night. "

And what do you think, baby? The dope who runs the place had £1,000 right behind the bar. It was the easiest take I ever made."

Jane gulped. She tried to speak. She gulped again. Then she wheeled.

"I got to go out for a minute, Charlie." she gasped. "I'll be right back. I got to―"

"Nothing doing. Jane," he interrupted pleasantly. "We've got to get out of here right away. That dope behind the bar is liable to come to any minute, and he might be around here looking for me. Come on, baby."

__________________

9: The Last Thought

HARRY BANKS— real name forgotten long ago— gazed hungrily through the window of an Eighth Avenue hash joint. Nervously he opened and closed his hands.

Inside, a number of men and a few women were eating the dubious specialties on the day's menu. Banks' eyes covered each one in turn. His mouth twitched and he shivered slightly. The man was desperately hungry. It wasn't the polite hunger that most of us encounter every so often, nor the empty feeling that we have after a day's fast. His was the gnawing hunger of starvation. The hunger that prompts unfortunates to dig with eager, trembling hands into garbage cans.

How long since he'd had a meal? Banks didn't know. Couldn't think very clearly now. Three days. Maybe four. Or was it almost five? He had never begged so desperately in his life. Asking anyone who passed. Not stopping to judge faces for the proper people to touch. Hoping for a penny, yearning for a dime. Praying for a quarter. The results had been next to nothing. Three cents in all that time. Three lonesome coppers that bought three small bags of peanuts in that hole-in-the-wall candy store. Three bags of peanuts that left the throat parched and the stomach as empty as before.

The man's fingers-almost clawed at the window. Over there In the corner, a woman had pushed her plate away. There was still plenty of potato salad on it. And a small slice of tongue. And a thick slice of ham. Banks wet his lips. He twitched again. He could stand it no longer. He almost ran to the door— and walked through. The green lunch ticket in his hand, Banks hurried to the counter.

"Gimme two orders of that." he muttered. "And some of those over there. And some of that gravy. And plenty of potatoes. And hurry, will you?"

Soon he was eating. Well, hardly eating. Gulping is more the word for it, I guess. In less than two minutes, he had cleaned all his plates. He was up at the counter again. He repeated the order.

The counterman looked at him wonderingly, shrugged his shoulders, served the food, and punched the check. When he had finished, Banks's movements were most deliberate. He drank his fourth glass of water. He placed the object that passed for a hat upon his head. He squared his shoulders. He walked to the cashier's desk.

"Send for the boss," he stated. "I want to see him about this check." In a minute the boss came hurrying over. He was a short, stocky man.

"What's the matter, mister?" he asked. "Something wrong."

Banks regarded the boss curiously. "I'm just wonderin'," he said quietly, "how you're gonna take this. The best thing to do, I suppose, is to tell it to you straight. And then if you want to, you can call a cop.

"I didn't have nothin' to eat for about five days, I think. I passed this joint and I looked inside and I got terribly hungry. Believe me, I was almost crazy with hunger. I couldn't stand it no longer. So I—"

The proprietor stepped back. "Listen, you bum," he interrupted. "Are you gonna stand there an' tell me you ain't got the dough to pay for this check? Are you?"

Banks nodded. "Yeah. You hit it on the nose. But get me straight on this: I ain't no chiseler. I'll work it out cleanin' dishes, or any thin. It's just that I couldn't stand it no longer, and―"

Once more the proprietor stepped in. This time his voice was icy.

"You ain't gonna wash no dishes, hum. And I ain't callin' no cops. But I'm gonna give you a little somethin to remember me by. Like this―"

He swung— and he connected. With a loud crash, Banks went through the cheap cigar case and landed against the cash register. The blood trickled from his mouth and from a gash on his left hand. As if through a mist, he saw the proprietor coming towards him. Instinctively, he defended himself from his fresh attack. His mind whirled. He swung wildly— and he, too, connected. The proprietor's eyes opened wide. He staggered. He fell back against a table. His head struck the edge with a sickening thud. He slid to the floor.

Banks ran. But not far. Police whistles. Hoarse cries. Auto horns. Wild shouts. A hard fist thudded against his jaw and a club bounced upon his skull. And as he sank, he heard grotesque words. "He's a murderer... Killed Nick, the restaurant guy on the other corner... Tried to rob the place... Murderer... Murderer... Murderer."

The jury had been out just a short time. Banks stood before the bench and peered at the judge through reddened eyes. He heard words. Strange, cold, gruesome, impossible words...

"So the verdict, Harry Banks, is one that is well merited... You stole food and you attempted to steal from the cash register... The cashier's testimony was most convincing... You struck out murderously at the man whom you were attempting to defraud... You killed him..."

"Harry Banks, I hereby sentence you..."

Banks— real name still forgotten— sat in his cell on Death Row. It was his last day on earth, or so they tell us. Seemingly indifferent to his fate, he sat chewing on the end of an unlit cigarette. Steps resounded along the stone floor. A key turned in the lock. A man in a uniform stepped in.

"Banks," he said, "according to prison rules, you are entitled, to a special, last meal. I'm here for your order. You can have anything you want to eat or drink. What'll it be?"

The condemned man made no reply. A trace of a smile spread over his face.

"Did you hear what I said, Banks?" repeated the guard impatiently. "What do you want to eat?"

Then Banks did a strange thing. He began to laugh. Laugh, did I say? Pray that you be spared having to listen to laughter like that. It was the mocking, soul-chilling laughter one hears in the confines of an insane asylum. It was the laugh that starts like the shriek of a frightened woman and ends in a sigh like the trumpets of Despair. The keeper recoiled in horror.

"Jeez, Banks," he cried, "what the hell are you laughing at?"

As suddenly as he had begun, the doomed one stopped his hideous laugh. His voice was quite clear and quite calm.

"I'm sorry, feller," he said, "but I just got to thinkin'. You asked me what I wanted to eat. And I got to thinking that if you'd have asked me that same question six months ago— I wouldn't be here now."

________________

10: A Fit Of Temper

OLD TONY , a neighborhood character of many years, was the prisoner before the bar. Mrs. Scrozzi, an hysterical mother, and her ten-year-old son were the complaining witnesses.

Magistrate X, a pompous individual who was decidedly aware of the importance of his position and who dramatised every statement, was on the bench. Tony was a withered old bird of some seventy years. Nobody knew exactly how he existed. He had been seen in the neighborhood for more years than anyone could remember, and he was always poking around refuse boxes for some choice morsel that might tickle his palate. He was just a harmless old vagrant for whom Potter's Field had been yawning for some time.

Mrs. Scrozzi told her story. Her little Edmundo— "a fine boy, Judge, and very bright in school"— had been playing in the street with other boys. One of the others— "not my Edmundo, Judge, because- Edmundo would never do such a thing"— had seen Tony poking around a garbage can. And he had playfully tossed a stone in Tony's direction. And what had the old tramp done? Mrs. Scrozzi's voice rose higher. He had picked up the stone and thrown it right at little Edmundo's head. It had hit the boy just above the left eye, and Dr. Saltarelli was compelled to take two stitches. Did the Judge want to see the stitches so that he could learn how little Edmundo was suffering?

No, the Judge didn't have to see them. It wouldn't be at all necessary. He adjusted his glasses and glared at the withered figure before him.

"Throwing rocks at little boys, eh?" he growled. "What have you to say for yourself?"

Old Tony shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know what's a matter. Judge. I didn'ta mean to doa nothing. Never in my life, don'ta hurt nobod'. I'm a poor man. Ver' poor. I―"

The magistrate tapped his gavel. "Confine your statements to the case in point. I am not interested in your life history. Proceed." The old man looked helplessly around him.

"I'm a poor man. I didn'ta mean to doa nothing. I―"

From the attorneys' seats on the left of the court-room, a man stepped to the bench. A cheerful-looking man with bright eyes and a disarming smile.

"With the Court's permission," he said, "I would like to act as attorney for this man. My name is Stevens. I'm here on another case entirely, but this matter interests me. The accused evidently has no attorney. So with the Court's permission―"

The Court considered it silly and a waste of time. ' But there was nothing the Court could do. Permission was given. The attorney escorted the old man to the witness stand.

"Now, Tony," he smiled. "I don't want you to be afraid. Just tell your story in your own words. I'm your friend, you know, and I'm going to help you. Tell me just what happened."

Ever notice the effect of soft words on a whipped dog? The same grateful light came into Tony's eyes.

"Please, mister, I didn'ta do nothing. Thesea boys, they makea joke on me alla time. I don'ta do nothing to nobod'. When I'ma feel hungry, I picka out froma da garb' and eata what I can find.

"Sometimes, theesa boys makea more joke what I can stand. Whena they laugh, I no care. But when they trow tings, I goa craz' inside my head. I holler at them. And then they laugha some more.

"Thisa mornin', I no bother nobod.' I'ma looking in somea garb' and theesa keeds, they all playing downa the block. Firsta ting I know, some one keed picka up bigga stone and hita me in the back. When I turna round, 'nother keed trow old tomato and hit me in the eye.

"Boss, I no know what'sa happen to me inside. My head, she'sa begin to jump inside. I picka' tip the stone and trow him back. Policeman'sa come. Thisa woman, she'sa hit me. This boy, he'sa scream like he'sa dead. And they putta me in jail.

"What'sa matter, boss? I never hurt nobod.'."

The attorney nodded and told Tony to step down. He turned to the judge.

"I ask," he said, "that the case against my client be dismissed. He's an elderly man and the evidence proves conclusively that he was taunted into doing what―"

The magistrate interrupted curtly. "I find him guilty," he declared. "And what is more, I intend to make an example of him. He is hereby sentenced to six months in—"

It was the lawyer's turn to interrupt. And he said an amazing thing. "Before you say it, your Honor," he smiled, "I'd like to tell you that you're not looking as well as you might. Let's go out for a bite to eat and we'll talk it over. I'll stand treat."

The eyes almost popped from the pompous head.

"What's that?" roared the astounded jurist. "Do you realise, sir, ,that you are in a court of law? Another remark like that and I will fine you for contempt of court. I hereby sentence this man to six months in―"

"I still say, your Honor," comes the soft voice, "that you're not looking so well. If you'll step into a bar-room with me for a few moments a drink or two might do you the world of good."

The magistrate grabbed his gavel and leaped to his feet. His face was rapidly turning purple. Trembling with anger, he threw the gavel to the floor.

"Not only am I holding you in contempt of court," he fairly screamed, "but I am taking immediate steps to have you disbarred. I'll show you that―"

The lawyer never lost that smile. But he talked more rapidly now.

"You see, your Honor, how simple it is for a man to lose his temper? I have the utmost respect for you, sir. But, after all, aren't you doing now exactly what this old man did— and for the same reason?

"It's evident that children have been tormenting him for years. One went too far, and he could stand it no longer. It happened in a second, and it was over in a second. Are you going to punish an old man for something that any mortal might do?"

The magistrate sank back in his chair. He started to speak. He stopped. He wet his lips. He talked again.

"Sentence suspended," he said.

________________

11: The Man Who Stopped the Traffic

TWO young gentlemen of high social rank sat in a fashionable speakeasy with two young ladies of equal distinction. The four of them talked of many things and, for no reason at all, the conversation suddenly veered to the subject of traffic on Fifth Avenue

"I wish I could do big things," observed one lady. "I mean, really big things. I wish I had the power to move other human beings— or to stop them from moving if I wished. Do you follow me, folks, or am I wasting my fragrance on the speakeasy air?"

Her boy friend— aged twenty-four and so tired of it all— finished his eighth mint julep and looked up slowly. "I follow you, my dear. I have been following you for years. What you are doing is expressing an urge— and if it's not an urge, it's indigestion.

"We were speaking of Fifth Avenue traffic, although God knows why. You suddenly state that you wish you had the power to stop and start other human beings. In other words, you would like to be big enough to control Fifth Avenue traffic at will. Am I right, or am I wrong?"

The girl nodded.

"Exactly," she returned. "You've hit the nail on the hammer. And I'm serious, even if you're not. I'd love to be able to do a thing like that— or I'd marry a man who was able to do it for me."

The second youth— aged twenty-five and even more tired of it all— removed his feet from a small table.

"I could stop traffic on Fifth Avenue," he drawled. "It would be the easiest thing in the world for a man of my talent. If you hadn't frightened me with that remark about marriage, my dear, I might even be tempted to prove it."

The second girl broke her silence with a bored laugh.

"Stop prattling, George. How could you tie up traffic when you can't even tie your own tie without a valet? If you can't talk without boasting, why talk at all?"

The man called George batted neither an eyelash nor a home rim. "I said," he repeated quietly, "that I could stop traffic on Fifth Avenue — and I meant just that. And not for a few seconds, either, but for an entire day. Would you pretty maidens like to wager £200 with Jack and me that we can do it?"

Somehow, out of that blather of conversation, the wager was made, and one of the party had the presence of mind to seal it with a fresh round of drinks.

It was £200 even money, that George— who made the original suggestion— and his friend Jack would, on the following day, do something that would stop traffic on a section of Fifth Avenue from nine in the morning until six at night. It wasn't the size of the bet. The four of them could have wagered a hundred times that sum without their fathers feeling it. It was the principle of the thing, as we society people never say.

After promising to phone the young ladies as soon as traffic was first stopped, the two young men went on their way.

"What's your plan, George?" asked his pal.

"How should I know?" replied George easily. "We have plenty of time. Do you expect me to think of everything in one afternoon?"

All that night, on a vast estate on Long Island, George and Jack sat talking. Finally, around five in the morning, their plans were complete. It was his papa's estate, and George had the right to do practically as he willed. He routed the six gardeners and three of the butlers out of bed and gave each of them very specific instructions.

"We're going into New York on a very special mission," he told them. "You will put on your oldest clothes, as well as a set of overalls. You are not to shave today. And nobody is to wear a tie or a collar. I trust I have made myself clear."

Shortly before seven o'clock that same morning, a group of eleven laborers appeared on Fifth Avenue, somewhere in the Twenties. All of them were armed with picks, shovels, lunch boxes, and the usual paraphernalia of the laborer. The leaders, of course, were George and Jack, and the other nine men were the gardeners and butlers from the Long Island estate.

Under the expert guidance of the two leaders, the laborers very coolly proceeded to close off an entire block. They placed the necessary boards at each end— and hung crudely lettered "detour" signs over the boards. Then, walking to the centre of the block, they deliberately began to dig a ditch across Fifth Avenue.

They tell me that, had you been there, you would have sworn that everything was on the up-and-up. The two traffic officers nodded to the laborers and took everything for granted. They detoured all cars either east or west during the entire day as the laborers tore up Fifth Avenue just as nicely as you please.

During the afternoon, the girls walked by. George walked over with his pick and began to chop a private little ditch for them.

"Do you see any traffic passing here?" he asked in a low voice.

"No," replied the girls.

"Who wins the bet?"

"You do."

"Then beat it," was his final statement. "We'll call you later."

Having torn up a gully in the asphalt of Fifth Avenue from kerb to kerb, George and Jack put the final professional touch to the job by setting red lanterns at each end of the ditch. For two full days— forty-eight hours— the thickest stream of traffic in the world detoured off Fifth Avenue before somebody got wise!

___________________

12: The Proposition

MARY ADAMS was just a little different from most of the girls who come to New York from small towns. To her, Broadway was nothing more than the name of a street. She had no yearning for theatrical fame. And night life was merely something she had read about in magazines.

The city itself meant little to Mary. It was simply the means to an end; that end being success in the business field. Yet, like so many thousands of others, she came, she saw— and she conquered.

But, as usual, I'm ahead of my story. We'll have to go back about three years, and find the Mary who was graduated with honors from a High school in a Mid-West city. Smart, efficient, and armed with the highest recommendations from her teachers, she had little trouble securing a position with a manufacturing concern in her home town.

For a while she was as happy as she had any right to expect. Her life consisted of her job, a few wholesome pleasures, and an occasional date with the boys she knew.

Then, cruellest of blows, her parents died within a month of each other. And Mary, in her sorrow, began longing to get away.

Marriage had no place in her thoughts, which were occupied entirely by her desire for a business career. She wanted a job that would demand all her talents; a job that would lead to the success of which she had dreamed. And so Mary left her home town, and came on to New York.

Before she had used up too much of her savings, she found the position for which she had been looking. She worked hard, attended to business, was the first in the office each morning, and the last to leave each night. And as a reward for her punctuality and diligence— she was laid off at the end of six months.

Weary months of job-hunting followed. Her money disappeared rapidly, and with it some of the people she had considered her friends. She had met a few men since she had come to New York. One or two still came occasionally to take her to dinner. One wanted to lend her money. When she got into a taxi with him that night she discovered that his offer did not spring from a charitable impulse. The other put his proposition to her bluntly— an apartment. To offers like that Mary said "No," and what is more important, she meant exactly that.

It wasn't easy, faced as she was with the uncertainty of the future. But there was something deeply rooted within her— upbringing, perhaps, or some latent Puritanism— that would not let her take that way out. The only compromise she would make was her acceptance of dinner engagements with the lad who had propositioned her. And that was merely because those dinners were the only decent meals she had.

Through him she met Roger. Roger was married, and separated from his wife. He told her that frankly when they first met. He was rich, a fact which she learned from other sources. And he was kind to her at a time when kindness in her life was sadly lacking.

When she first began to go out with Roger, Mary was very cautious. What, she asked, could a man like him want with a girl like me? And she did not like the answer that presented itself. Then, as time went on and his interest continued to appear merely friendly, she grew to trust him. Life was much brighter because of his friendship. Hope for the future, which had died long ago, began to stir again. True, her room rent was weeks in arrears. Her little hoard of money was so slim that she was afraid to count it.

Of those things she said nothing to Roger, for the simple reason that she hesitated to give him an opening for the suggestion that she feared he might make. A job came her way at last. And what a job! It was in a factory, where she sat all day under a glaring light and wound slender threads of wire around artificial flowers. She was there a month, when summer burst into the city on a wave of deadening heat. Mary wondered how long she would be able to stand the breathless air of the factory. Her room, close and stuffy and small, was not much better.

The only things that kept her from utter desperation were Roger and their little excursions to beaches and roadhouses. They were at a roof garden one night, when her arms and head and back ached worse than usual. Almost unconsciously, she began to tell him of her job and its rotten conditions. Roger stretched his hand across the table.

"Mary," he urged, "we've been friends quite a while now. Won't you let me help you? Won't you let me do something for you?"

The girl put her fingers to her ears as though to shut out the words that she knew were coming. Then, hopelessly, she dropped her hands, and looked across at the man.

"Don't go on slaving in that dump," he was saying. "You'd like my place... twentieth floor... always cool―"

Mary did the most difficult thing she had ever been forced to do. She shook her head, and reached for her purse. "Please let's not talk about it tonight," she begged. "I'm tired, and have a headache. Please take me home."

After Roger left her at her door, Mary went around the corner to a small cafe, and gulped down three highballs in rapid succession. She had never drunk at home, but who was there to care what she did in New York? Her temples pounded. The heat was murderous. She could think of nothing but Roger, and the thing he had said. He, Roger, had propositioned her!

Her last little shred of faith was gone. Roger had failed her. He had acted like all the other men when they had learned of her circumstances. She had treasured his friendship so very highly. And now she knew that it had never existed. What, then, was left for her in life? Nothing except slavery and disappointment and disillusionment. Her head whirled as she left the cafe. On the way home she stumbled Into a drug store and made a purchase. The landlady found her on the floor next morning. And beside her was an empty phial.

It was Roger who took charge of things, and had the girl's body sent back to her home town for burial. And after it was over, he went to a nearby bar. He was badly in need of a stimulant. There he met a friend, and, after the first few drinks, his tongue began to loosen. He told the other man what had happened.

"She was a funny kid," he mused. "Proud and independent as the devil. But I liked her. I wanted to help her. Only two nights ago, just before she killed herself, I offered her a job in my office."

_________________

13: The Cheat

THE romance started on the subway, which is as good a place as any, I suppose, to fall in love, Mr. Higgins was not a particularly ardent type of gentleman. As a matter of fact, one look at him would convince you that ledgers were far more important in his life than love.

But the girl— ah, that was a different story. A cute-looking monkey with sparkling eyes, she should have been riding in a Rolls instead of a subway car. But if she had been, she wouldn't have met Mr. Higgins. And, much more important, I wouldn't have had any story.

What prompted her to give Mr. Higgins the naughty eye is one of those mysteries that I never attempt to explain. The fact remains that she gave it to him. And even though the poor man squirmed nervously in his seat, he was compelled to return the glance. Accordingly, before Mr. Higgins quite realised what had happened, he was standing on the platform and talking to the little lady.

Her name, she said, was Mrs. Smith— and her husband didn't understand her.

"The minute I looked at you in that train," said Mrs. Smith, "I knew that you were the kind of man a woman could trust. Did anyone ever tell you that before?"

Mr. Higgins gulped. "Well," he replied hesitatingly, "my mother always told me that. Of course. I'm such a busy man that I don't have time to engage in conversation with too many females. You know what I mean?"

"Sure I do, honey," she agreed sweetly. "But I'd like to make things a little different. A man who does a lot of work always needs a little relaxation. I wish I knew you better."

Whereupon Mr. Higgins said a very daring thing.

"I wish," he replied nervously, "I wish I knew you better, too."

Well, as sometimes happens, one word led to another. And before Mr. Higgins said good-bye to her they had arranged to meet the following night. Her husband, it seemed, worked nights. It would be a very simple matter for Mr. Higgins to visit her between certain hours, and there would never be any danger attached to it.

"You're positive there's not the slightest danger?" asked the nervous man.

The lady was absolutely positive.

"Don't you worry, dear," she assured him. "If I tell you everything will be okay, you can take my word for it. I'll be waiting for you tomorrow night. Good-night, you sweet man."

"Good-night, you— you nice thing," said Mr. Higgins.

For the next twenty-four hours Mr. Higgins struggled with his soul. If there hadn't been any premonition of danger in connection with the rendezvous he probably wouldn't have struggled so hard. But the thought of a husband who might be very muscular disturbed him to a great degree. He kept telling himself that he wasn't going to see that woman. He convinced himself that it would be the wrong thing to do. He assured himself that he would be making the biggest mistake of his life. He did all those things— and then he put on his other suit and went anyhow.

Mrs. Smith proved to be a charming hostess. She had several bottles of beer on ice, and some excellent liverwurst sandwiches upon the table. She left nothing undone to put her guest at ease.

But Mr. Higgins was strangely worried. Even though the little lady placed a hand on his and gazed fondly into his eyes as she chewed a bit of liverwurst, the man couldn't seem to react. He leaped to his feet whenever a door closed. The slightest noise brought an unhealthy pallor to his face. In other and simpler words, he was a badly frightened lover.

Mrs. Smith noticed how timid he was.

"Please stop being so worried," she requested. "I told you that you would be safe, and you are. If it will make you feel any easier, I might tell you that my husband and I have an arrangement. Whenever he comes home— no matter what time it is— he always gives the downstairs bell a ring to let me know he's there.

"He's never failed to do that, and there's no reason why he should start now. So you see that there isn't the slightest chance of anything going wrong. Even if he did ring the bell— which won't happen— you'd still have plenty of time to get out the back way."

The man swallowed hard. "You're sure about that?" he asked.

Mrs. Smith placed an arm around his shoulders. "Certainly, baby," she returned. I―"

At that moment the bell rang. Mr, Higgins's sudden leap almost carried him through a window.

"Oh, my God!" he cried. "Your husband!"

The lady gripped his arm and walked him rapidly into the kitchen. "Don't lose your nerve," she whispered. "Be a man. Stay in here and keep out of sight. I'll get you out later."

Mr. Higgins backed himself into a corner and tried his best to hide behind a mop. Meanwhile, outside, he heard voices. Voices that grew louder.

"You can't fool me, you cheat," he heard a man, shout. "You've got a lover in here some place. You'd better bring him out before I find him myself. Where is he, I say?"

Poor Mr. Higgins! He was shaking like a. debutante the morning after the Beaux Arts Ball.

"Oh, my!" he kept muttering to himself. "Her husband will kill me. I know I shouldn't have come. Oh, my!"

The door was suddenly flung open, and a man stepped in.  A huge man who looked more like a prizefighter than anything else. He saw Mr. Higgins.

"So," he growled, "there you are, eh? Well, come out here, where I can get a look at you."

He placed one of his large paws on Mr. Higgins's shoulder and practically tossed the poor man into the living-room. Then he strolled in after him.

Mr. Higgins looked up at him with tears in his eyes.' "Please, mister," he pleaded, "I really didn't come here to violate your home. I met Mrs. Smith on the subway and―"

The other man stopped him with a motion. "You don't have to tell me anything at all, buddy," were his astounding words. "If you think I blame you in any way, you've got another think coming. I blame the woman in these cases. Any guy in the world will fall for a dame, and you're no exception.

"She's the one that's no good,. This isn't the first time I've caught her. Because she's a cheat. That's what she is— a cheat.

"She's cheating you. She's cheating herself. She's cheating me, too. And, though he doesn't know it, she's even cheating her husband!"

______________

14: Manhattan Holiday

ECSTATIC would be the only word to describe Grade's feeling when she arrived in the city of New York. She had saved for, dreamed about, and awaited longingly the two weeks' vacation that she would spend in this strange town. Now the long bus ride was over at last, and two weeks of glorious city life were before her. The lights enchanted her. The traffic thrilled and terrified her. It was all every bit as wonderful as she had pictured it.

True, the state of her finances forced her to find a room in a cheap side-street hotel. But such things were mere trifles. She was in New York!

It was evening when she arrived and, in spite of her desire to mingle with the crowds, she was just a little timid about going out alone. And she was tired from the long trip. She had seen a sign in the elevator announcing that dinner was being served in the restaurant downstairs and she decided that, for tonight at least, she would eat there.

It was just an ordinary restaurant such as can be found in almost any cheap hotel. But to Gracie it was beautiful. Then, too, there was a man who came in and sat down opposite, and stared at her intently. He was a homely thick-necked sort of bird, and his hands were the size of catcher's mitts. But to Gracie that night, all the men in New York were handsome and gallant And when he spoke to her Gracie did something she had never done at home. She smiled, answered him graciously, and in the short space of ten minutes, a friendship was well under way.

The man, whose name was Bill, was living at the hotel, too, he told her. And before he left her at the elevator, she had promised to meet him the next day and go on a sightseeing tour.

The week that followed was all too wonderful. Every day at noon she met Bill In the lobby, and they toured the city together. Gracie saw all the things she had dreamed about, and went to ail the places she had always longed to go. Once or twice they went to a movie or a matinee, and held hands in the darkened theatre. Gracie was tumbling rapidly; and she was quite sure that Bill was falling just as fast.

True, everything wasn't exactly perfect. For one thing, Bill proved very close-mouthed about his personal affairs.

Gracie told him all about Ma and Pa and the kids back home, but Bill never responded with any confidences. And every time the subject of work was mentioned, Bill managed to change that topic quickly. That was the strangest part of it all. He was constantly with her all the time that most men were at work, and yet he always seemed to have plenty of money.

Gracie had been going to the movies and reading magazines long enough to know that there was but one class of men who didn't work, and yet had plenty of money. The first time that thought occurred to her she laughed it away. She forced herself at last to face the facts squarely. Suppose he were what she suspected? Every ideal, everything in her strict upbringing revolted against the thought. She had dreamed a little about marriage with Bill. But she knew, under those circumstances, that it could never be.

Finally, she succeeded in pushing the thought out of her mind. And time, passed until there were but two days left of her vacation. She and Bill were going to a Broadway restaurant that afternoon. Under different circumstances, it would have been a thrilling adventure for Gracie. But now everything was spoiled by the misery of her love for Bill and her suspicions concerning him. Then something happened that didn't help matters very much either. They were sitting at' a table in a dim corner, when a man standing at the bar turned, recognised Bill, and waved a hand in greeting.

"Hiya, Killer," he called. Gracie's blood ran cold at the sound of that name, and the last faint hope died swiftly. She saw that Bill's face was red and agonised, and that he couldn't force himself to look at her.

"If you don't mind," she said quietly, "I think I'd like to go back to the hotel."

They didn't speak again until they had reached' the lobby. Gracie had made up her mind by that time.

"Bill," she said huskily. "I guess we might as well say good-bye now. I've decided I don't want to stay in New York any longer. There's a bus leaving early in the morning, and I think I'll take it. I probably won't see you again— so thanks for everything."

Bill gulped. "Gee," he said miserably, "I'm sorry, Grace. I suppose this means things . are over for us. I thought maybe I'd see you again some time. I guess you know how much I like you and all. Don't you like me at all?"

Gracie turned away from the pleading of his eyes, and shook her head.

"I couldn't," she told him gently. "I thought I did at first, but I was kidding myself. I didn't know anything about you then. You understand, Bill, that I really couldn't like a man who earned his living the way you do. if you were in some honest business— if you weren't mixed up in a— a racket, things might have been different."

Bill nodded. "I thought you'd feel like that. That's why I hoped you wouldn't find out. Well, good-bye, Gracie, it's been swell ! knowing you."

And that was another night when Gracie lost too much sleep.

The next morning she was on the bus. Her vacation was over, and she was going home. Somehow, the scenery that had once seemed so wonderful wasn't wonderful at all.

"Gee," she murmured wistfully. "He was a swell fellow. Too bad he was a racketeer."

Bill was thinking about Gracie at just about that time, too. He was sitting in his hotel room with a drink before him. But somehow that drink didn't taste so good as it should have. There was another man with Bill, and it was he who broke the silence.

"Whatsa matter with you, anyhow?" he asked. "Woman trouble?"

Bill nodded. "Yeh," he said sadly. "She was swell kid. Too nice for me, though I was kinda hoping she wouldn't find out about me, but she did somehow."

He sat for a moment staring down at the glass before him. Then:—

"An awful nice little dame she was," he repeated. "Only she was like everybody else. She didn't think a wrestler could be on the level."

_______________

15: Reunion

A BROADWAY opening. Beautiful women in beautiful gowns. Brilliant jewels and not so brilliant conversation. Lights. Noise. Laughter. The stage production, perhaps, a little dull. But who cared? The real show tonight was in front of the footlights.

The lights flared up. The play was over. The audience paraded slowly through the lobby. Sleek cars began to creep toward the curbing. A beautiful girl stepped forward on the arm of a distinguished-looking gentleman. She was famous, after a fashion. Shop girls and stenographers read about her in the newspapers, and sighed with envy. Her hands were heavy with jewels. Her life's path had been an easy one, smoothed by men who worshipped her beauty.

"Where now, Gloria?" the man asked.

Gloria shrugged delicately. She smiled, and looked slightly bored. At the edge of the sidewalk someone brushed against her. An old man who had been swept into the moving crowd of people. A shabby old man, whose clothes hung loosely upon him. An old man with lean cheeks and hungry eyes. He mumbled something, and as Gloria turned an indifferent glance upon him, their eyes met.

The girl choked back a cry, and grew pale under her make-up. This old man— she recognised him.

Ten years ago he had been closer to her than anyone else in the world. She had travelled far in those ten years. But one thing she could never alter. The old man was still her father.

He'd been more than that when she was young. Her mother had died when she was a baby. He had often said, longingly, that if Mary had lived, things would have been different.

Gloria had been impatient with such talk. Life, she claimed, was exactly what you made it yourself. And she was going to see to it that hers was a pretty fine affair. Always, she had hated the plain surroundings of the home her father provided for her.

From the time she was fifteen, she had other ideas. Even then she realised that if a woman is beautiful enough, there will always be some man eager to take care of her. Pop was stuffy. He had funny ideas about life and love. Old-fashioned ideas. He tried, in his groping way, to instil into his daughter some of his own ideals. And he was rewarded for his pains by a laugh that was half sneer.

When she finished high school, Gloria decided not to go to work. She was very busy during the day getting ready for her evening dates. Pop worked nights. He was a watchman. That made things easier. If he didn't know what time she got in or whom she entertained while he was away, he'd have nothing to crab about.

But one night Pop came home about midnight. He had felt sick. When he unlocked the door of the apartment and snapped on the lights, he felt sicker still.

Pop tried to reason with Gloria that night. He tried to be kind. But Gloria wanted no advice, and no kindness. "It's just as well," she told him, "that you found out. Now you know that you and I can't ever get along. I'm getting out— and you can like it or not!"

She didn't wait to pack her things. Clothes— she could always get them. She merely seized a much frightened youth by the arm and bounced out.

Gloria could have smiled now at the recollection of that frightened boy. She'd come a long way since then. She couldn't remember his name any more. After she'd left him, she met a man who introduced her to someone in the show business. She'd spent a few months in the chorus of a revue. Then she grew tired of that. It had been all so unnecessary. She was young. She was beautiful. Life was lavish with its gifts. Life— and men.

The first bloom of youth was a little rubbed off when Gloria married. She still had money. She still had her jewels. But she was a little afraid. She wanted security. And, possibly, the prospect of huge alimony.

Gloria married for one reason. A very good reason in her eyes. She married for money.

The gentleman was a little old— but he was wealthy. He saw in Gloria the things he had missed, the youth and gaiety and glamor that his money hadn't brought him. He was very eager to marry her. Very grateful when she accepted. He displayed his gratitude with gifts of cars and diamonds. Gloria then had an apartment on Park Avenue. Charge accounts in all the fashionable stores.. Service and love and wealth at her fingertips. Shop girls and stenographers sighed enviously when they read about her in the newspapers.

She had forgotten Pop long ago. He had simply ceased to exist for her. Why. she asked herself, should she bother with him when their lives were so totally apart? Once, in a strange mood, brought about by a roaring hangover, she had sent him a letter with a £10 note in it. The letter had been returned with the word "Unknown" stamped across the envelope.

She had never seen him since that night some ten years ago, when he came home inopportunely.

And here he was. Looking, Gloria thought scornfully, like an old bum. She wasted no sympathy on the man. She was thinking of but one person, and that one person was Gloria. There was a group of people with her and her husband. Influential people. Fashionable people.

When Gloria looked into the eyes of her father, she was seized with panic. She hadn't prayed for fifteen years. So perhaps you couldn't call it exactly a prayer, the plea she breathed that Pop wouldn't speak to her. If he did! If he started a hard-luck tale, and let these people know that she was his daughter! She gnawed at her carefully rouged lips. The painted tips of her fingernails bit into the palms of her hands. What to do? Ignore him? Pretend that he was drunk; crazy perhaps?

For a full minute she and Pop stared into each other's eyes. Neither moved. Neither spoke. Then the old man turned away.

Gloria drew a long breath of relief. She smiled up at her husband, and allowed herself to be handed gently into the luxurious car that was waiting for her. Inside, she relaxed against the velvet cushions.

"Thank God," she said to herself, "the old fool had sense enough not to speak to me. I'd be ashamed as hell to have anybody know that I had an old bum like that for a father."

The shuffling figure of the old man became lost in the shifting crowd. Now, as he walked along, his shoulders seemed to sag lower. His eyes seemed darker.

"Gloria!" he muttered bitterly. "Wouldn't speak to her old father, eh? Well, I'm glad. Because I certainly wouldn't want anybody to know that I had a woman like her for a daughter."

_____________

16: The Ham

ARTHUR was a ham. He knew the stage, and all its details. He could act. He could direct. He could discuss scenic construction. But he never really had the chance to show what he could do. So he automatically became one of those who talked big— and did little. He was a ham.

I mean no offence to Arthur. The same as it went with him, so does it go with others in every walk of life. Given the opportunity, they might reach the very heights in their chosen lines. But the opportunity never comes. And they remain as they are. Hams.

Arthur was born in the theatre. He played in the sticks until his father and mother were gone, and then decided to hit the big town In order to be the biggest of the big. The hope never materialised. And it wasn't long before a week's work in the theatre loomed as large to him as Primo Carnera in a roomful of midgets.

The man refused to give up. Like so many others who were chasing the same rainbow, he had a firm conviction that the successful break was just around the corner.

He played minor parts here and there, and he sometimes received good notices from the critics. But the plays soon folded. And you can't satisfy an empty stomach with a good notice.

I'm forced to admit at this point that Arthur really had a certain talent— and it's very tough for a columnist to admit that about anyone. But, as usual, it makes no difference what I admit. He could And nothing that would actually prove his worth, and he never moved beyond the ham classification. Without pull, or breaks, or aid from anyone, the Arthurs of this world can hope for very little.

But my Arthur stands a trifle above the crowd. He, at least, has the dubious distinction of being the central character in a sob story. As the first step on the downward path, Arthur got married. A nice girl. Sweet, devoted, pretty— and all that.

Arthur met her while performing in a stock company in the Middle West and fell desperately in love. He emitted a "Gee!" She gushed a "Gosh!" They both coincided on an "I love you"— and the township sold another licence.

Within a year there was a baby girl. The experience was too much for the wife, and she gave in without a struggle. She was buried shortly after. And Arthur was left to carry on.

The daughter was too young to realise, and the father was too stunned to do much more. Shortly after his wife's death, Arthur brought his kiddie to New York and tried to find something that might support the child and himself. He found very little. The man remained the same ham. He toiled not, but neither did he sin. Jobs were few and far between, and he took gratefully what was offered him.

He had a task on his hands now; he had to bring up a kid in a way that would have made her mother proud of her. So he accepted the smallest jobs with the utmost gratitude. The years marched on. Pauline— named after her mother— grew into girlhood. And beautiful, of course. What's the use of writing a story like this unless you can make your girls beautiful? That, at least, is something that everybody can't do.

But Pauline was truly a gorgeous kid. Blonde hair. Big eyes. Cute nose that turned up. Kissable lips. And— oh, well, you finish it. The more the girl grew, the more the neighbors realised that she was a girl about whom they would some day talk a great deal, which made her a favorite with the other women.

Meanwhile Arthur was still engaged in the busy occupation of getting nowhere. He was still talking to the boys on the corner of Forty-sixth Street. He was still waiting for the big break. He was still supremely confident that the following morning would bring success to him and his daughter. He still had the same talent but not the opportunity. In other words, he will still the ham.

When Pauline was seventeen, a new era came to pass in Hollywood. Talkies arrived. And with them came the one chance for which the Broadway failure had been seeking. Here, according to all beliefs, was the big opportunity for anyone who could speak two lines in a row.

The Hollywood actor was a thing of the past, and the new screen stars, with their fabulous salaries, must come from Broadway. Here was a future for the has-been and caviare for the ham. Arthur talked it over with his daughter one night.

"Baby," he said, "you know exactly what your father means in show business. Practically nothing. I don't think I'm a complete flop; I'm just one of those birds who fly around and get nowhere. The talkies in Hollywood seem to be my last chance. And if you'll come with me on the little we have. I'll make you stab at it.

"What do you think of the idea? If you want to stay here, I'll never leave you. But if you want to go..."

Pauline wanted to go. Her reply left no doubt on that score. "I'll go. Dad. if we have to walk. I think it'll do you a world of good. And, as far as I'm concerned, I've always loved the movies. Think I'd be any good in that line. Dad?"

For a moment her father was shocked. His Pauline on the stage or screen! He'd never thought of it before. But, after all, why not? Couldn't pick a more honorable profession, could she? Couldn't live a life she'd enjoy more, could she? Couldn't do anything that her father would appreciate more, could she? Still, like most fathers, he figured it would be best not to appear too enthusiastic.

"Hadn't thought of it before, Pauline," was his response. "It's hard work, you know. We'll see."

Almost three months to the day after they left New York, Arthur and his daughter sat in the office of Mr. Zumph, general manager of one of the largest studios in Hollywood. Pauline didn't seem any too interested in the conversation. She wandered around the room as Arthur talked to the all-important Mr. Zumph.

Arthur's luck hadn't changed at all. Aside from two or three very small jobs, he found no more work in Hollywood than he had had on Broadway. And this audience with Mr. Zumph was the outcome of weeks and weeks of great effort.

The actor had known Zumph back in the days when Zumph was an unimportant hat salesman on Broadway. They had been firm friends in those times, but things were vastly different now. Zumph was a power in the film industry— and Arthur was just another actor who had cooled his heels in an outer office for many hours while waiting to see the film magnate.

Arthur was talking:— "Don't you see, Mr. Zumph, that I know every trick of the trade? I've been on the stage all my life, and I can play any part you pick for me. I'm not speaking to you now because of the friends we were in the past. I want to be judged strictly on my merits. I―"

Zumph's gaze had wandered to the girl on the other side of the office. "I'll keep you in mind," said the magnate. "But how about your daughter? I think I can do something for her immediately."

Arthur looked startled. Zumph continued talking.

"Yes, I'm definitely convinced she has picture talent. I want to give her a screen test and— what's more— I'm going to. Have her on stage Number 9 at two o'clock Friday. I can almost guarantee her a contract now."

They called Pauline over. They talked to her. Zumph was very enthusiastic. As enthusiastic, that is, as a movie magnate can get.

"What do you say, baby?" Arthur asked. "Do you want to do it?"

"Do I? It's the biggest thing I've ever had in all my life. Of course I want to do it. And I'll make good too, Dad.

"I hope so," said the ham.

As they walked from Zumph's building, one of those things happened. Pauline went into a drug store, and her father wandered across the street. He never reached the other side. For a large touring car swept around the corner and caught Arthur just as neatly as you please. Inside of ten minutes he was on a hospital bed.

Two days later, Arthur knew he was going to die. He heard the doctors whispering among themselves, and one of the nurses was unkind enough to verify his suspicions. He knew that death was no more than a day away— and his agony made him wish it were closer.

But this was Friday— and Pauline's screen test was scheduled for that afternoon? What was he to do? Ruin her career because of his misfortune? Not that trouper.

At noon— two hours before the big test— his daughter sat on the edge of his bed and held Arthur's hand. Zumph was there, too. He felt that he was being very magnanimous. Hospital visits were out of his line. He made a mental note to notify the publicity department as soon as he returned to the studio.

The dying man was talking. But he was giving a performance that Walter Huston might envy. And he was praying that nobody would learn the truth until Pauline's test had been made. He jested with Zumph about the past. He talked about the California weather. He laughed about the accident and insisted that he would probably be out in no time. What a performance! Zumph grew nervous quickly. He had big things to do at the studio, and he suggested that Pauline leave with him.

"Yes, yes," Arthur agreed. "By all means. Good luck, baby."

Pauline kissed him and said that she would return that night. The moment they were gone, Arthur collapsed. He died twelve hours earlier than anyone had anticipated. The curtain fell on his best performance.

Outside the hospital, as Zumph's big car whisked him away, the magnate was talking.

"I'd love to do something for your father, too, Pauline," he said, "but I'd be wasting my time. I've known him for years and he'll always be what he is now— a ham. He just can't act."

__________________

17: The March Of Time

YOU'VE probably seen him— that is, if it is your custom to pass a certain, very exclusive Fifth Avenue club between the hours of three and six o'clock in the afternoon.

He sits there in all his aristocratic ease, facing a wide window and looking out at the swirling traffic. Yet Mr. Theodore Clark, the clubman, didn't always sit that way in leather, upholstered chairs. There was a time when he sat on a kerbstone, his bare feet awash with the swirling gutter water. lie lived then, not in an exclusive club, but in a cold, sunless tenement. He was the fourth child born to his parents, and, incidentally, he was the only one of the brood who lived.

If ever a child was neglected. Theodore was that child. His parents were two of Fate's derelicts— fighting, drinking, and hating each other with an ugly intensity. We can dismiss them at this point without loss to anyone. Almost as soon as he was able to cry the name of a newspaper, Theodore Clark was earning his own living. Where to sleep and what to eat were daily problems for him. Education? Of course. All the degrees the University of Poverty had to award.

We dismissed the boy's parents two paragraphs ago, but Theodore wasn't able to dismiss them until he was fourteen. His father died then, and, although the boy hadn't seen either his father or his mother for some three years, he was decent enough to scrape up sufficient money for a hurried burial. But as the cheap casket was being lowered into the grave Theodore Clark clenched his fists and raised his eyes to heaven.

"I'm gonna get some place," he swore. "I'm gonna have children of my own some day. And if I ever neglect them the way my father did me, may God strike me dead."

His life from then on wasn't just one long success story. He worked and he fought an uphill battle. Until the fates, which had kicked him around in his boyhood, suddenly began to pet him.

When he was 30 he held a responsible position in a Wall Street brokerage house. And at the age of 36 he was a member of the firm. All those years he had worked incessantly. Pleasure had been something that had never entered his mind. And all work and no play had made a dull boy plenty of Jack.

But now, he felt, it was time to call something of a halt. He started to play Broadway every so often. He began to take short trips— to Bermuda, to Havana, to Miami— and to enjoy a few of the rewards that success had brought him. And it was on one of these trips that he found what he thought was his life's real goal— the woman who was to become his wife. She was very much of society— too much so for Theodore Clark, I'm afraid.

Nevertheless, to repeat the best known of all famous last words, they were married. When Theodore was 40 he became the father of a daughter. When he was 44 he was the father of a son. And never was there a prouder man anywhere in the universe. To his work on the Street the children were now an added incentive. The education he had missed they would most certainly have. All the youthful pleasures he had been denied they would enjoy to the utmost. The man worked like a demon— and all for his wife and children.

He was successful before; now he was sensational. His shrewd investments and quick, successful plunges were the talk of the Exchange. He became a great power, and he was called in and consulted on deals of international consequence.

But, as the years rolled on, he wasn't able to see as much of his wife and children as he desired. It was always a question of a meeting here, a conference there, or a hurried trip to Europe on a financial matter of great moment. Then, too, his children were studying at the very finest private schools— and when he was at home they were often away. But when he was with them he was ardently proud. They were growing up as real blue bloods. And from the standpoint of the inferiority complex that had been hammered into him as a child he saw in them the very thing that he had always wanted to be.

The news that his wife wanted a divorce came as a sudden and complete shock. Theodore Clark was bewildered and heartbroken, but he was wise enough not to attempt to fight the issue. The matter was arranged as quietly j as possible, and announcement of the ; divorce— while it, of course, made the front pages— was highly dignified. The wife was awarded the custody of the children.

Today, then, Theodore Clark is one of the loneliest and unhappiest men in the world. He sits at that window in that very exclusive club and envies the passers-by who are envying him. And only a few of his intimates know that, a few weeks ago, he talked to his wife for the first time since their divorce. He talked to her on the telephone, from the club.

"Even if we are divorced," he ; pleaded, "why do you continue to keep the children away from me? Must I have a Court order to get to them? Why can't I be with my own children?"

His wife's sarcastic laugh struck his ears harshly.

"If it weren't so sad," she replied, "that would be funny. You want to be with your children! If you love them so much, why did you neglect them all your life?"

________________

18: The Double Cross

IT OFTEN happens that two men who start out as casual acquaintances become friendlier and friendlier. And before either one knows it, they have become bosom companions.

That was the case with Tom and Bill, who would run into each other in their daily business. A simple business it, was— running handbooks for rival bookmakers. With the informality that exists around race tracks, the two men didn't find it hard to become acquainted intimately with each other.

And it didn't surprise any of the other racetrack habitués— and sons of habitués— when Tom and Bill wound up as partners. It wasn't a bad partnership either. They started with a small handbook on Broadway and finally saved enough to go into operation at the tracks. For years these two men went from one racecourse to another.

Their success wasn't the meteoric kind you read about. It wasn't easy travelling. There were many occasions when they missed a meal, and there were four or five when they arrived at the track in a first-class box car. All in all, though, they found it a swell racket. When the tough days were over, the good days certainly were a grand living.

As time wore on, the boys grew a little more settled in their ways. Money was now the big object, and the novelty of travelling from track to track was beginning to wear off. It wasn't a bad partnership, either, they make their headquarters in New York and enter the racket of selling information on the horses to the suckers who wished to buy.

"How can we miss, Tom?" he asked his partner. "We both know the race game from top to bottom. We know form and past performances as well as any two birds in the business. What's more, we have plenty of friends among the players— and It should be a cinch to get up a sucker list that would bring in business.

"I'm getting tired of batting around the country, and I guess you are, too. After all, what can we lose if we make a stab at this new racket? If we don't click, we can always go back to the old game. What do you say?"

Tom was perfectly agreeable. They clasped hands. The bargain was sealed.

THE NEW venture was a success from the start. Since most of their clients were out-of-towners, practically all of their business was transacted by wire and telephone. And before a week was up, It was necessary for them to hire a shrewd girl who could act as stenographer, telephone girl, and general manager. They found an excellent young lady for the job— and then the trouble started.

It began with the fact that May was entirely too attractive. More, she spoke the same language as Bill and Tom. Still more, she was a very efficient little manager. The office routine was fairly simple. Bill and Tom pretended to have all types of inside Information on the horses. They advertised themselves as the best tipsters in the business, and urged folks all over the nation to send anything from five dollars to 100 dollars for the names of their "sure winners." The amounts they asked depended entirely upon the customer. Needless to say, the list of these customers was for ever changing. If Bill and Tom happened to send out a winner, the customer was always good for two or three more tries. If their tip proved a dud, the customer was half-gone and had to be coaxed back into line. And so it went.

During her first hour at work May was told to watch the transactions of a Mrs. Clarke, of Chicago, and watch them carefully. This Mrs. Clarke was the answer to a tipster's prayer. Regardless of how the tip turned out, she was always back for more. Neither Bill nor Tom had ever seen her, but they spoke of her with reverence. Whenever they asked Mrs. Clarke for a special fee in exchange for a special tip, she sent the money without question. She alone provided enough cash to run the business at a profit every week. Who could ask for a more perfect set-up? We have Bill. And Tom. And Mrs. Clarke. And May. Not bad at these prices.

I told you that May spelled trouble for the firm, and I wasn't kidding, either. In less time than it takes to cash a tote ticket, both Bill and Tom were in love with her. To make matters worse, May didn't seem to have any particular preference. If she went out with Bill one night, it was Tom's turn the next. The boys began to go in for little tricks in order to spy on each other.

All of which was very bad. For when love flies in through the window, partnerships depart through the door. It was Bill who first came to his senses.

While May was out of the office one morning, he smiled ruefully at Tom. "There's no use kidding ourselves, old pal," he said, "and we might as well come to an understanding right now. We're both in love with May! Am I right?"

Tom sighed. "You can say it again. Bill. How right you are!"

Bill shrugged his shoulders. "There's only one thing we can do, then," he went on, "and that's to leave it all up to May herself. Suppose you and I shake on a bargain. When she— gets back, we'll ask her to choose. If you're the lucky guy, I'll step right out of the picture. But if I am,. I'll expect you to do the same.

"In other words, it's six, two, and I even for both of us. Are you willing to settle it that way?"

Tom thought for a moment and then agreed. When May returned, they asked her the question Immediately. Her reply came just as swiftly. Without the slightest hesitation, she picked Bill.

"I thought you knew it all the time, Tom," she said. "I've been in love with Bill ever since I came to work for you two. The only thing that worried me was that he was going to wait five or ten years to tell me.

"I like you lots, Tom, but liking isn't loving. Now why can't the three of us always be the same pals that you and Bill were before we met? Bill and I are going to be married, but we can't let that interfere with our friendship, can we?"

The blow hit Tom harder than you might imagine. Strange as it may seem, he didn't even attempt to take it good-naturedly. He stood up, clenched his fists, looked from Bill to May, grabbed! his hat, and rushed from the office. And he left behind him two lovers who were just a trifle worried.

A few days later Tom phoned Bill and arranged to meet him in a nearby restaurant. As soon as they were seated, Tom came right to the point.

"I don't have to tell you, Bill, that I'm sorry for the way I acted the other day. But the thing hit me right between the eyes. I knew she liked you, but I always thought I had the edge. When I found out how wrong I was, I just couldn't take it standing up— like I should have." Bill attempted to say something, but the other man stopped him quickly.

"Let me say what I have to say, Bill," he continued, "and then you can talk. I've got to get this off my chest— and the quicker the better.

"The way things stand now, I can't go on with our partnership. I'd be thinking of you and May all the time, and it would be just a little too tough. I simply can't go on with it.

"I hope you and May get all the breaks you deserve. But without me. Count me out. We'll figure the best way to split the business; we'll shake hands — and we'll call It a go."

Naturally, Bill attempted to argue. He pointed out this fact and he pointed out that one. But Tom could not be shaken. So Bill finally gave it up.

"As long as you feel that way, Tom, I suppose there's no use arguing with you. But I really think you're making a big mistake."

They turned to a discussion of the split. There were plenty of good customers on their list, but Mrs. Clarke was their best bet. They began to talk about her, and Bill finally offered a definite proposition.

"Tell you what I'll do, Tom," he proposed. "You lost out with May, and I'm willing to lose out on this angle. Give me Mrs. Clarke as my starting point, and I'll turn over all the other customers to you. I'll have to develop an entirely new list, which means that I'm practically giving you the business. But with Mrs. Clarke on the line, I imagine I can get along until the new customers roll in. How does it strike you?"

Tom liked the proposition. There was little reason why he shouldn't have liked it. In Mrs. Clarke, of course, he was losing their best customer. But the remainder of the list was far more important — and far more profitable — than just one name. So, when they parted, they did it on the terms arranged before.

About a week after the partnership was dissolved, Tom deliberately double-crossed his old pal. He did something that would occur only to a very jealous man. Knowing that Mrs. Clarke was now Bill's only meal ticket, he hopped a train and went to the distant city where she lived.

You must remember now that Mrs. Clarke had never met either Bill or Tom. All of her business had been carried on by telegraph, and she knew neither what they looked like nor anything about their lives. So when Tom presented himself to her as Bill, she accepted him as Bill. And while posing as Bill, Tom gave her the strangest line in the world.

"You may think it odd of me, my dear Mrs. Clarke," he confided, "but I might as well tell you that I have decided to reform. I split with my partner, Tom, about a week ago— which is something you already know. And I have come to the conclusion that I should get out of the game entirely.

"The racket is crooked from beginning to end. Oh. I know what you're going to tell me. You're going to say that you invested plenty of money in my tips and that I might have warned you before. And you'd be right. But I feel now as though I'm making a confession. And I owe it to you to tell you to stop betting at this late date rather than to go on as you have."

Tom went on In that vein for the better part of thirty minutes. When he was through, Mrs. Clarke was looking at him with grateful eyes. And before he left, she had given him her promise that she would never again place a bet on a horse. The impostor returned to New York with a song in his heart. He knew he had done a dirty thing by posing as Bill— but he also felt that he had squared accounts with May for picking the wrong man.

SOME four months later Tom was sitting in his office when he received the first phone call from Bill since they had parted. Bill seemed very much excited.

"I've got to tell you about this, Tom," he cried excitedly. "You've got to be one of the first to know. You remember that Mrs. Clarke, from Chicago?"

Tom grinned.

"Yeah, Bill. What about her?"

"She died a short time ago," was Bill's amazing reply, "and what do you think happened? Even though I don't know what she had in mind and even though I never spoke to her in my life, she willed me $50,000. She said I had given her the most honest advice site had ever received."

___________________

19: All's Well―!

ANDREW BURNS had been married for ten years. During part of that time he had been fairly happy. But as his wealth increased and his youth diminished, he grew a trifle restless.

He longed to step out a little, but he found that almost impossible. Every time he came home an hour or two late, he was subjected to a strict cross-examination. As time passed, Andrew grew more and more discontented. What, he asked himself, was the use of all his wealth if he wasn't happy? Martha, he felt certain, wouldn't give him a divorce. If she knew he wanted to be free, she would hang on even more stubbornly.

He thought the matter over carefully. He racked his brain to find some plan that might make Martha wish to divorce him. He pondered, and he pondered. And finally, to his great satisfaction, he hit upon an idea that had great possibilities.

Shortly afterwards, he had occasion to hire a chauffeur. From the applicants he selected one who seemed best fitted to his peculiar needs. The new chauffeur was an extremely attractive chap, several years younger than Burns or his wife. He was, Andrew realised with satisfaction, exactly the type of man who would appeal to a woman. He took him into his study almost immediately.

"You see, Johnson," he explained, "Mrs. Burns is a fine woman— an extremely fine woman. She is fond of me, although I dare say if she were to meet someone who loved her more than I do, it is possible that she would, in time, reciprocate his affections.

"Of course," he added, "I should be broken-hearted if a thing like that happened. But, after all, we must be good losers. If such a thing did occur, I would do the handsome thing. The day my wife left for Reno to divorce me. I would present my successor with a cheque for, say, $5000."

Johnson whistled. Old Burns was speaking a language that he understood perfectly.

"Yes, sir," he replied, "thank you, sir. And may I add, Mr. Burns, that I'll do my best to please you in all particulars!"

It was Andrew himself who started things going. One evening he sat and glowered into his newspaper, while Martha was watching, and grinned slyly when she was looking the other way.

"Dear," she asked at last, "whatever is the matter with you tonight? Have I done anything to displease you? Are you angry about something?"

Andrew made a great show of reluctance to speak, and finally burst out. "It isn't exactly your fault, I suppose. It's that chauffeur."

Martha tried not to look too pleased. "Oh, Andrew," she said, "surely you must be mistaken. Johnson is always very respectful, I'm sure."

"Well, maybe I'm wrong," her husband grunted. "I certainly hope so." And he was wondering if he had not better speak to Johnson about hurrying things up just a little.

After that it was smooth sailing for Johnson. Martha found excuses to take long rides in the country. In practically no time at all Johnson had convinced her that he was a much more enjoyable companion than Andrew had ever been. And that something should certainly be done about it.

"I'm not quite sure," she told him, "just what I should do. I know that Andrew doesn't love me as much as he used to. Tell me, do you think that when a woman discovers that she loves someone else, she should divorce her husband?" Johnson's manner, by that time, was no longer servile.

"Absolutely," he said flatly. "That's the only thing to do. Especially when the man in question loves you, too, and wants to marry you."

Martha smiled happily, and went to Andrew that very night. She explained to him, frankly, that she had met another man whom she loved.

Andrew put on a great little act. He did everything but tear his hair, and beat upon his bosom. "But there's no use talking about it," he sighed at last. "If you love this man, and he loves you, I'll have to let you go. I've loved you, but— ah, that's all over now. How soon are you going?"

Martha wept a little at his heartbreak. Then, after the bawl was over, she humbly begged his forgiveness.

"But," she warned, "nothing can change my plans. I'm leaving tomorrow."

After she had left the room, Andrew all but hugged himself in high glee.

IN THE morning Andrew was about bright and early, trying his hardest to maintain his role of the heartbroken husband. He watched Martha's luggage being carried out. And it was all he could do to keep from laughing aloud. Just before it was time for her to leave, Johnson came into the study.

"Ah, yes." Andrew nodded, "we had a little agreement, did we not? Well, Johnson, I always keep my word." He pulled out a cheque and signed it.

"Here you are," he said. "You get the money, and you get a charming woman. My congratulations!"

Johnson bowed and left. A few moments later Andrew heard the car start. He chuckled joyfully to himself. He poured himself a drink. Then he poured himself another. He hummed happily. There wasn't a happier man in the world— until there, came a knock on the door, and his wife walked in again.

"Good Lord!" her husband gurgled. "What's happened? Why haven't you gone?"

Martha shook her head. She removed her coat and hat slowly. "I'm not going," she told him. "Never! We only got as far as the bank when I learned everything. Johnson made me see how much you really love me, and how wrong it would be for me to wreck your life by leaving you. He told me that you knew all the time that he was the man.

"I know how, too, that you tried to buy him off, to bribe him to go away, so that we could be happy together again. He showed me the cheque you gave him.

"And, oh. Andrew, if you love me enough to spend $5000 to keep me with  you, I won't leave you— ever."

________________

20: The Greater Sin

SONNY RYAN crushed the newspaper he had been reading. His lips worked nervously.

"The rat," he breathed aloud. "The dirty, double-crossin' rat!"

It grieves me, gentle reader, to tell you that Mr. Ryan was talking of his wife when he mentioned rodents. He felt that he had genuine reason to be angry. And I, for one, am not going to argue with him. For Sonny was— and is— one of the very toughest gentlemen it has ever been your good fortune not to meet.

The police in a certain West Side station house will bear out my statement. For years, whenever anything went wrong in that precinct, it was the habit of the boys in blue to pick up Mr. Ryan, and ask him what he knew about the crime. And Mr. Ryan never told. It was his proudest boast that he had never squealed on a pal, and that, no matter what happened, he never would. And why, you will ask, should such a sterling gentleman now be pacing his room, and referring to the sweet woman as a "rat"?

Sonny had always believed in the little woman. Why, there wasn't a girl in town who wore better clothing or had better imitation jewels. He had married her, and he had been very happy with her.

Many of his friends knew that Mrs. Ryan wasn't as lily-white as her husband thought her to be. There wasn't a mug in the neighborhood who wasn't aware of the fact that she and Tony Maginto were giving Sonny Ryan plenty of run-around. But, as always, the husband was the last one to learn about it.

So time had gone by peacefully enough, with Mrs. Ryan leaving her house every now and then to visit her sick mother. Even though she sometimes failed to return for two or three days, Mr. Ryan didn't mind that, just so long as she didn't ask him to visit any sick mother-in-law, everything was all right with him.

Then, suddenly, came the great shock. Tony Maginto was arrested on a charge of murder— and his alibi was Mrs. Sonny Ryan! He couldn't have committed the murder, he claimed, because he was with Mrs. Ryan when the crime occurred. All this information was known to Mr. Maginto's attorneys and to Mrs. Ryan— but to no one else. She was to be the surprise witness during the trial; and she was to be the instrument by which Tony would be freed.

Several times during the weeks that followed, the lady attempted to tell her husband about it. But she couldn't bring herself to do it. And now the entire thing was out. The whole story was told completely— and smeared over the front page— in the paper that Sonny Ryan had crushed in a wad and tossed against the wall.

Small wonder that the man was in a rage, and that he mouthed violent oaths, sometimes to himself, but more often aloud. For his wife had taken the stand, and confessed everything. It was all in the paper. Sonny could almost repeat it word for word.

"I begged you not to put me on the stand," she had cried to Maginto's attorney, "but now that you've done it, I'm goin' to tell everything. And I can't help who I hurt. I'm tellin' the whole truth, and nothin' but the truth.

"You want to prove that Tony Maginto was my sweetheart. You want to prove that him and me were together plenty of times. Well, it's all true. When I told my husband that I was visitin' my sick mother, I was really seein' Tony."

By this time she had stiffened in her chair.

She then tossed a bigger bombshell into the courtroom. "But there's another thing I'm tellin' you right here and now. You put me on this stand, and Tony Maginto is takin' the consequences. On the night that the murder was committed, I was not with Tony Maginto. I was home with my own husband, and I'm thankin' God for it.

"I don't know where Tony Maginto was that night, and I can't prove an alibi for him. That's my story, and that's all there is to it."

That was the end of Tony Maginto's case. The prosecuting attorney had shaken her hand warmly as she stepped from the stand. And with plenty of reason. In a few words, she had won an important case for him.

Slowly the door opened. In stepped Mrs. Ryan. Her lips were trembling, and there was a deep apology in her eyes. She stretched out her arms.

"Sonny," she breathed. "Oh, Sonny."

The man wheeled. He looked at her, contempt and anger mingled in his expression.

"You?" he growled. "You had the nerve to come back here after what's happened? Get your clothes and get out. Get out, I say!" Mr. Ryan trembled with emotion. "If you don't go," he almost screamed, "I'll kill you. Get your clothes, I say, and beat it. Get out! "Scram!" he yelled, moving towards her. "What'll the mob say? Me, Sonny Ryan, livin' with a dame what's a squealer!"

____________________

21: The Girl Who Finally Changed

I SAT in a restaurant with a middle-aged man of Broadway. We lingered over our coffee, discussing this and that .

My companion is noted for his experience with women, despite the fact that he rarely discusses either the experiences or the women. But when he— well, he's decidedly interesting.

He put out his cigarette and regarded me curiously. "I have a story for you," he said. "Have you the time to listen?"

I said I most certainly had. He was silent for a moment, which is always most annoying when I'm waiting for a yarn. Then he spoke.

"You remember Joan L?" he asked. "That brunette with the pretty eyes and the dainty hands?"

"Certainly," I replied. "Everybody knows her. Why shouldn't they? I don't think there's a Broadwayite in town who hasn't had her out at least once. She's the cheatingest gal I ever met."

He was silent again. It was all very provoking.

"Well," I said Impatiently, "what's it all about? What about that dame?"

He shook his head. "You're judging her too harshly, Mark. First hear the facts— and then judge. It's a strange story. So listen carefully."

And he told me the story of Joan.

THE GIRL came to Broadway from a small town in the south-west. There had been, it seems, an unfortunate marriage at a very early age. It wasn't annulled until she had lived with the man for several months— and by the time those months were over she would have done anything at all to get away from the man she detested. Such was her background when she hit Times Square in order to tackle show business.

With a pretty face, a pretty figure, and beautiful hands, it wasn't long before she was considered legitimate prey by some men in practically every theatrical office she visited. The net result: before she was 17 she was a hard-boiled woman, disillusioned with life, and thinking of virtue only as a title on a novel.

Three years later found her in the very middle of the Broadway vortex. She had worked in various shows. She had attended parties with lawyers, doctors, newspapermen, gangsters, and social celebrities. She was living, in other words, the life that is usually referred to as merry and short. It's much shorter, I can assure you, than it is merry.

In the background there stood one man. He was the something that Joan laughingly referred to as the heavy sugar-daddy. He was a retired merchant, more than 60 years of age, and more than comfortably wealthy. In him you will recognise the type of man that novelists always associate with the "Follies" girls. This one is unusual, because he happens to have been real.

Mr. Smith, which is as good a name as any for him, loved this girl. He was a perfect gentleman, and knew nothing of the inner workings of the theatrical world. He saw in Joan only the things he wanted to see. And if that isn't the perfect way to fall in love, please correct me.

The girl, of course, accepted him for what he was. She took his gifts and his apartment, and did her best to make him happy when she was with him. In other words, she was on the square with him— in everything but love.

I'm not pleading Joan's case. I'm merely asking you to believe that she didn't think she was doing anything wrong, when she went out with other men. Men and women without a background of domestic misery like hers may condemn her. But those who were in the same boat with her, lived the same hectic life, had the same sort of memories— they understood. They knew that there isn't one code of behavior for all women.

Naturally enough, while Mr. Smith thought he was the happiest man in town, he was laughed at by all those who knew the true situation. And since he was just about the only one who didn't know, you can readily imagine how many laughs he provided. When he took Joan to the Casino in Central Park, the finger-pointers worked overtime. When he escorted his beauty to an opening night, the whisperings were loud and furious. And all of them were pretty much the same.

"There's that Mr. Smith and his Joan girl. She's a pretty thing all right, but a terrible cheat. They say he loves her madly, and hasn't the slightest idea that she's the town's girl. Well, it only goes to prove the old saying that there's no fool like an old fool."

Meanwhile, Mr. Smith would be holding Joan-s hand and regarding her through tender eyes. "You're so beautiful, my dear," he would say. "Far and away the prettiest girl In the place. And you're so good and true. I'm a lucky man."

Joan would squeeze his fingers, and edge close to him. "I'm the one who Is lucky, Daddy," she would coo. "You've been so. good to me. By the way, do you know that handsome young man who's looking over at us?"

And a few minutes later, because he didn't know his Broadway, Mr. Smith would introduce his Joan to the handsome young man.

ONE NIGHT, when they had known each other for several years, Mr. Smith visited Joan's apartment, and talked to her very seriously. The girl was Impatient this night because she had a later date with a theatrical agent. She gazed dreamily at the ceiling as Mr. Smith began to speak.

"It's this way, Joan," he said haltingly, "and I hope you'll not mind the fact that I haven't told you before. I'm afraid I'm a pretty sick man."

Joan came back to earth.

"What―"

Her elderly admirer interrupted her. "Let me tell you all at once, dearest, and then you can talk. I'd rather say my entire speech and get it over with. "For almost a year now, I've known that my heart was in bad shape. They've been giving me certain injections three times weekly, in order to strengthen it— but it hasn't done much good. I went to a new specialist today, and he told me that unless I went abroad and stopped those injections at once, I would undoubtedly die.

"So, Joan, dear, I must go to Europe immediately. And that's why I came to see you tonight."

The girl was frightened. Death was talking to her. Death for this kindly old man who had been so sweet and generous to her. Death for the one man who had respected her and believed in her. Death...

"No, no, Daddy, you don't mean you're that sick. You don't mean you're going to leave me. You can't mean it."

Mr. Smith placed an arm about her. "Joan, child, I don't want ever to leave you. I want you to come with me— but not as we are now. I want you to come with me as my wife.

"Think carefully before you answer, dear. I'm an old man— and a sick one. You have youth and beauty and health. My life is almost gone. Yours is all before you.

"I don't have to tell you that I love you with all my heart. You are much too good for me, but if you will marry me, I will do all I can to make you happy.

"Will you, Joan dearest?"

JOAN MARRIED Mr. Smith two days later and sailed for Europe with him. She married him, not because he would soon die and she would come into a fortune, but because the seemingly impossible had occurred. She had fallen in love with this kindly man who could see no wrong in anything.

They were bound for the Alps, but Mr. Smith insisted that they spend a week in Paris before going further. He wanted to buy her clothes and presents and all the things that delight the heart of women. So they did the town in a joyous way. And they were as happy as two people are ever permitted to be.

On the night before they were scheduled to leave Paris, Mr. Smith was in a fine frame of mind.

"I feel better already, Joan," he told her. "Much better. I guess those injections were doing me a lot of harm. I know that everything is going to be grand in Switzerland."

His wife smiled happily. "It's all just swell," she beamed, "and I'm about the luckiest girl in the world since we were married. You're not sorry that it happened, are you, Daddy?"

"You musn't talk that way," he said hastily.  "You know that you're the only thing in my life, and that you have been ever since I first met you. I only hope that you'll never be, sorry.

"And now give me a kiss and get ready for bed. We must be up very early tomorrow morning." So Joan gave her husband fifty kisses and prepared herself for bed with a song in her heart. In the morning, when she awakened, Mr. Smith was dead beside her.

THE STORY-TELLER interrupted his narrative to light a fresh cigarette.

Then he continued. "Joan is back in town now, Mark, but she's not back in circulation. The strangest thing in the world has happened to her. Can you guess what it is?"

"Are you telling me a story or asking me riddles?" I asked. "You're getting very exasperating. What the devil has happened to her?"

My companion lit a fresh cigarette.

"She's a different woman," he explained. "Every boy friend she ever had has been calling her up since she returned to New York. And you can imagine how many calls that has made.

"But she won't go out with any of them. She rarely leaves the house. The few people who have seen her say that she has aged a great deal. And they say she talks of nothing but the man who died.

"I told you it was a curious case, Mark. Was I right? I think so. Here was a girl who couldn't be true to a man while he was alive— but now that he's dead, stays true to a memory.

"Strange, isn't it?"

My middle-aged man of Broadway was quite right. It was curious. Decidedly so. But my Broadway training didn't permit me to let it go at that.

"What makes you so sure she's being true to his memory?" I asked. "After all, only a few people have told you so. Maybe they're just imagining things."

He shook his head once more. Slowly.

"No," replied the man of countless affairs, "you're wrong. I myself have called her at least twelve times, and she refuses to speak to me. And when she will not talk to me, I know she's on the level.

"Because I love her, Mark. I would have married her long before Mr. Smith— if I had thought she might have been true to me."

_________________

22: Story Without A Moral

MR. JOHN REVERE whistled merrily as he stepped from his morning tub. He howled his favorite songs with gusto as he rubbed himself briskly with a rough towel. He slipped into his crimson bathrobe and marched happily to the kitchen door.

A few feet beyond, his wife stood. His wife, his pal, his companion, and his best friend. She was pouring water into the percolator.

"Good morning, darling!" he cried. "Good morning, my sweet."

She didn't even look up.

"What the hell's good about it?" she snapped.

The husband raised his hands in mock horror.

"Tch, tch, tch," he soothed. "Mamma mustn't swear. Not so early in the morning, anyhow. It's bad for mamma's digestion."

His wife glared at him. "In the first place," she stormed, "it's not the early morning. It's almost eleven o'clock. In the second place, don't you let me hear you calling me mamma again. In the third place, I'll swear how and when I please. Now get out of here."

Mr. Revere permitted himself the luxury of growing a trifle peeved. "Aw," he growled, "you don't have to fly off the handle right away. I was only trying to be nice. Can't a husband kid his wife once in a while? What's wrong with―"

Mrs. Revere had the percolator in mid-air. "Will you get out?" she shouted.

John got

AT THE breakfast table everything was quiet— for two minutes. The wife suddenly put down her fork and folded her arms. "Is that all the respect you have for me?" she grumbled. "Reading your paper that way right through breakfast. Don't you think I deserve a little consideration? If you weren't so selfish, you'd realise that I might want a little conversation every once in a while."

Mr. Revere pushed his plate away with a gesture of disgust. He stood up.

"Why don't you stop nagging me?" he demanded. "When I want to talk to you, you tell me to leave you alone. When I want to read, you want to talk.

"I'm getting sick and tired of this; it's getting on my nerves, I tell you, and I can't stand it much longer. You'd better get wise to yourself before it's too late. Good-bye!"

He grabbed his hat and left the apartment.

As soon as the door closed, his wife began to cry. "He says I'm nagging him," she wailed. "He says that to me when I've worked my fingers to the bone for him for seven years. Ooooohhh."

An hour later Mr. Revere was on the phone. He was as humble as a Pullman porter after a dollar tip.

"Listen, Mamma," he said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say what I did. Honestly I didn't. I've been thinking it over, and I can't work. I'm a brute, that's what I am. Please forgive me, Mamma.

"What's that? You'll forgive me if I don't call you Mamma. All right. I won't do it any more— and I can tell you that I feel much better now. I don't know what got Into me.

"Tell you what we'll do tonight just to make up. We'll have dinner at Moore's, and I'll get tickets for a show. Meet you in front of the restaurant at seven-thirty. Okay? That's fine, Mamma.

"What's that? What did you say? Well, suppose I did call you Mamma? What of that? Hello. Hello. Hello. Oh, nuts!"

MRS. REVERE was waiting for her husband that night In front of the restaurant. She had been there but three minutes, and already her foot was tapping.

"Well," she began, "what happened? Did your stenographer keep you this late? Think of some excuse in a hurry."

The man sighed. "Let's go in and eat. I'm on time, and you know it. Let's go inside and eat. And keep that expression on your face. Maybe Jim Moore will think you're a long-lost relative."

A few minutes later Mr. and Mrs. Revere were glancing at menus. "I know what I'll have," smiled the husband, "and it's going to hit the spot, too. I want a nice piece of bluefish. Put plenty of butter "

"You're having nothing of the kind," snapped Mrs. Revere. "You know perfectly well that bluefish gave you the hives a few months ago, and I had a terrible time with you. You're going to have lamb chops." The waiter ignored Mr. Revere after that. He smiled at the lady.

"Yes, ma'am," he bowed. "And what will you have?"

"I'll have a nice piece of bluefish," replied Mrs. Revere.

I'M skipping the next few hours, and carrying you directly to the front of the Capitol Theatre as Mr. and Mrs. Revere emerge after a showing of the feature picture, Mr. Revere had already ordered tickets for a show, but Mrs. Revere had preferred the picture. So they had compromised by going to the picture.

"That was a nice picture, Mamma," said the husband complacently. "I'm glad we went. It was a swell picture."

The woman turned suddenly. "You mean, don't you," she sneered, "that that dizzy blonde across the aisle was a swell picture? Oh, you needn't deny it. I was watching you— and your eyes were on her all during the show. I know you, John Revere. I've been your wife long enough, the Lord knows."

The husband lost his temper.

"Listen, woman," he almost shouted. "I'm telling you that you're driving me nuts. Don't you ever get tired of picking on me? I didn't see any blonde in that theatre. You're just batty, that's all. You're cracked!"

They were entering the Fiftieth Street subway station by this time. Other couples were listening to the argument— and other husbands were smiling appreciatively. Mrs. Revere paid no attention to them.

"That's right," she fairly ranted. "Tell me I'm demented. Well, maybe I am— but if I am, you're the one who made me that way. Don't tell me that you didn't stare at that girl in the theatre. I was watching you, I tell you.

"Why, it's a wonder she didn't have you arrested for mashing. I got sick of looking at you. You made me so nervous that I felt one of my attacks coming on. I—"

But John had walked away. He strolled rapidly over to an armless beggar who stood near the entrance. He drew a dime from his pocket. "Say," he remarked as he edged the dime towards the beggar's cup, "how long since you lost your arms?"

"Ten years, buddy," replied the unfortunate one.

"Ever been married?" inquired John Revere.

"No," returned the other man. "Never."

"Hell, man," cried Mr. Revere, "you've got nothing to worry about," And he put the dime back in his pocket!

_________________

23: Fright For A Purpose

THE COUPLE had been happily married for ten years or so. But in the eleventh year of the marital state, wifie turned bliss into blister by developing the drinking habit .

She was no ordinary drinker.

By no means. It was nothing at all for her to down a couple of quarts of gin a day— and then look around for something to drink. She must have been a lulu. I don't have to tell you that her husband, a sober and respectable gentleman, was greatly worried. He tried to point out the evil of her ways, evil as you and I.

"Darling," he would plead, "whither are we drifting? If you don't drop this terrible habit, what is to become of you? What will be the ultimate result?"

Whereupon Wifie would guzzle a goblet.

"Stop being silly," she would grunt. "What'sh the harm in a li'l gin? Ansher me that, big boy. What'sh the harm in a li'l gin?"

This went on for several months. Hubby's worries increased with each passing day. His wife, if anything, was drinking more than ever. So, while sitting in the club one afternoon, he took a doctor friend into his confidence. He unloaded the entire tale on the medico. He sobbingly pointed out the manner in which his dear wife was disintegrating via the gin bottle. And when he finished, he leaned forward and gripped the doctor's hand.

"Tell me," he asked prayerfully, "what am I to do? She will not take any of the accepted cures. She will not do anything to help herself. Which way shall I turn?"

This doctor was an unusual medico. Instead of thinking about the size of the bill he would send, he actually paid attention to the case in hand. He hesitated, and then he nodded wisely.

"I have the solution," he said slowly. "It is a most unusual solution, but it will work. We must frighten your wife out of the habit. Don't be alarmed. Her fright will not last long. But when it happens, it must be thorough.

"Now listen carefully. The very next time your wife becomes unconscious from gin, you will call me immediately. We will place her in a car and drive to a nearby cemetery, of which I am a director. We will put her upon a newly filled grave, and I will drape myself in a white sheet.

"When she awakens, everything will be in readiness. She doesn't know me, and I will make my voice as sepulchral as possible. I'll speak to her of her drinking sins, and you can leave the results to me.

"This may all seem very silly to you. But I know what I am talking about. You have a difficult problem on your hands, and a very definite fright is the only solution. Carry out my orders as I give them to you, and we won't fail."

"God bless you, doctor," cried the husband fervently.

"I hope so," replied the medico.

THE BIG doings took place that very night. After dinner, Wifie marched into the library with , her bottle of gin, and made a thorough job of it. For the first time in his life, Hubby joined her. The little lady started on her second bottle— and before she had reached the half-way mark, she had passed completely out of the picture.

The husband rushed excitedly to the phone and called the doctor.

"Everything is all set," he said. "Can you come right over?"

The doctor could. He was over within twenty minutes, and both the woman and the plan were immediately carried out. They took poor Wifie to the cemetery and placed her upon a fresh mound. The doctor wrapped himself in his spooky sheet and the husband retired to a distant vantage point. Then they awaited developments.

Around midnight, the woman stirred. Soon she opened her eyes. She glanced about her. And her gaze fell upon the ghostly figure of the doctor, who was waving his arms slowly in front of the grave. She sat bolt upright.

"Where?" she yelped. "Where am I?"

The medico's voice was deadly sepulchral. "You are a thousand miles from the ends of nowhere."

The woman repeated the words slowly. "A thousand miles from the ends of nowhere?"

"That is correct." Silence for a moment. Then— "Tell me," said the woman. "How long have I been here?"

"You have been here," replied the medico, "just one hundred years at the stroke of midnight."

The woman sighed.

"And you?" she asked. "How long have you been here?"

The doctor grinned to himself. His plan was working! The woman's voice told him that. His reply came in mournful tones. "I have been here for almost five thousand long years."

The wife looked searchingly at the ghostly figure. Then she rubbed her hands.

"In that case," she said, "you're better acquainted around here than I am. Can you get me a bottle of gin?"

_______________

24: Picture In The Paper

THE DRAMATIC Editor glanced at his watch. It was two o'clock.

"And people say this job's a cinch," he complained bitterly. "Here I am on the deadline again, and I need another picture to complete my art layout. Who am I gonna use? If I use one more picture of Hope Williams, or Ethel Merman, or Lupe Velez, even the public's gonna squawk. What kind of a job is this, anyhow?"

He dug his hand into a pile of pictures and drew out three. The first two he tossed away with a snort. But the third, a picture of a girl who was semi-nude, he regarded more thoughtfully. He looked at the caption on the back.

"Jane Doe," it read, "one of the many talented cuties now playing in Joe Fishberg's Bluebird Cafe. Miss Doe, daughter of a wealthy Park Avenue family, has never appeared in public before, and Mr. Fishberg engaged her because he knows the public is always looking for new faces."

The dramatic editor shifted in his chair. He glanced at his watch again. Getting very, very late. He jumped to his feet and raced out to the art editor.

"Here, Jack," he said. "Use this dame in that corner spade. Her name's Doe. Not bad, eh?"

IN A LITTLE flat in the Bronx, Mr. and Mrs. Doe had a copy of the Daily Gazette open before them. Mr. Doe was shaking his head. "I don't know. Mamma," he observed glumly. "It don't seem right for our little Janie to be posin' that way with hardly no clothes on. I don't―" His wife interrupted him swiftly. "Now, Papa," she cried, "don't you start talkin' like that. Things has changed a lot since we were kids and people don't look at those things the way they used to."

She looked at the paper again, sighed contentedly. "Our little Janie. Right here in the paper! It means that she's getting some place. Papa. It means that she's a success. And to think that you didn't want to let her go to work in that cabaret! You see how wrong you were?"

Mr. Doe examined the picture once more. "She does look cute, at that," he admitted. "Make believe the boys in the office ain't gonna be jealous when they see what's going on! Janie a success. Our little Janie!"

In a cell in an upstate prison, Convict No. 65,891 placed the stub of a pencil against a ruled sheet.

"Dear Miss Doe," he wrote laboriously. "this is from one of your many admirers, and I hope you won't be offended because I am a convict. The rap I'm in for is not my fault, but I'm not going to say anything about that because we all get tough breaks in life sometimes.

"I got your picture on my wall now (the one that was in the Gazette, I mean) and I was just wondering if you would be good enough to send me a real one of yourself? It would make me feel an awful lot more cheerful if I had it. "I don't like to bother an Important lady like you, but do you think you could do it for me?"

In the subway, two men clung to the same strap. Both of them were reading the same paper.

"Holy Gee!" exclaimed one. "It's Janie! Looka here. It's Janie Doe!"

"Well, what do you know!" breathed the second. "That's who it is all right. Janie Doe as large as life! Say, you used to know her pretty well, didn't you, Jim?"

Jim nudged his pal.

"Know her?" he replied with a wink. "You betcha I knew her. Don't say nothin' about this, Harry, but if Mabel hadn't popped along when she did, I mighta married Janie instead of her. That's how well I knew her."

He gazed fondly at the picture. "Always knew she'd get some place. Always said it and always knew it. She's some kid, that Janie. A hot baby all right. I'll never forget the night we was comin' back from Coney Island in a taxi and..."

At a table in a small restaurant, two stenographers talked it over. "That Janie's okay," said the first. "She's going ahead plenty quick. Did you see that picture in the paper this morning?"

"Sure I saw it. But what about it? What does that prove? She's no prettier than you or I, is she? The three of us always lived in the same neighborhood, and you never heard of any fellows jumping out of windows because of her, did you? "And another thing. You know how a café girl gets her picture in the paper, don't you? Guess you got a good idea."

"Well, what's the difference?" said the first one doggedly. "What's the difference as long as you're successful?"

In the Bluebird Cafe Mr. Fishberg summoned Jane Doe to his table.

"No use of you workin' the second show tonight, honey," he half pleaded. "You look a little tired to me. Sit down, Janie. That's a good girlie. Did you see your picture in the Gazette?"

"Yes," replied the girl. "And wasn't it wonderful?"

Mr. Fishberg flicked the ash from a large cigar. "It certainly was pretty," he agreed. "An' lemme tell you something, Janie— that's only the first of a lotta things I'm gonna do for you. Just because I haven't talked to you much doesn't mean that I haven't been keepin' an eye on you.

"You're a mighty clever little girl, and Joe Fishberg don't make many mistakes in that direction. Success is just around the corner, baby, and I'm gonna help you along the right road. You gotta think of me just as you would your own father.

"How do you like your drink, Janie? Straight or with soda?"

In a telephone booth, Jane Doe talked to her mother. "But you don't understand, Mom," she cried. "It's not that I don't want to come home tonight; it's that we're going to have a very late rehearsal. And Dolly was kind enough to tell me that I could stay at her place and save the long ride home. "What's that? Oh, Mamma, please don't talk nonsense. I'm' old enough now to take care of myself. And besides, I have big news for you. Who do you think is taking a personal interest in me? Mr. Fishberg himself! It was he who put that picture in the paper for me, and he says I'm going to be a very big actress.

"You mustn't worry about little things like my not coming home, Mom. Don't you see— I'm important now."

THE NEXT DAY, on the dramatic editor's desk, there was a pink slip from the managing editor's office.

"This is the last warning you will get," it read, "about running pictures of café girls on the dramatic page. I told you to cut it out, and I meant it. From now on, use nothing but important people."

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25: Music On The Air

IN A broadcasting studio the man in the glass-encased control room signalled to a tall gentleman with pimples. The latter chap moved a trifle nearer to the microphone.

"Good evening, my friends," he began suavely. "You are about to listen to a presentation of the Valmora Cheese Company, creators of fine cheeses since Granddad was a boy.

"Later in the programme, Dr. Edgar Brunch, the celebrated physician, will tell you exactly why Valmora cheeses are the perfect tonic for man or beast. Meanwhile, I know all you dear listeners-in are anxious to listen to the tuneful melodies of Tailor Valley and his famous orchestra. Mr. Valley opens his programme with that never-to-be-forgotten song, 'Rio Rita.' "All right, Mr. Valley."

In a cheaply furnished room on the upper West Side, a thin hand twisted a radio dial. The sound of music filled the room. The woman snapped her fingers. "Hey, Gert," she cried. "Hear what they're playing?"

Another woman entered the room. They looked alike, these two. One blonde and the other brunette, but they looked alike just the same. Tired eyes, Shabby clothes. And world-weariness , in every expression. "What?" said Gert listlessly. "Oh, yeah. It's 'Rio Rita.' "

She fell into a chair and lit a cigarette. She sighed.

"Wanna know something. Marge?" She continued, speaking as though she expected no answer. "Every time I hear that song, I get blue."

The other woman nodded. "Yeah. Me, too. Quiet for a moment. Then Marge spoke. "Seems like yesterday, doesn't it, Gert? Playing in 'Rio Rita,' I mean."

"Yeah. That's right. Just like yesterday."

"Gee, that was a swell show. Remember Bert Wheeler in Boston, and how Ziegfeld wanted to fire him? And how he later was the hit of the show? Remember that, Gert?"

"You betcha I do. Think I could forget so quick? That was the best show we were ever in, kid. You know that, don't you?"

"You bet I do. I played in three shows after that. But they were turkeys. All of 'em. And a funny thing about it is that, when I was in that 'Rio Rita' chorus with you, I didn't know what a swell time I was really having. I didn't know it until later, I mean."

Marge made the music just a trifle softer. She smiled a tiny smile.

"That's always the way, kid. You never know the value of something you've got— until you lose it. Ain't that true, Gert?"

"And how!" She shivered slightly. "Gee, when I hear 'Rio Rita' played like that, I get the creeps. I can't help thinking of how things have changed since that opening night.

"Remember how the outside of the Ziegfeld Theatre wasn't ready until the very last minute? And how Ziggy was so worried about it? His own theatre— and his first show in that theatre— and nobody knew what was going to be? "And say, wasn't it swell after that? The grand success, and all. Why, we had to fight to get in and out of our own stage door! Plenty of dough for everybody, and a limousine for any dame that wanted it. And those parties! Wow!"

She grinned. But her mood changed suddenly. "And now what?" she went on. "What's left? That swell scenery must be falling apart in the warehouse. Poor Ziggy is dead— and God only knows what's happened to all the girls who were in the show with us. The Ziegfeld Theatre is a picture house.

"So, out of everything that was so swell, what's left? Just a song called 'Rio Rita,' that they play now and then. Just a little shell of something that was powerful and grand."

She twisted her fingers nervously. "You wanna know something else, Marge? I think sometimes that you and I fit into the same picture. We're shells, too. Just shells of what— what we used to be."

Marge stood up and turned the radio off with a snap. "Forget it, kid," she commanded harshly. "That kind of talk never got anybody any place. Cut it out. You'll have my nerves shot in a minute if you don't stop.

"We oughta land a job soon, sister. The papers say things are looking up. So cheer up, kid. Everything is strictly okay."

The other woman gazed vacantly through the window. "Just shells." she repeated. "We're like the song. Just shells."

IN THE broadcasting studio the tall gentleman with the pimples moved closer to the microphone.

"That concludes our programme for tonight, ladies and gentlemen. The Valmora Cheese Company bids you all a very pleasant goodnight."

He turned away. The programme was over. He shook hands with the programme director.

"Pretty good show," he offered breezily, "if I have to say so myself. But I wish they'd take those old numbers like 'Rio Rita' off the programmes. They don't meant anything any more."

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26: The Clean Up

BILL BAKER was the man's name. Bill Baker, race-track character and bookmaker for many a long year. From childhood, his motto had been, "Remember the Mane," and he knew all there was to know about horses; from horses' necks to— well, to horses aspirations.

Bill ate, slept, and drank horses. The ponies were the only thing for which he lived. He could name instantly the winner of any Derby for the past twenty-five years, and he could tell you the handle of a nag's grand-daddy by the way the pony rolled its eyes. If there was anything that Bill didn't know about horses, it hadn't been written yet.

Very early in life, however, someone must have stolen Bill's rattle or bib. Because Bill was inclined to be very, very suspicious. He trusted no one but himself, and even then he often kept his right hand behind his back while he counted dough with his left. Each night, after the day's races were over, Bill would call his runners and his bookkeeper into his room. Every bet of the day. from the smallest to the largest, was carefully checked. It wasn't that Bill didn't trust his assistants: he was just a trifle careful. Yes, indeed.

Each winter, you would find him at Hialeah, New Orleans, or a western track. And every summer, he and his retinue operated at Belmont, Empire ; City, and Saratoga. In every one of those spots, his cold, taciturn face was to be found. He would take bets of all sizes, regardless of whether you had 5000 dollars or 5 dollars. And his odds were always shaded so that, in the end, Bill Baker at least had carfare home.

Why, when, and how it happened, I do not know. But at the age of 45, Bill Baker went daffy. And quicker than he had ever laid four-to-five on a legitimate three-to-one shot, our friend wound up in an asylum. Not that he was a violent case, you understand. He didn't go around posing as a columnist or smacking babies on the dome. He simply began to make strange statements and hand out a little money without checking it carefully.

His friends grew worried and had him examined. And the nut house was the result.

I'm happy to be able to report that Bill wasn't greatly worried about his surroundings. The food was fair enough, and nobody seemed to bother him particularly. As a matter of fact, it was something of a vacation for him. There was but one bad feature about the joint. And that was the fact that he couldn't make a book on the horses. After all those years of daily routine, he found it difficult to step out of the game.

He looked around him, and, seeing so many crazy people all over the place, he figured that there must certainly be some horse players among them. So he hit upon a brilliant idea. Stopping one of the doctors one morning, he spoke to him about it.

"Doc," he began, "you know that I am not crazy. I'm probably the only one around here who isn't, but that makes no difference. What I want to know is if there will be any objection if I make a book for some of the boys?

"I'll cause no trouble. You have my word for that. But I didn't want to do anything without first getting permission. Will it be all right with you?"

The doctor nodded gravely. "You go just as far as you want, Mr. Baker. I'm certain that the boys will be happy to co-operate with you, and I can't see the least bit of harm In the idea. So you go right ahead and make your book. And I certainly wish you the best of luck."

Bill went to work immediately. He inquired around and, in less than two hours, he had dug up five horse players. And was he happy! He was back in his element again, and from now on nothing was going to stop him from having the best time of his life; Neither Bill nor the players, of course, had any money with which to bet. And money, as some of us have found out, is a rather important item around the horses. But Bill solved that problem in short order. They weren't going to stop him.

He gathered up a few hundred little white pebbles. And to each player he gave a certain number. Furthermore, in order to stop the players from getting any funny notions about going broke and ringing in extra pebbles, he painted the stones red. They weren't going. to cheat him!

Then began happy days for the former bookmaker. Each morning the players would gather around him, and Bill would read off the card for the day. Then he would make his own prices— and if the players didn't like what was offered, they couldn't bet. What could they do about it?

Here, indeed, was a bookmaker's Utopia! His own prices, and no competition. No chance of a pinch, and no fees of any kind to be paid. There were no operating expenses; no runners or assistants that were not to be trusted. Sweet? It was wonderful!

For a few months this went on. And at the close of each day Bill would collect his pebbles and figure out very carefully just how much he was ahead. If a player went broke, but would advance him a few more of the red pebbles. But you may be certain that he kept complete track of all the pebbles that were borrowed.

One morning, just when things were moving at their best pace, something came up to disturb the whole routine. One of the players, his cheeks flushed and his eyes popping, raced up to the daffy bookmaker. He held his hands behind him. "What's the price," he asked breathlessly, "on the favorite in the fourth race?"

Bill Baker looked at his list. "Even money," he replied.

The customer nodded and brought his hands around. In them was a large rock. He placed it on the ground and looked Bill squarely in the eye.

"I'm out of pebbles," he said evenly. "So I'm betting this. Put the whole thing on the favorite."

The bookie looked down at the rock and shook his head. "Nothing doing," he said. "I won't take that bet."

The customer stiffened. "What do you mean." he growled, "you won't take my bet?"

Bill nodded. "You heard me," he smiled. "I'm no sucker. If you want to make a bet that big, you must have some inside information

______________

27: School Days

OCCASIONALLY Broadway amuses itself with a story that isn't about Broadway people, but concerns types that are far from the maddening city crowd. One of these yarns is about an old rustic couple, the kind we on Broadway see only in revivals of "Way Down East"

For almost fifty years this couple lived on a little farm in Upper New York. In all those years they seldom visited the city. And when they did, old Hiram and Esmeralda were happy at the sight of the farm on the return trip. You would probably call them ignorant. And you would be right. They had no education whatever, and knew very little of the ways of the world. They didn't even have a radio. Lucky people.

On the particular day on which our story opens, Hiram and Esmeralda are very busy. Directly behind the farmhouse are the tomato vines. Bugs have been very active on those vines lately, and Hiram is shaking a jet of spray on them while Esmeralda helps. Now and then Hiram' straightens and rubs his back. The sun is high and hot. Esmeralda is tying the vines to upright sticks with twine. Suddenly she speaks. Her voice is high-pitched and nasal.

"Hi," she calls.

Hiram pays no attention. He squirts the sprayer vigorously.

"Hi," she calls again. Still no answer.

"Hi, you deaf old coot, I'm a-talkin' to you."

Hiram straightens up. "Wuz you a-speakin' to me, Ezzy?" he calls.

Esmeralda walks around the vine to Hiram's side.

"Yes," she says. "Hi, I been a-watchin' Brown's kids on their way to school. I'm not sartin that the big boy is in his right mind, but yesterday he told me that a man flew across the ocean in one of them flyin' thinga-mabubs.

"He says the schoolmarm tells the kids some mighty strange things. Now I been a-thinkin 'twouldn't be a bad idea if you and me took up some of this here new learnin' business." Hiram remains silent for a moment. Then he speaks.

"Ezzy, I thought of that same thing twenty years ago. I'll be gol-switched if you didn't take the words right outen my mouth!"

And so, five mornings a week, this elderly couple hitched Dobbin to the buggy, and drove down the dusty road to the village schoolhouse. The farm could afford to spare them. All their lives, Hiram and Esmeralda had worked hard and saved. And school, to them, was a luxury.

Hiram had visions of learning to read a newspaper. Esmeralda wanted to master the movie magazines. Quietly, the old couple sat at the rear of the schoolroom. And, when Hiram couldn't hear the teacher's words, Esmeralda yelled the words into his good ear. It was a scene touched with more pathos than humor.

THEY HAD been attending classes, regularly for almost a month, when a strange thing occurred. Old Dobbin was ambling along the dusty road towards home, flicking the flies off with his tail, when he kicked a black object with his hoof. Hiram saw it and pulled up. Slowly he alighted. In the dust, he picked up the black object and stepped back into the buggy.

"What is it, Hi?" asked Esmeralda.

"Pockeybook," he responded laconically.

"Be you sure there's somethin' in it?" persisted the woman.

"Folks don't never lose empty ones," he replied. Back home, Hiram opened the pocketbook. A number of bills showed dull yellow inside. The farmer counted the money three times. There was $600 in all. He closed the bag again, and walked upstairs with it.

Esmeralda said nothing— thereby breaking all records.

After a few minutes, Hiram came downstairs. Esmeralda noticed that he didn't have the bag.

"What do you plan to do with the pockeybook?" she asked.

"Nothin'," replied Hiram.

"Reckon you ought to return it, Hi."

"Reckon you ought to mind your own business," retorted Hiram.

No more was said about the matter.

TWO DAYS went by, and the bugs were still busy on the tomato vines, and the couple were still busy learning to distinguish the word cat from rat.

On the third morning, Sheriff Ephraim Peters, replete with a badge and an assistant, came to the front door. He stood there chewing on a blade of grass until Hiram invited him indoors. Then he spoke.

"Hi," he said slowly, "I aint a-gonna trouble you much. Like as not, you doan know nothin' about the matter nohow. To make myself circumfrous on the subjeck, Mrs. Jones from down Hawkins Corners way says she dropped a pockeybook near your farm last Chewsday. There was a tidy sum in it 'mountin' to nigh on six hunnert dollars. You ain't seen it, have you, Hi?"

Hiram glanced quickly at Esmeralda. "I reckon I ain't," he said. Esmeralda started to fidget. Suddenly she spoke.

"A pockeybook?" she queried. "Why, Hi, you lyin' old coot! You know gol-darned well you picked that up outen the road. We wuz comin' up—"

Hiram turned to the sheriff. "Eph," he said quietly, "my wife's buggier'n an old pertater patch. She's plumb crazy. I ain't seen hide ner hair o' that pockeybook."

The sheriff glanced at his deputy. The deputy glanced at the sheriff. Then they both looked at Esmeralda.

"Eph," said Esmeralda. "Hi found that pockeybook sure as yore name is Ephraim Phineas Peters. I'm a-tellin' ya he found it, "cause we wuz comin' up―"

" 'Tain't no use a-talkin'," said Hi, "I'll have to see the doctor about my wife. She's gone clean outen her head. Now she's dreamin' things."

Esmeralda wagged a bony finger under Hiram's nose. "I ain't a-dreamin' things and you know I ain't. We wuz comin' up―"

"Sheriff," said Hi in a squeaky voice, "that woman's been doin' the gol-darnedest things lately. Last week of an even' I found her tryin' to milk the chickens an'―"

"Jess a minnit. Jess a minnit," said the sheriff. "Now I came here to git to the bottom of this thing, and I'm a-gonna git to the bottom afore I leave. Now, Ezzy, suppose you begin at the commencement and proceed with your story."

Esmeralda straightened up. "Sheriff," she began. "Hi and me wuz a-comin' up this here new road from school. We had our schoolbooks under our arms an'―"

The sheriff's eyes almost popped from his head.

"You wuz what, Ezzy?" he said. "What did you say?"

Esmeralda spoke stubbornly. "I said." she repeated, "we wuz on our way home from school. We had jes' finished the 'rithmetic lesson and we had our schoolbooks under our arms, when―"

The sheriff nudged his assistant. "Let's go, Ebenezer," he muttered. "She is nuts!"

_________________

28: Three Months To Live

JONAS GREEN was a rich man, but not a particularly happy one. Outside of his money, he had little in life to make him happy.

His wealth had formed a barrier between him and his old friends. His wife had divorced him years ago. He seldom saw his children any more. The only bond that held his servants and employees to him was the monthly pay cheque.

It was not strange, then, that with little but himself to think of, Jonas should have found his every small ailment magnified in importance. His health was a never-ending source of worry to the man. When, at fifty, he was vaguely disturbed by sharp pains in the region of his heart, he summoned a fashionable and expensive physician.

Jonas and the doctor stood in the spacious library of the Green home. A careful examination over, the physician smiled reassuringly. "Not a thing to worry about," he said cheerfully. "You're good for many more years. What's been troubling you is merely indigestion. If you'll cut out the rich foods for a while, you'll be as good as new in no time."

As he left, Jonas buttoned his vest slowly. He should have felt relieved, but he did not. The other man's words had not accomplished their purpose. Suppose there had been something vitally wrong?

He had never thought very much about dying. Now he could not tear the j idea from his mind. He paced up and down the library, and the room seemed I to be haunted by the inevitability of the Dark Angel. Finally, he seized his hat and hurried out.

"These fashionable doctors!" he growled. "Bah! He wouldn't tell me if there was anything wrong anyway. Probably afraid the truth would scare me."

As he conversed with himself, Jonas walked down town. Now he turned into a side street, entirely unconscious of his surroundings until a sign over  the entrance of a building before him caught his attention. "Dr. William Blake," it read.

Jonas walked to the entrance of the building, studied the sign carefully, and hesitated. Here was his opportunity to find out the truth. Here was a doctor who did not know him, who would have nothing to gain by lying to him.

Before the door of Dr. Blake's office, he hesitated again. It was late, and he half hoped that the office might be closed. But there was a dim light burning in an inside room, and with a final sigh he rapped on the glass. A short wait and then the door was unlocked.

The man who stood in the reception room was struggling into a white coat.

"Sorry," he said. "I was just going home. What can I do for you?"

Jonas related in detail all his symptoms. He wanted, he said eagerly, a very thorough examination. It was very, very important. He was ushered into the inner room.

The examination was very thorough, very careful. When it was over, Green's hands shook. There was anxiety in his voice.

"Well, what about it?" he demanded. "I want to know everything."

The other man gazed at him soberly. "Then I'll tell you. I'll try to tell you in the simplest terms possible. You have a very serious heart ailment. There are medical terms for it that you wouldn't understand. I can only tell you that all that can be done now is to keep as quiet as possible. Excitement will only hasten— the end."

Jonas shivered. His throat was dry. His voice was hoarse as he spoke. "You mean I'm going to— that I haven't long to live?"

"I'd give you three months," slowly. "It may be longer. Then again it may be any time between now and then."

Jonas reached unseeingly for his wallet. He extracted a bill and laid it on a table near him. He groped for the door and walked heavily down the corridor. His thoughts were not very clear. But he knew that all his fears had been realised. And over and over again in his brain one phrase kept repeating itself.

"Three months to live. And it may be any time before that." Three months! Ninety days— the term of promissory notes he had so often held. Three more months of life and then...

JONAS BEGAN to shudder violently. His thoughts became clearer. Three months! Ninety short days! There was nothing a man could do in that time except wait. His steps turned mechanically back to his mansion. The house where he was to sit and wait for death. He would have given it up gladly, that and everything he owned, for just a little more time. A year, two years―

When he reached home, the impressive structure of stone brought a feeling of nausea. He was. he thought, like , a prisoner in a death cell awaiting the hour of his execution. So, too, must he wait.

Then, as the thought occurred to him, he stopped in his tracks. Why should he wait? Every day would be an added horror. His last remaining hours would be nightmares of terror. He would die a hundred deaths in the brief space of time that was left to him.

As he entered his home he was laughing strangely. There was a revolver in the drawer of his desk. He loaded It with a single bullet. Two minutes from the time Jonas Green had entered his library, he was dead.

IT MUST have been about that time, too, that two men left the office of Dr. William Blake hurriedly. With them they took most of the contents of Dr. Blake's safe.

As the car that had been waiting at the curb sped off, one of them began to laugh.

"Boy," he chuckled, "if you coulda seen yourself in that white coat! You'd make a swell doc., Joe. But it sure was a narrow squeak."

Joe laughed, too. "Yeh. working in the hospital when I was in stir did me some good, all right. That was a dirty trick I played on the old guy, though. I told him he was due to croak soon. You could tell by looking at him that he was as strong as a horse!"

______________

29: Justice

PATROLMAN Pat Ryan listened, to the story of Tony Vacqua. The boy explained that he hadn't hit the other kid first. On the contrary, the other boy had walloped him first. Patrolman Pat Ryan laughed. Then he knocked both boys' heads together.

"G'wan home," he said. "Forget it. I'm not going to pinch either of you. Justice is justice."

And that's the way Pat Ryan went through life. He was a humane cop. Perhaps he didn't stick to the letter of the law all the time. But the law is sometimes needlessly severe. So Pat Ryan often acted as judge as well as cop.

He was a big Irishman, this fellow. Big and broad. He wasn't over-smart. But he was well liked. Which is probably why he reached a lieutenancy —and went no further.

But this story is not about Patrolman Pat Ryan. It's about the kid, Tony Vacqua. I don't think you'll like him as well as Pat Ryan, but a story is a story.

Tony had come of a good Italian family. His mother had raised three sons and five daughters. The girls had married respectably, and two of the boys became doctors.

Tony was the only one left at home. When he was sixteen Tony was a first-class hoodlum. When he was seventeen he was doing penance in Sing Sing for a poorly planned holdup. And when he came out he was as tough a baby as you'd ever want to see.

How he met Florence I do not know. All I do know is that lie wasn't in her class by a long shot. She was a nice-looking girl. She had a sense of refinement. She was, in short, everything that Tony wasn't. Somehow she fell for him. Fell hard. Tony must have liked her, too, for he married her. Florence believed that the greatest joy of married life came in having lots of babies. So, no matter when you entered the Vacqua household you'd always find an infant in the crib.

They had seven babies in all when Tony started to become a big shot! It happened almost overnight. Men began to come to the Vacqua apartment. They talked in whispers with Tony. Money was passed. Big money. It's funny how sudden success changes a man. Especially a man like Tony. He had a car now. A big car. And four men accompanied him wherever he went. He seldom came home. He had a big apartment uptown. The old place was good enough for Florence and the babies. But not for Tony Vacqua.

Florence was no longer good enough for him, either. To him she was something old and useless. A relic of the past, when luck hadn't been so good. So, on his rare visits home, Tony Vacqua would taunt her. He would tell her that he was worth plenty now. He had lots of money. And she wasn't going to get any of it. see? He didn't want her any more. There was a blonde skirt uptown. A girl who appreciated a big shot like Tony Vacqua.

Florence said nothing. She had learned patience. She had become like one of those women of "the old country," who take the kicks and rebuffs of their men without a whimper. Not for the world would they reveal the pain that gnaws at their hearts.

She stood it as long as she could. Slowly but surely, she knew, she was going mad. Fear and jealousy were driving her crazy. And then, one afternoon, Tony swaggered in for the final time.

"Florry." he said, "I'm gonna take the kids with me. They oughta get a break outa life. I'm gonna take 'em uptown to the apartment."

Tony was standing near the window when he said that. He stood looking down at his brightly polished car and his bodyguards. Florence opened a drawer in the parlor table. A loud report followed.

Tony turned. There was a frightened look on his face. He wanted to say something. He never said it.

LIEUTENANT Pat Ryan stood in the parlor. The body was still on the floor. Gently, he asked Mrs. Tony Vacqua to explain how it happened. She told him.

Tony had been standing with his back to the window. A car had passed by slowly. A single shot rang out. Tony had fallen.

"Then," said Lieutenant Pat Ryan, "the shot came through the window?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Tony Vacqua.

Lieutenant Pat Ryan examined the window. It was closed. There were no bullet holes in it. He asked Mrs. Tony Vacqua more questions. About Tony. About his treatment of her. About his attitude towards the children. She told him everything. Even to the fact that he had come to take her babies away.

"Then," concluded Pat Ryan, "this window was open when the shot was fired."

Florence was about to say something.

"It was open." said Pat Ryan again.

"Yes," said Florence. "It was open."

"Death," wrote Lieutenant Pat Ryan on his pad, "due to person or persons passing in car who fired one shot through the front window where victim was standing."

Pat Ryan smiled at Mrs. Vacqua.

"Don't take it too hard." he said "Remember, justice is justice."

____________

30: The Breaking Point

IT WASN'T so long ago that a sanity hearing took place in a New York court house. A man— Mr. Y in this story— had been confined in an insane asylum for several years, and he wished to prove that he was being held on a false charge.

Through his attorneys, a writ had been secured. And he was out to show that the sanity experts were all wrong when they claimed he was still daffy.  The moment Mr. Y took the stand it was apparent that this was going to be no easy case. The man had a definite sense of balance, and he conducted himself in a most courteous and sensible manner.

"Your Honor," he said, "I suppose that this type of thing is by no means new to you. But I wish you would disregard all other cases of a similar nature in considering this one. Because it cannot be quite the same.

"I fully expect the examiner to fling any number of idiotic questions at me. And I can assure you that they will seem just as silly to me as they will to you. But I am fighting for a freedom that honestly deserve, and I trust you will bear with me if I sometimes hesitate a short time before replying."

The Judge blinked. This man was talking far more sensibly than half the attorneys who appeared before him day after day. Surely this did not sound as if an insane man were talking. However―

"Don't worry, Mr. Y," said the Judge. "The Court shall bear with you."

So the questions began. They were many and varied. Questions that involved numbers and dates and events Mr. Y answered them flawlessly.

Suddenly, the examiner asked the strangest of questions. He spoke rapidly. "And how do you feel today, Christopher Columbus?"

Mr. Y laughed and turned to the Judge. "That, your Honor," he smiled, "is what I meant when I said they would fling idiotic questions at me. They are going to endeavor to prove that I labor under the delusion that I am Christopher Columbus.

"I, of course, do not blame them: That is the examiner's job, and I am only too willing to play ball. But, with your Honor's permission, I would like to state that the sanity commission is wasting time along those lines. I trust I am not too bold."

The examiner swallowed hard.

"Are you going to tell the Court, Mr. Y," he asked, "that you never believed you were Christopher Columbus? Are you going to deny what we have in black and white on the records?"

Mr. Y shook his head. "I cannot tell you anything you do not know, and I readily admit that I must have been slightly demented when I was first incarcerated. I raise no cry and make no statements about the fact that I was unbalanced when I was originally placed in the asylum.

"What I am trying to show is that— today— I am as sane as any man in this room. I thank God that the years have healed my mind. And I want nothing more than an even break from the sanity commission to prove my case."

The Judge leaned forward. "What do you mean, Mr. Y, by an even break? Certainly you don't think the sanity commission has anything against you personally."

"No, sir," answered Mr. Y immediately. "However, there is one point I would like to bring out. Sanity commissions must sometimes be wrong. Otherwise, why would there be a law permitting me to obtain a hearing such as this? You understand, I am sure."

The judge rubbed his face thoughtfully. Here was a man, supposedly insane, who was offering such logical arguments as he had not heard in some time. He glanced at the clock, called it a day, and called the examiner before him.

"I want to tell you something, Mr. Jordan," he said. "This man has practically convinced me of his sanity. If there is no difference in the hearing tomorrow, I will have no choice but to release him."

The examiner smiled. "I think he will crack," he said confidently. "It has been my experience that this type of man can steel himself for just so long. During that time he can convince anyone of his sanity. Then, suddenly, he goes. You'll find him a different man tomorrow."

"I'm not so sure." murmured the judge.

His Honor was quite correct. The second day was an absolute repetition of the first. The same type of question— and the same sensible replies. But the examiner would not give up. Every once in so often he would toss in the same question:— "Are you positive that you are not Christopher Columbus?"

The examiner evidently did it just once too often, because the judge brought down his gavel with a bang.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I have had enough of this. There is no use hounding the man until he breaks under the strain. I have been listening to this for the better part of two days, and I am convinced that there is no reason to continue.

"I cannot judge by what happened in the asylum or by this man's actions in the past. I know only the things I observed in this court room. Accordingly, I have no choice in the matter. It is my opinion that Mr. Y. is sane, and that he should no longer be confined in an asylum."

The examiner began to gather his papers. His work was over.

Mr. Y. walked from the witness stand, and stood before the judge.

"Your Honor," he said humbly, "you have made me the happiest man in the world. You have been absolutely fair and unbiased. Everything I have in life, and everything I might achieve in life from now on, I owe completely to you.

"You have the undying gratitude of a human being who has suffered a very great wrong."

His Honor nodded.

"That's all right, my man," he said. "I am glad for your sake that it turned out as it has."

The clerk handed up some papers.

The judge nodded. "Oh, yes," he continued, "these are your release papers. Just as a matter of form, and for the asylum records, will you please sign right here?"

Mr. Y. accepted a pen and the papers. And in a steady and confident manner he signed the name— "Christopher Columbus."

_________________

31: The Endless Phrase

"ALL RIGHT. Let him go."

In the entrance to the kitchen, Frank heard his boss, the man who owned the restaurant, carelessly speak the words he dreaded to hear. His eyes closed.

Surely it wasn't his fault that the dishes had fallen from his tray. True, his hands weren't as steady as they once were— but he had been given a greasy tray. The cook walked in. He seemed annoyed.

"The boss says to let you go," he droned. "You're too old."

Frank swallowed hard. "Can't I have another chance? I need this job so much. It isn't my fault that―"

The cook took the temperature of the stew with his left thumb. "Get your pay and beat It. The boss says to let you go."

Nothing more to be said. His job, the first in six months, was a thing of the past. Frank removed the apron that had been clean only eight days before, collected the dollar that was due to him, and walked dejectedly from the beanery. His flat-footed shuffle carried him three blocks to the nearest subway entrance. In addition to the dollar, there was a lonesome five-cent piece in his pocket. He dropped the coin in a turnstile and boarded the first train that came along. In a short time he was sitting on that same familiar bench in Battery Park; the same spot on which he had sat for endless hours in days gone by.

He stared out at the water with dull eyes.

"I heard It again," he mumbled to himself. "That same line: 'All right, let him go.' I heard it again."

Memories. Dismal memories. Haunting memories that time would not eradicate. Fantastic memories of the endless phrase— "All right, let him go."

His father had wanted him to be a farmer. To follow in the footsteps of three generations of tillers of the soil. But that was not for Frank. He wanted the roar of the big city and the excitement that went with it. He wanted the grander surroundings. He saw himself in a large office. Though it had been forty years since he left the farm, lie remembered only too well his father's last, bitter words:— "All right, let him go. And much good may it do him. Let him go!"

The old man had been right. It hadn't done him much good. At the age of twenty, he Joined the Stoutheart Steel Company as a junior clerk. And for year after year, he remained in the same office. He reached the peak of his career many years later, when he was made bookkeeper of his department at a salary of 35 dollars a week.

He had married at an early age. Twenty-two. From the day of the ceremony, life was just one battle after another. The office was the only refuge he knew from the biting tongue and the scorching contempt of the woman he had married. For fully fifteen years, this woman derided all his efforts, belittled every hope, and spent every one of the few dollars he earned.

Then, one night, when he returned from the office, he was not greeted with sneers or scoldings. He was greeted by nothing and nobody. His wife had carried out her threat to leave him. She had decamped with the lodger in their home.

The loss was of no great consequence to Frank. He was sensible enough to realise that it was for the best. But he heard something a few days before the elopement: something that gave his head a wrench and made his eyes shut with the pain of it. As he passed the parlor, he heard his wife and the lodger discussing him. The man was talking:— "Say, there's been somethin' on my mind. Frank ain't such a terrible bad guy. Did you ever think that, if we go away together, he'd be likely to go to pieces―"

His wife's voice was cold. Harsh. "All right," she had said. "Let him go!..."

Frank didn't go to pieces. He had had nothing before. He had nothing now. The scales balanced. The office was his one haven. He found consolation in work, even though it was cut and dried. So on and on rolled the years. On and on and on.

Came the crash, which has replaced that other hackneyed phrase: "Came the dawn." And with the crash came cuts and laying-off of labor in the Stoutheart Steel Company. Frank wasn't an eavesdropper. Never was and never wanted to be. But how could he help overhearing the discussion? His tiny office was right beside the one occupied by the plant manager, and the walls were thin.

"How about old Frank Smith?" the chief accountant queried. "He's been with us almost forty years, and he's getting pretty slow. Shame to do it. But we must cut. How about it?"

And somewhere, Fate must have laughed up her sleeve as the old, familiar phrase rolled lightly off the manager's tongue. "All right," he said. "Let him go.'

ON THE BENCH, Frank stirred slightly. He wet his lips. Back to his mind came the last night in the Stoutheart Steel Company. His head cupped in his hands, he had gazed at the twenty ledgers in front of him; each page filled with the neat figures that marked the patient spirit of the man who had written them. He knew that night, as he realised now, that the last page had been written. Except, perhaps, for a few entries on the red side.

Of course, he had made the rounds. Agencies. Offices. Municipal employment bureaux. How old was he? Almost sixty now. Tch, tch, tch. Too bad. A little too old to be sent anywhere, really. Sorry.

For the last six months, he had slept in flop houses. He had panhandled and stood for long, weary hours in bread-lines. At long Intervals, a small job that ended in failure. Only an inherent religious fear kept him from suicide.

Frank rose from the bench. His thin figure straightened in an effort to drive the endless phrase from his thoughts. He had a dollar in his pocket now. That would keep him for a week or so. Then there might be another dollar— and that would keep him for a week or so. And then maybe, there wouldn't be any more dollars. Winter passed. Winter with all its agony of hunger and misery. And spring arrived. Spring with all its beauty, ironically bringing new life to almost everything but Frank's wasted frame. He was beyond spring— beyond good and evil. Frank lay dying In a city hospital.

And what would you have me give you now? A happy ending? Should we have Frank recover, find a job and settle down to a happy old age? I can't do It. For every handshake it extends, life makes things even by giving someone else a kick in the pants.

Frank died— and in his case, death was welcome. For the man had been patiently awaiting the last call. So it happened that, just as the flowers were springing into loveliness. Frank took the exit cue and passed on. Just another unknown, unclaimed bum who was marked for burial by the city in that curious handmaiden of Fate— Potter's Field.

They were preparing to lower the rough box. Two sweaty gravediggers lifted the box over the six-foot hole. And as they swung it to the centre of the opening, one called to the other: "All right, Joe. Let him go."

_________________

32: From Feinberg to Fitzroy

MR. JACOB FEINBERG was in love. Badly, madly, sadly in love. In his condition, garlic smelled like lilacs, and his seat on the Bronx subway was as comfortable as the roomiest Rolls Royce. He fell asleep nights with Mildred's name on his lips, and awakened mornings with the girl on his mind. In other words, he was a first-class subject for a popular song— or a psychopathic ward.

His marriage was only three weeks away. He was counting the hours, the days, and the bank-roll. Surely he was the luckiest man alive. He had a dress business that hadn't failed as yet. His insurance was in fine shape. His father and mother approved of Mildred. He was healthy, and only 27 years of age. And, above all, he had Mildred. Ah, that girl! To Mr. Feinberg she was the very essence of perfect. She was a Peggy Joyce, a Clara Bow, a Janet Gaynor and a Jean Harlow all rolled Into one. She was his honey lamb, his favorite flower, and his most gorgeous statue.

I hate to spoil the picture, but were you and I to look at Mildred in those days, we might not be so enthusiastic as Mr. Feinberg. In the first place, the young lady's eyes could grow very cold. And in the second place, she talked back too often. Accordingly, brothers, let me give you a tip: When you're in love with a girl whose eyes grow cold and who talks back too frequently, that's no time for romance. That's the time for you to pack your bag and settle down alone in Alaska.

But Mr. Feinberg did not ask for my advice. Nor would it have done any good. For when Mildred's eyes grew cold, Mr. Feinberg thought they were more beautiful than ever. And when she talked back, he was proud of her spirit. And so, alas, they were married.

FOR a year or so, everything was peaches and milk. Mr. Feinberg was getting along as nicely as you might expect, and he hadn't failed in the dress business. And he was devoted to Mrs. Feinberg in spite of her nagging. Yes, even Mr. Feinberg had begun to admit that she was something of a nag. Never content to let well enough alone you know. If his business earned a profit of 300 dollars in one week, she wanted to know why It hadn't been 400 dollars. If he wanted to take her to a night club, she called him extravagant. If he wanted to stay in, she said he was stingy.

One night, out of a cloudy sky— Just to be different — the blow fell. Mrs. Feinberg put down her coffee and looked at her husband.

"What you are going to do," she said, "is change your name."

Her husband almost choked on a piece of strudel. "Wha-wha-what?" he stammered. "What did you say?"

"I said," repeated Mrs. Feinberg calmly, "that you are going to change your name. I've been thinking about this for some time and I made up my mind this afternoon. I'll pick out some fine American name and you'll have the proper papers drawn up by your lawyer. I think that Forrester would be nice. Or maybe Fitzroy."

Mr. Feinberg was looking at her with astonished eyes. "Have you suddenly gone crazy?" he asked. "Do you want me to call Dr. Himmelsteln? Or is it possible that you are serious?"

"Certainly I'm serious," she snapped back. Do you think I'm speaking just to hear myself talk? with such a name as Feinberg, we can't possibly get anywhere in the social world. And I'm not so sure that it's helping you in the business world either. That's why we're no longer going to be known as Mr. and Mrs. Feinberg."

The man stood up. Get ready to cheer this speech, boys. For the first time in his married life, it. was Mr. Feinberg's turn for the eyes to grow cold and the voice to bark back.

"Get this straight, Mildred," he roared. "The name of Feinberg has been good enough for my family for countless generations, and it's good enough for me today. To hell with the social world. If I'm not good enough for them as Feinberg, I'm not good enough for them as Fitzroy either.

"I'm satisfied the way I am. And you're no longer going to tell me what I can or can't do. I'm remaining Mr. Jacob Feinberg. And you're remaining Mrs. Jacob Feinberg."

But the wife had turned from Feinberg to Iceberg. "You've said enough," was her cold rejoinder. "Either you change your name, or I'm getting out."

"Get," said Mr. Feinberg. And she got.

IT WAS JUST about six months later that Mr. Feinberg called his wife upon the phone. They had not spoken since the fatal night.

"Don't hang up on me, dearest," he said pleadingly. "I've made a mistake, and I'm only calling to apologise. Will you "

"You're too late," she interrupted. "I'm leaving for Reno tomorrow. I'm going to divorce you."

Mr. Feinberg grew panicky. "But, Mildred, you can't do that. Wait, baby. ' I've got a big surprise for you. Remember what you asked me to do? About changing my name, I mean. Well, I've done it. The court gave me permission this morning. You are no longer Mrs. Jacob Feinberg. You are Mrs. Jack Fitzroy!"

If he had expected a verbal caress, he was doomed to disappointment.

"It makes no difference now," he heard her say. "I'm going to Reno just the same."

"But, darling," he pleaded. "Don't you understand? I've done as you asked. I've changed from Feinberg to Fitzroy. Surely you―"

Once again she stepped in. "I'm sorry," she said, "but it's no use now. It's too late. I don't expect to see or hear from you again. Goodbye."

And that was the end of that. Our hero cried bitterly. Because our hero didn't know when he was well off.

WE SKIP another two years just as blithely as you please, and we arrive at the present time. Mr. Jack Fitzroy was walking along Fifth Avenue without a care in the world. Suddenly his heart bumped his tonsils. Mildred, the girl who had divorced him, had just walked by!

Mr. Fitzroy turned back. He took her arm. She looked up in. surprise. They shook hands warmly.

"Gee, Mildred, I'm certainly glad to see you again. You're looking fine. Been living on the coast, haven't you?"

"Yes," replied the woman. "And I'm very happy. I went to California as soon as the divorce came through, and I've been living there ever since. Just here on a visit. And by the way, I've married again."

"Married," replied Mr. Fitzroy, with a slight catch in his voice. "To whom?"

"You wouldn't know him," returned his ex-wife. "It's a man named Feinberg."

_______________

33: Two Who Are Gone

WHEN THIS chapter was originally planned, the title of it was "Eight Guys And A Gal" I intended to do short character studies of Jimmy Walker, the late Sime Silverman, Owen Madden, the late Flo Ziegfeld, Walter Winchell, the late Jack Diamond, "Prince" Mike Romanoff, the late Arnold Rothstein and the late Texas Guinan.

But my plans miscarried. I started with nine characters. I wind up with two. The reasons for the omissions may be of interest to you: I omitted Jimmy Walker because I would not attempt to fit his story into the meagre space that would, of necessity, be allotted to him. Jimmy's life, is, I think, one of the greatest stories of all time— and the last chapter is not yet written. There never lived a man who rose to greater heights in his own community, only to be dashed to the depths by his belief in false friends. Had it not been for his trust in people who were never to be trusted, Jimmy today might very possibly be a candidate for the presidency of the United States. It was those who basked in his sunshine who finally pulled him into the shadows. And when they had him in the shadows, they fled like rats from a sinking liner.

I omitted the late Sime Silverman, founder and editor of Variety, because my pen is too poor to do justice to the glorious soul that was Sime.

I omitted Owen Madden, because I like the man too well. I know of the good he has done— and of the bad he has not done. Were I to write of him, the chapter would contain a great deal of praise. And people would raise their hands and say:— "Look at the things this Hellinger fellow writes about Public Enemy Number 2. Isn't it shameful? How can he say nice things about such a character?"

"Such a character" is strictly a newspaper bad man. His name has a catchy swing to it, and it looks well in print. I don't want to glorify the man, but I know that he has been journalistically crucified on more than one occasion. Owen, of course, is no lily. But, when you come to think of it, who is? Owen Madden has done more good around the City of New York in the last ten years than 999 out of 1000 of those who defame him. Ask any policeman. Ask any politician. Ask any one of 100 poor families. They know. So do I.

I omitted the late Flo Ziegfeld because of Billie Burke Ziegfeld. That may be a strange thing to say, but it is strictly the truth. And nothing is stranger than truth. I admired Flo Ziegfeld tremendously. During the last two years of his life, very few were closer to him than I. I worked for him on his last two extravaganzas, and I say very earnestly that, when he died, the show world lost its greatest figure. I was crazy about the man; loved him almost. I loved him because of his queer sense of humor. I loved him because of his eccentricities. I loved him because of his utter disregard for money. I loved him because of his hatreds. I loved him for paying $12 for a grouse when his butler hadn't been paid for months. I loved him because he was Flo Ziegfeld— and because I'll never know anyone else like him if I live to be a hundred.

And yet, whenever I write about Flo, I get letters from Mrs. Ziegfeld. A great artiste and a charming woman, Billie Burke nevertheless takes me to task for my statements about her late husband. She does not like me to say that he tossed away money and that he lived only for the moment. So I wrote her some months ago, and promised that I would say no more about a friend whom I miss so very greatly. And even as I write this, I can see Flo looking down with one of his fox-like glances, and saying in that high-pitched voice:— "It's all so God-damned silly, Mark. Write anything you want. But see that I get a good spot in the book, will you?"

I omitted Walter Winchell, the most remarkable reporter that journalism has ever produced, because Walter Winchell is very possibly my best friend. I want Walter Winchell to remain very possibly my best friend. Therefore, I omitted Walter Winchell. I'm no fool.

I omitted Jack Diamond because his story is told several times— in other characters— in this book. He was a ruthless, insane menace, who lived for no good reason. Some of his deeds were so cruel and foul that they shocked even his most hardened friends. A young girl, for example, was once a witness to a Jack Diamond murder. She was only seventeen, and Diamond was afraid she would talk if police pressure were brought to bear. There were four other witnesses to the same murder, and all of them were killed within three days. Then Diamond decided that the girl must go, too. He sent three men to take her for a ride. Twice these killers took the girl out — and twice they returned to Diamond. They pleaded with him to permit the girl to live; they said they couldn't do the job. He told them to kill the girl, or they'd go the same way. So, on the third ride, they had to kill her. She was laughing with her killer-companions as a bullet crashed through her brain. What's left of her body lies loaded with stones in the East River. No, Jack Diamond was no picnic.

Yet I will never forget the night that I took him and Marion "Kiki" Roberts in my car to a little speakeasy that Jack owned in the West Forties. I drank brandy with Jack that, night; drank quite a bit, in fact. I was quite sober when I arose to leave, however, and I told Diamond that I was going home. "You're not drivin' your car," he said. "You've had too many brandies. My chauffeur's gonna take you home. Then he's coming back for your car and he'll put it in your garage for you. Jus' give him the address." I protested that I was quite all right, but Jack wouldn't have it that way. So, in the end, I had to do as he wished me to. His chauffeur took me home, gravely escorted me to my door to see that no harm befell me, and then departed.

Jack Diamond had made certain that I wouldn't be hurt while driving. And yet, if a fight had started in that speakeasy, and I had witnessed Jack shoot a man, I haven't a doubt that he would have killed me without the slightest compunction within the next few hours. Queer, isn't it?

I omitted "Prince" Mike Romanoff because— in order to write about Mike— you must kid him. I never kid Mike, because I don't think he rates it. He earns his living by being amusing, and I think he is greatly underpaid. To strive always to be amusing is the most nerve-racking job in the world. Mike, of course, is an impostor. But he is a gay, charming, witty and completely delightful impostor. Mike is not a Romanoff and, for the life of me, I cannot see why he ever made any such claim. For it seems to me that if the case had only been switched about, and the real Romanoffs had tried to be like Mike, this might have been a much happier world. Men like Mike are great rarities these days. We have thousands of impostors around Broadway, and hundreds of thousands of phonies. But they are cheats, liars, and double-crossers. Mike never cheats anyone but himself. When he lies, he lies for amusement. And the only double-cross he knows about is to ride the ocean free both ways.

"Prince" Mike Romanoff has been exposed by the newspapers of two continents. He has been jailed by two governments because governments are notorious for their lack of a sense of humor. He has clung to an exposed life-boat on an ocean liner for two days in a sixty-mile gale, sweated in stinking prisons, fought his way out of battles that the average man would never have survived, and has— in general— lived a more adventuresome life than any man I know. He is headed nowhere. A part of Broadway today, he is insulted nightly by belligerent drunks who enjoy calling him a faker. He never has more than a dollar in his pocket— and the probability is that he never will. Yet he will walk along the street with me at midnight, his cane swinging, his dress impeccable, his boutonniere fresh, his eyes sparkling. And he will look up at the stars and say— "Ah, my dear Mark, what a wonderful world this is. You are privileged to walk with royalty— and I am privileged to appreciate life. How lucky we both are!" Kid a guy like that? Not me.

Remaining are the late Arnold Rothstein and the late Texas Guinan. They could not be omitted here because, although vastly different characters, they typified two sections of Broadway when that street was at its very maddest. The woman was Broadway's greatest personality; the man was Broadway's greatest gambler. Today, of course, they are just— "Two Who Are Gone."

Proving conclusively that the word "greatest" is only an adjective after all.

____________

34: Killer Joe

IT WAS very dark and still. On the porch of the little home in the suburbs, Killer Joe stood silently and peered through the open window. His intended victim, a square-jawed man of about forty, was sitting just a few feet from him. With a movement that was almost affectionate, Joe brought out his revolver. Lord, how simple this job was!

He raised the gun. Might as well do the trick at once and get it over with. The getaway was a cinch, and if he hurried back to town he might be able to dig up a poker game before catching his train to New York.

He smiled as he thought of the poker game. His luck had been pretty good lately. Inside the room the square-jawed man was talking to a woman who was obviously his wife. Totally unconscious of the fact that he was but a few seconds from death, he was trying to comfort the girl with promises for the future.

"Don't you see, dearest," he was saying, "that It's only a question of time Until things improve? It wasn't my fault that I was a witness to that murder. And what can I do about it now? I must testify. It's my duty to myself and the whole town."

The woman was twisting her fingers nervously. "I understand that, John," she replied in a thin voice. "But look what is happening to us meanwhile. What is the outcome going to be? You've lost your job because of the pressure that was brought to bear. Our little Frankie is in the hospital, almost a charity case. And in two months there will be another baby."

Outside, a frown crossed the none-too-intelligent face of Killer Joe. For an instant, he lowered his gun. What was all this? This victim was no gangster; he was just an ordinary mug. Trying to work for a living, that's what he was. Just another sap. Inside, the woman had crossed to the sofa on which the man was sitting. For the first time, Joe was able to see her clearly. She had a sweet face, Joe thought; almost pretty. And her eyes were very warm.

She took the man in her arms. "Don't mind me tonight, dearest," she said softly. "I'm terribly nervous, I know you're doing exactly what you should do. And as long as I have you by my side, I'll fight on and on and on."

Outside, Killer Joe let his arm fall again. With a sudden movement he put his gun away, and stepped from the porch. He cleared a hedge nimbly, and walked briskly to a car that was waiting for him a few feet away. He hopped in beside the driver.

"Back to the office. I wanna see the boss."

The driver sped away, and glanced at Joe with big eyes.

"The old silencer must be workin' like a charm, Joe," he observed admiringly. "I didn't hear a sound."

"Shut up," commanded Killer Joe.

As he was being driven back to town, Killer Joe brooded over the whole situation.  felt aggrieved. Killing was his racket and nobody had ever accused him of being particularly tender-hearted. But this, he felt, was something different. Everything in Joe's life had borne the stamp of the professional killer. He was so cold that his very veins were lined with ice. Dealing death was his job, and he handled It as you or I would our daily tasks. With him it was just a matter of routine.

Ever since he had first hit the racket—which was shortly after Prohibition, and he had deserted from the army— Killer Joe had been one of the best men in his chosen profession. His first killing had netted him only 15 dollars, and that was his price for some time. Then he grew smarter and raised the ante to 25 dollars. Then it went to 50. And 50 it remained, Depression or no Depression. In the underworld, Joe's reputation grew by leaps and bounds.

His home— such as it was— was in New York. But he also had addresses in Chicago and San Francisco, if he was summoned for a job in another city, his fee was the inevitable 50 dollars— plus all expenses.

When a knock-off took place, the police picked up the big shots while Joe went merrily along. In other words, he was just a lovely fellow to Introduce to mother. You'd think that such a man would laugh at the most pathetic story and scorn the most desperate plea. Yet you and I know that he had just left a home with his mission unfinished. It was all very strange.

When he entered the office, the boss Welcomed him with a smile. "Quick work, Joe," he said in congratulatory fashion. "No hitch, I suppose?"

"Plenty of hitch," growled Joe, "I didn't kill the guy. I couldn't."

The head man blew up. "What's that? Are you nuts, or somethin'? I bring you all the way here from New York to get rid of this bum, and you tell me you can't do it? After me payin' fifty bucks and expenses! Are you screwy? Or are you tryin' to double-cross—"

A tiny glint appeared in Joe's eyes, and the boss stopped talking abruptly.

"Shut up, boss. Keep your shirt on. When you talk to me, watch your lingo. I'm only tryin' to tell you that somethin' happened to me when I was standin' on the porch out there. Maybe, it's what them college perfessers call conscience, or somethin' like that. I just couldn't do it.

"Hell, you know me. Ain't it somethin' different when I felt like I did? That guy ain't no mobster— and when I heard him talkin' and his wife talkin' and all that, it kind of made me feel funny inside. You know, it made me feel that I mighta had somethin' like that if I hadn't been what I am."

The boss tossed Joe a disgusted look. It was evident to him that the man had gone out of his mind. He sighed. "Well, Joe," he said. "I suppose that's that. But what in hell am I gonna do now? I gotta get rid of that guy."

The Killer was silent for a moment. Then he spoke.

"There's only one way but, boss," he stated slowly. "Oh account of it bein' such a pitiful case, you'll have to pay me 100 bucks to do the job."

_______________

35: The Tragedy Of Elvira

IF A WRITER wants to get into trouble, the easiest way to do it is to start a story with the statement that woman is a funny creature. All women resent that sort of crack. They want to know by what right the author is qualified to judge. They want to know why any woman is funnier than any man. They want to know so many things. All of which makes it bad business to start a yarn by saying that woman is a funny creature.

Well, woman is a funny creature. Give her a blue dress and she's sorry it's not green. Buy a house in the country and she wants an apartment in the city. Purchase a roadster and she'll tell you a sedan is better. Slip her a bracelet and she wishes it were a brooch. I could go on like this for pages and pages, but you get the idea— or don't you?

Anyway, we'll simply let the matter rest and call the whole thing an introduction to the sad story of Elvira Evans. She was as homely as an uncooked cheesecake. Her face was a cross between an ant-eater and a telephone. She was tall, lean, lanky, and lofty, one eye gazed south, while the other went north-east. Her hair was a combination of yellow and red, and the entire effect looked just a trifle mouldy. Her teeth protruded, except in those spots in the front where there were no teeth left to protrude. She had an impediment in her speech, and she didn't hear quite so well as she should. All in all, the celebrated wreck of the Hesperus was a beautiful sight compared to Elvira.

She didn't remember her parents. Which made everything even because her parents didn't want to remember her. At the age of thirty, she was still trying to find her proper groove in life. Nobody was kind enough to tell her that they hadn't dug it for her yet. You don't need me to tell you that life was a tough struggle for Elvira. Half the time she didn't eat. And when she did eat, she couldn't enjoy herself because she would worry about where the next meal was coming from. Men always gave her the go-by. She couldn't even get the break of being kicked around from pillow to post.

When she reached the age of thirty, she hit out for a small town in upper New York. Maybe, she felt, she would find happiness among the birds, the bees, the flowers, and the trees. And that was all she wanted; a little happiness. Happiness, and a good cup of coffee every now and then. Without sugar.

Strangely enough, Elvira found a job up there in the sticks. She hadn't been there more than five months when Farmer Burbridge hired her to take care of his place. She had to rise at five, cook the meals, clean the house, scrub the floors, fetch the water, milk the cows, feed the dogs, and help out with the farming in her spare time. For this she received 20 dollars a month— out of which Farmer Burbridge kept 19 dollars in his bank under his name, in order to teach her to save.

It will be hard for you to believe but Elvira wasn't very happy. Every time she passed a mirror she burst into tears. And Farmer Burbridge was no help to her at all. Why, that man was so close that every time he killed a goose he kept the tail feathers on the chance that quill pens might come back!

There wasn't a soul in town who gave a thought to Elvira. Those who bothered to notice her at all went home and enjoyed a good laugh. She had no boy friends, and she had no girl friends. If she ever saw a detour sign on her straight and narrow path, she would have fainted with joy. She longed for someone to love her. Someone to whom she could tell her troubles. Someone who would understand her! If she only had a sister! Or a brother! Or an uncle! Or even a father-in-law! But no. It was not to be.

At the age of thirty-eight Elvira made up her mind to end it all. She wasn't getting anywhere— and the longer she lived, the less chance she had of getting there. So, as she grieved while milking a cow one dawn, she decided that suicide was the only way out. But how? Ah, that was the question!

Gas would be quite effective— but if she used too much gas the cost would break Farmer Burbridge's heart. And there was no use doing that. A revolver would do the trick very nicely, but there wasn't a revolver in the house. It was all very perplexing.

The following day she was again day-dreaming by the side of the same cow, when the answer finally struck her. Why not the railroad track? Why not, indeed? She would go down to the track, drape her grapevine figure across it, and let the train do the rest. That was simple, and it wouldn't cost anyone anything.

No sooner thought of than acted upon. That night, when all was quiet, Elvira dug out her new dress. It was a very nice dress. Made of blue taffeta, with ruffles, and everything. It had cost her three dollars at a sale, and it was her most prized possession. It was the most beautiful garment she had ever owned. She put on the dress, powdered her nose, and even went so far as to put a little rouge on her cheeks. When they found her, they would at least know that she had died when she looked her best.

Elvira walked through the main section of the town, and out through a country lane. The train whistled in the distance, and Elvira hastened her steps. She entered Farmer Blair's pasture, which was near the tracks.

Suddenly she stopped short.

To her surprise and dismay, she saw that old Nick Blair had erected a new fence. And Farmer Blair had done a thorough Job. The fence was of barbed wire. The train whistled again. The railroad track was some twenty feet ahead, on the other side of the fence. With a sigh, Elvira threw up her hands in a gesture of despair. Wearily, she retraced her steps. And back she went to Farmer Burbridge's.

Was it a case of cold feet? Did she think she might finally meet the right man on the way back? No, indeed. I told you woman was a funny creature.

She was afraid she would tear her dress on that barbed wire fence!

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36: The Son's Revenge

THE SCENE IS the apartment of a handsome bachelor. The time is twenty years ago.

There are two people present. One is the gay and dashing Broadway rounder, who shatters hearts as you crush a peanut, and throws the hulks away. And the other is just a gal that men neglect. She is, of course, young and from the country. The cheeks that the libertine had caressed when they were fresh with the healthy bloom of outdoors are now sallow and tear-stained. In her arms is a tiny infant who wails lustily. Outside, it Is snowing. It always snows outside at a time like this.

The girl's snivelling had halted. She had decided to make one last plea to the manhood of this— this cur.

"But, Horace," the girl cried hoarsely, "how can you leave me at a time like this? How can you desert me with this child in my arms? What is to become of our little Sam?"

The man's answer was a Broadway grin. A Broadway grin, that is, of 1914.

"That," he said, "is for you to figure out. I did not ask you to become my mistress. When I took you driving in my new Pope-Hartford that afternoon, I didn't ask you to tell me that you loved me. The things that have happened. are no one's fault but your own."

The wounded dove wrung her hands.

"But, Horace," she pleaded, "how am I to live? What am I to do? What will happen to our little Sam? What will my life be without you?"

The man shrugged his shoulders. He had a shrugged pair of shoulders, too.

"That," he replied softly, "is another thing for you to decide. As far as I'm concerned, I'm through. If you must know the truth, I never loved you. You always suspected that I loved someone else. You were right. I did.

"I'm going to her now. You hear? When I leave this house in a few moments, I will never see you again. I am not too much of a cad. My solicitors will send you sufficient money for your immediate needs. But beyond that— nothing."

The unwilling father gave his moustache a definite pat and strode towards the door. He slipped into his fur coat, placed his hat upon his head, gave one last, derisive look at the woman, and stepped out into the whirling snow. The door closed with a bang. The girl verged on hysterics. Her mouth opened. Her mouth closed. Her hands opened. Her hands closed.

she became quite calm. She held the child before her and gazed into its green eyes.

"You," she vowed, "shall be my revenge. Some day, somehow, you will repay Horace for this horrible thing he has done to me. I will work for you. I will slave for you. And then, when you are old enough to understand, we will plan our revenge.

"He will pay some day, Sam. He will pay."

WE COVER the next fifteen years in a hop, a skip, and a short jump. It is now the fall of 1929, and we find our little Sam developed into a tremendously husky youth. He looks more like a professional athlete than a boy who is still attending school. And small wonder. The unsophisticated little gal whom we met in the first part of the story devoted all her energy in an effort to turn her son into a perfect physical specimen. He boxed. He ran. He swam. He golfed. He played polo. No time was wasted. As soon as school was out, he raced to the gym. Before retiring at night, he shadow-boxed and punched the bag for an hour. There wasn't an ounce of superfluous flesh on his body. Sam was the perfect masculine figure. And the kid knew what it was all about, too.

As soon as he was old enough to understand the way of a man with a maid, his mamma had confided in him. And what she hadn't told him about his father is nobody's business.

"He ruined our lives," she told the child. "He took me as an innocent girl and made me a hardened woman. When he had gained his end, he walked into the night and left me. And it was such a cold night, too.

"I swore that you were to be my revenge, Sam, and that's what will happen if you love your mother. Some day, when I think you're ready, you will walk into Horace's office. You will remove your coat and tell him why you are there. And you will give him such a beating as no man has ever had before.

"But your father is a strong man, son. So you must work and exercise and develop. I want you to be fit for your task. You must remember that in your strength lies the only revenge for both of us."

The boy stretched his powerful arms. "I'm ready now, Mother. Let me go find him now."

His mother smiled. "Not yet, my child," she cautioned. "Not yet."

AT LAST we come to the present time. Sam has turned into a picture that would make any Schubert chorus man become green with envy. He is a handsome young man— and his strength is little short of prodigious. For a long time, the professional fight managers were after the lad. Joe Gould and Bill Duffy fairly begged his mother to permit the lad to enter the ring. But Mamma was steadfast in her refusal.

"No, gentlemen," she told them firmly. "I'm afraid that I cannot permit it. Sam would undoubtedly become a world's champion immediately, but I have no such desire. I have turned him into an athlete only because he has a mission to perform. He is a fighter— not by instinct, but because it is his duty. Good day, gentlemen."

Outside, Bill Duffy ventured a significant diagnosis. "The dame's nuts," he observed.

One morning, while Sam was punching the bag, his mother took his arm. She gripped him firmly.

"My son," she said, "you are ready now. Go to your father's office and do the thing we have always planned. And remember, my son, revenge is sweet."

The boy fairly leaped into his street clothes. He kissed his mother fervently.

"At last," he exulted. "At last I can pay my debt to him— and to you, dear Mother. Good-bye, Mother."

An hour later, Sam opened the door of his father's office. Outside there were havoc and consternation. The youth had knocked out two guards and thrown his father's secretary in a closet. Now his path was clear.

His father looked up. "Who are you?" he asked.

Sam removed his coat and revealed his bulging muscles. "I am your son," he replied simply. "Twenty years ago you deserted my mother and me. I have trained for our revenge. Now you must pay."

His father sighed. "I wish you wouldn't annoy me," he said. "Please go away. I am busy. Go away, I say."

boy stepped closer. "Not until you have had your thrashing," he cried. "Stand up."

The father sighed again. He stood up, rolled back his sleeves, smacked Sam on the jaw, threw him down three flights of stairs, called an ambulance, and then returned to his desk.

"A nice kid," he murmured to himself as he sat down. "I wonder which one his mother was?"

______________

37: The Fable Of Ambrose

THAT genial producer Mr. Ambrose Dingleberry tossed restlessly in his bed. Try as he might, sleep would not come. He tried counting sheep. No use. He tried counting the women who had been untrue to him. When that failed to work, he realised it would be futile to count further. So he sat up and snapped on the light.

Ambrose knew exactly what the trouble was. He was worried about theatrical conditions. He had lost much of his money in the last three years. Another unsuccessful production would just about ruin him. He sighed heavily. If only something would happen. If some author would only step into his office and toss an "Abie's Irish Rose" or a "Rose Marie" into his lap. If the public ! would only realise that he was badly in need of its money. If Wall Street would only return to 1928.

If. If. If.

Came a squeaky voice from a corner of the room.

"I wouldn't be too certain about that," it said.

The producer's eyes almost popped from their sockets. Was one of those chorines hiding in his room again? He had been lying there for hours, but he hadn't heard a sound. He strained his eyes.

"Who's there?" he cried. "Is it Mabel? Gloria? Marjorie? Joan? Florence? Evelyn?"

The voice came closer. It seemed to be right beside the producer's bed now.

"It's none of those," said the voice. "Here I am. Can't you see me?"

Mr. Dingleberry stiffened perceptibly. A very thin man was standing right beside him. He wasn't more than a foot tall. And on his face there was an elfish grin.

"Holy Whosis!" gasped the producer. "What are you— a Depression midget?"

The visitor shook his head. "No, my friend," he replied. "I am a gnome."

"A gnome" repeated Mr. Dingleberry vaguely.

"Exactly," said the intruder. "I'm first cousin to an elf, a goblin, or a fairy. Surely you've heard of my cousins?"

The producer nodded. "I've heard of one of them. But let's get back to you. What makes you so small?"

"Because gnome wasn't built in a day," was the prompt retort.

Ambrose blinked. He decided to put that gag into his next attraction. It was just bad enough.

"I don't get all this," he said somewhat peevishly. "Just how did you get in here and what do you want? I'm a tired man and I'm worried. What do you want of me?"

The dwarf placed a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles on his nose and climbed upon the producer's bed.

"Mr. Ambrose Dingleberry," he announced, "we have been looking over your record as a producer on Broadway, and we have come to the conclusion that you are one of the nicest men in town. Aside from the fact that you have gypped the speculators right and left— and that, of course, doesn't count— you have but two black marks upon your record.

"If you can explain those black marks, we are going to help you by granting you any one wish that you may desire. Heed me carefully now, because it will mean everything to you.

"First, you are charged with the murder of your first wife. Why did you do it?"

Ambrose's fists clenched. "We had a little poker club consisting of six men," he snapped, "and whenever we met in my home, she insisted on playing with us."

The gnome extended his hand. "I congratulate you," he cried. "That's the perfect explanation. And now for the second and last black mark. There have been reports that, before you turned producer, you were once a dramatic critic. Is that true?"

Mr. Dingleberry bit his lip. He shivered. Anger blazed in his eyes. He pointed to the door.

"Go!" he commanded. "That's the deadliest insult of all. I don't care if you are able to bring me all the gold in the world. I will not stand for any such terrible abuse. Get out of here."

His mood changed. The tears came. He shook with emotion.

"Oh, God," he moaned, "what have I ever done that I should have such a thing said about me? Oh, my God!"

The little man leaned forward and patted the producer's hand. "There, there," he sympathised. "I'm sorry. I know now that it's all a lie. I'm sorry I ever mentioned it. Look!"

Mr. Dingleberry looked up. From beneath his blouse, the gnome produced a tiny lamp. He caressed it tenderly.

"This," he announced softly, "is the magic lamp. You are now to make the one wish for something that you want more than anything in the world. One, and only one— and it will be granted on the instant. Come; what is it?"

The producer gazed off into space. "I have always wanted to peer into the future," he answered dreamily. "I want to know how conditions will be and what I will be doing in future years. Yes, that's it. Here is my one wish. Get me a copy of the New York Times five years from today."

The gnome clapped his hands and gazed at the lamp. "Abadaba," he chanted. "Toodle-oodles. Easy, baby. Look at me. Hot-Cha!"

And before he knew what had happened, Mr. Dingleberry 's arms were loaded with a copy of the New York Times. It was the copy for which he had wished; the copy that was dated five years ahead. Feverishly he turned to the dramatic pages. For the moment his visitor was forgotten. He quivered nervously as he looked at the list of shows that were then being presented on Broadway. What was all this?

"Ambrose Dingleberry presents―"

"Ambrose Dingleberry presents―"

"Ambrose Dingleberry presents―"

He swallowed hard. Of the fifty shows on the list he was the producer of fully forty of them. He would be the most successful producer of all time. His eyes found a news note on the same page.

"At the Belasco Theatre tonight," it read, "Mr. Ambrose Dingleberry will present his forty-second production of the season. It is estimated that this great manager's plays thus far this year have earned him at least $10,000,000."

The producer threw out his chest. He had known all the time that he was the greatest of them all. He closed the dramatic section and turned to the front page. Suddenly his expression changed. The smile of contentment faded from his face.

His eyes had fallen upon another piece of news. He had died the same morning!

________________

38: The Anecdote

TO EVERY columnist in the land, especially in the early stages of his career, there come certain stories that seemingly bear the ear-marks of truth.

They are, in the main, unholy stories, yet they are written and told with such sincerity that the columnist generally believes them. Especially if it is late, and he has space to fill. Permit me a few illustrations:―

1. The Polish Traveller Story. A naturalised American, away from his native Poland for some twenty-five years, returns to his birthplace in order to visit his aged parents. The town is small, and the parents are very poor. They do not recognise this handsome American who asks lodging for the night. He, in turn, decides that it will be a greater kick if he converses with them, but does not disclose his identity until morning. Late that night, because he has flashed large sums of money, they murder him. The next day, they learn the hideousness of the crime they have committed. And both parents wind up in the insane asylum.

2. The Baby Eater. A woman residing on Long Island needs a fourth for an afternoon bridge game. She phones a friend, the mother of an infant, and asks her to play. The recent mother replies that it is the nurse's day off, but if she can bring her baby, she'll be happy to join the game. In due time, she arrives. She places the baby on the bed, and sits down to play cards in the living-room. An hour later she peers into the bedroom and finds her baby gone. Her friend's police dog— always part wolf, although the fact was never known— has devoured it. The dog is shot. But the booby hatch has claimed another victim.

3. The Mattress Episode. There is a servant girl who, for many years, has kept her earnings under a mattress. She has never said anything about it to her employers, who are a devoted man and wife. Fiction, again. They finally give her a well-earned vacation. And when she returns, the maid finds that her employers have sold her old mattress and given her a brand new one. She squawks bitterly, and tells them of the money that was hidden in the old mattress. After much trouble, they repurchase the old mattress, and find the money intact. They return it to the maid, but they make her promise that, from now on. she will keep her earnings in the local savings bank. She promises that she will do so. Two weeks later the bank fails. Her employers feel terrible about the situation because they have given their poor servant a bad steer. But the girl isn't a bit worried. Force of habit had been strong within her. A few days after depositing it, the girl had withdrawn her money from the bank. And it now reposes upstairs under the new mattress.

4. The Ghost Rider. This is a favorite story after a flood, a big fire, an earthquake, or a disaster of any sort. You can almost count upon its arrival. Two men are driving along in their car. As they ride through a lonesome neighborhood, an elderly woman steps to the centre of the road and hails them. They stop— and the woman tells them that she is desperately in need of a lift to her home. Her daughter is awaiting her, she says, and the last trolley has already left. They agree to take her to her destination, since they are going in that direction. She sits, alone, in the back seat of the car— and gives them her address. They proceed. After a few miles, one of the men looks around. To his amazement, the elderly passenger has vanished! She has either jumped or fallen from the car. The two men argue. One is In favor of going back and looking for the woman. The other feels differently. He says the passenger looked queer to him, and he is in favor of going to the address she gave and asking for the daughter she mentioned. Since he is driving the car, he wins the argument. Arriving at the house in question, they leave the car and ring the bell. The door is opened by a young woman who, by her resemblance, is obviously the daughter in the case. The men attempt to tell her what has taken place, but she places a finger on her lips and motions them forward. They advance into a room that holds a casket in the centre. And in the casket, a victim of the previous day's disaster, is the woman who had vanished from their car only a few minutes earlier.

5. The Innocent Gal. A favorite around town whenever a new movie cathedral opens. In this one, the pretty little girlie is sitting next to the old lady. The girl suddenly becomes ill, and the dear old woman helps her up the aisle and into the street. There are some who suggest a doctor, but the old woman will have none of it. She will see that the pretty child arrives home in perfect safety. So she summons a cab. places the now unconscious girl in the rear— and is driven away. Invariably, In this type of fable, the "old lady" is a white slaver (remember them?); a man in woman's clothes and a wig. It was he who jabbed a hypodermic needle into the girl's arm as she sat next to him in the movie palace, and who has now dragged her off into a life that is worse than death, as the funny saying goes. What happens to the beautiful young girl, I have never found out. The story always ends as do most stories. Right at the most interesting part.

6. The Lovely Pebble. Probably the most famous of them all is the girl who found the beautiful pebble on the beach, and who placed it in her mouth for safe keeping while tying her rowboat to a dock. She swallowed it. A few weeks later — convulsions. So what had happened? So the girl had swallowed a snake egg. What she had thought was a pebble had turned out to be a snake. To operate now would be to irritate the snake that was wrapped around her intestines. If the snake were left there, it would kill her just the same. So what happened? So the girl died. And so, usually, does the story.

THE FOREGOING is far from a complete list of such anecdotes, but it will suffice here. Even as you read these, I haven't the slightest doubt that some young columnist somewhere is feverishly pounding out one of these stories on his typewriter in the sincere belief that he is scooping the world. And if his world is small enough, very probably he is. It may be that those who see his story in print will not have heard it before.

But if his public takes in a vast territory, woe be unto him! Letters will arrive, telling the poor columnist that he is everything from a crook to congressman. One missive will tell him that the story is at least five years of age, and another will assure him it is fifty. A man will write an excited letter, saying that the story has been boldly thefted from the French: a woman will demand to know why this columnist is stealing things from Balinese writers. And so they go. Before he quite realises what has happened, the young columnist has turned grey. He thinks it's because of the strenuous work he has been doing. But it's not. It's because of the aftermaths.

Humans are very strange about such things. It is my experience that the most cowardly are usually the strongest letter-writers. As puny beings crowd a boxing arena to call a husky brute a big bum, from the security of a rear chair, so do the weaklings get off a little sadistic steam by telling newspaper writers what fools and flops the authors really are.

A friend will come to me and say:— "Mark, I've got a grand story for you. Billy Grady told it at a table last night, and he swears it's true. Get a load of this."

If the story, by some mischance, happens to be good, I try it on three or four other people to see if it is familiar to them. If it is, I discard it immediately. But If it isn't, I change the yarn as much as possible, give credit to the original story-teller if I can, and pass it on to the public. The blow seldom falls. But when it does it comes with a crash to end all crashes. Perhaps I have recounted the plot of an old movie, or resurrected a tale that grandpa loved to tell. It really isn't very important in the scheme of things, but the boys and girls hop upon me with vengeful gusto.

That I am totally unaware of the existence of the earlier plot, or that I claimed no credit for the yarn in the first place, seems to make little difference to my none-too-gentle readers. Evil be to him who even thinks.

Along these lines I had a rather amusing experience about two years ago. An old friend of mine passed along two stories that I liked immensely. I had a large amount of original stuff on hand, so I wrote the yarns and put them away to be used as vacation fillers. The vacation arrived, and the two stories were published on successive days, in my absence.

You can imagine my horror when I returned to learn that both tales were the property of a highly successful short-story writer— and had already been published in book form. I immediately wrote an apology, explaining the unfortunate error, and published it in my column the following day.

Exactly three weeks later I picked up a copy of one of the most powerful weeklies in America and found therein a short story by the author from whom I had unconsciously borrowed. And the story was one that I had originally written and published in my earlier book, "Moon Over Broadway"!

I still harbor a definite suspicion that the same friend double-crossed us both. And what has all this to do with the next and final chapter of this book? Very little. Except that it's my way of telling you not to expect too much, or doubtless you will be disappointed. But what the hell? You've paid your two dollars, so you might as well finish the damned thing.

Ladies and gentlemen, The Anecdote!

______________

39: Tearful Tale Of Moses Rabinowitz

MOSES RABINOWITZ looked like a character that had stepped from the pages of history. His beard was long and unruly, and his hair had not been clipped in so long a time that it stood out from his neck like a dip on a scenic railway. Had he walked up Broadway, the crowds would have followed him for blocks. But this man knew nothing of Broadway. The Ghetto was good enough for him.

Moses had come to New York from Russia at the age of twenty, and for another twenty years he had explored nothing of New York except the few blocks he covered each and every day. That was all that mattered. He knew no more.

By trade, Moses was a cobbler. He didn't own the shoe shop; he was merely a paid worker. Yet he earned his 25 dollars a week, and that was more than sufficient for his needs. He sat near the window of the store and nodded to those he knew. Throughout the day, he hammered away. And as he hammered, he sang his ancient songs. A happy man, Moses. The only thing he had to watch was that he didn't nail his beard to another man's shoe.

Strange, then, that into this man's life should come John Jones, executive in the employment of the Paramayer Pictures Company, on Long Island. Yet that's the way those things happen in the glamorous city of New York.

Into the shop one early morning bounced Mr. John Jones. The movie man looked down at Moses Rabinowitz and wagged his head happily.

"The very man. You're the very man."

Moses shifted uneasily in his chair. What manner of man was this?

"Vot's de matter vit you?" he inquired. "Vot you talking abott?"

Mr. Jones laughed aloud. "Well, well," he beamed, "if I haven't been forgetting myself. It's the excitement of meeting you, I suppose. Here, let me introduce myself. Here's my card. My name is John Jones, and I'm located over at the Paramayer studios on Long Island. May I ask your name?"

Mr. Rabinowitz told him. A trifle dubiously, to be sure, but he told him. The movie man leaned closer.

"Mr. Rabinowitz," he began, "I might as well come to the point as rapidly as possible. We've been searching for just such a man as you for the past month. You'd be a riot in the part I have in mind. You're the absolute type. How would you like to go in the movies?"

Moses moved a little farther away. "Movies?" he demanded. "Vot you minn — movies?"

The executive pounded the counter until several shoes squeaked. "Moving pictures. Mr. Rabinowitz. Talking pictures. One of the greatest of all industries. They're calling you, sir. Shouting to you, I might say, for this one particular part. How much money do you earn, Mr. Rabinowitz?"

The shoe mechanic replied that he made 25 dollars a week. The picture man lowered his voice. "That's a thing of the past. You come to work for us and we'll raise your salary. Instead of 25 dollars, we will pay you 75 dollars a week."

Seventy-five dollars a week? Nonsense! Moses was now fully convinced that the man before him was insane. He stood up and ordered him from the shop. John Jones saw it was no use arguing further.

"All right," he said.  "I'll go. But you're making a big mistake. You'd be a riot in this picture. You have my card. If you change your mind, I'll be at the studio any morning. Good day. Mr. Rabinowitz."

And he left.

IN THE EVENING, Moses wandered around to his favorite coffee house, and sat about with his friends. In the course of conversation he told them of his episode with the crazy Mr. Jones, and showed them the card he had left.

Among the men at the table was Mr. Gottlieb, one of the real wiseacres of the Ghetto. And Mr. Gottlieb's hands instantly flew to his brow in amazement.

"Moses!" he shrieked.' "Vot hew you done? Dis fallow' vasn't keedink. Ven he offered you 75 dollars a vick, he mean vot he said. Now, you leesten to me:

"Tomorrow mornink, you go to de studdio vitoudt fail. You tall heem you hew decided to go into tukkink pickshers. Batt instedd of vantink 75 dollars, you vant 150 dollars. You onderstend? You're goink into a crazy business. No metter vot dey offer you, dey'll always geev double."

By this time Moses was listening attentively. When Mr. Gottlieb spoke, it was always imperative to listen. For Mr. Gottlieb knew everything about anything. And before twenty minutes had passed, Moses was convinced that he had stumbled upon a gold mine. He agreed to go over and see Mr. Jones in the morning. The next day, after much difficulty, the cobbler found the studio. Soon he was talking to Mr. Jones. And it wasn't long before he was asking for 150 dollars a week, instead of the proffered 75 dollars. Mr. Jones argued for a while. Then he laughed.

"All right, Mr. Rabinowitz," he agreed. "I'm glad to see you getting such a fine start as a real movie player. Because I really need you in the picture, I'll give you the 150 dollars a week. Report here tomorrow morning ready for work. We'll make out the contract then."

So Moses rushed back to New York and his favorite coffee house. There he found the wise Mr. Gottlieb, and unfolded the good news. "You were right, Mr. Gottlieb," he cried excitedly. "Commencink tomorrow mornink, I'm gatting 150 dollars a vick ! No more shoe flxink for me. From now on, Mr. Jones tells me, I'm an ector."

The wise man nodded rapidly. "Dot's right, Moses. And it shows you dot if you follow mine adwice, you cen't go wrong. De first tink to do now is tall Oshinsky you're t'rough vit de shoe shop."

Arm in arm, the two men walked over to the shop in which Moses had worked for twenty years. Once inside, the cobbler informed his boss what had happened. He was quitting his job for something that would pay him six times the salary, he announced, and the boss had better get another worker.

Then he strolled from the shop with Mr. Gottlieb. The owner looked after them and gritted his teeth. "Hmmmmmm," he muttered. "America...."

Outside, Mr. Gottlieb rubbed his palms. "De naxt step, Moses," he announced, "vill be to make yourself look like sometink. If you're goink to be a picksher actor, you cen't have such hair and a beard like you gott. Ve'll go over to Meyer's barber shopp and hev you feexed up."

So Moses Rabinowitz got himself a hair-cut, a shave, and a manicure. And when he reached the studio the next morning, he was fired. He was no longer the type!

_________________

40: Useless Charlie

THE CHARLIE of this story is a very difficult subject to describe... describe consistently, I mean. You may think that you've done an accurate picture of Charlie— his appearance, his character, his habits. Then, suddenly, something that Charlie has done will knock that characterisation all to pieces.

Not that it's terribly important, because Charlie's doings had very little bearing on the history of the world. After all the descriptions were completed, I suppose you could call him a bum and cover most of the territory.

Consider the character: Although there were times when he went off on a terrible bust, there were Just as many occasions when he wouldn't look at a drink. So you could hardly call him an habitual drunkard. Although he had committed several petty thefts, he was by no means a thief at heart. When there were no jobs offered Charlie was more than content to sit around and do nothing. But if something came his way he could always be counted upon to accept it— whether it was as bartender, doorman, or bouncer around a night club.

A shiftless character, as you can readily see. But as harmless as they come. For years he parlayed around in this fashion. And then, one spring day, when the birdies were singing "tweet-tweet," Charlie met Alice. I know I needn't tell you much more. She was one of the kids in the floor show of a spot where Charlie was temporarily tending bar. She was a sweet child, and one glance at Charlie convinced her that he could be made into a wonderful man with a little reforming. Sadder words were never written.

In less time than it takes to give Rubinoff a haircut, Charlie and Alice became man and wife. For two years Charlie was such a model husband that he should have been exhibited in a Broadway window. The baby arrived in a year's time, and even that great event didn't cause him to fall off the wagon. He went to work on schedule, raced home every morning as soon as he was through, and turned over his salary to his wife each Saturday. It looked very much as though Alice had made good her promise.

Charlie picked a funny time to give the neighborhood the chance to say, "I told you so." It was on the baby's first birthday that he kissed Alice goodbye, and went out with a few of the boys. And when he came back four days later, it took three men to carry him up the stairs and toss him into bed. It was Alice's first chance to meet the issue, and she met it squarely. She took care of her man, and made him promise that it would never happen again.

It didn't— for almost a month. This time he was gone for five days. And when they brought him back, the situation was more serious. The police were waiting to arrest him for clipping a sucker during one of his more drunken moments. A kindly judge didn't quite understand that Charlie ' really meant no harm to anyone. He judged the case strictly on its merits, and provided Charlie with a gift of two years in jail. He also stated that, had it not been for Charlie's wife and baby, he would have made it far more.

Many wives would have given up at this point, but not our Alice. She had set out to reform this man, and she was going to do it. "I'm going to wait, Charlie." she promised just before they took him away. "For the kid's sake and my own, I'm going to stick. While you're away, try and think of what has happened. And swear to yourself that it will never happen again.

"I'll write. I'll write all the time. But the rest is up to you. If you'll only think of those two years and how happy we were, I know you'll be a different man when you come out.

"I love you, Charlie. Always remember that."

The wife kept her word. After some sixteen months. Charlie was paroled and when he came out. Alice was right there to take him home. When they reached the flat. Charlie cried. Then Alice cried. Then the child cried; It was all just cryingly beautiful. He slept through the following day, and the third day he sat around and rested. On the fourth day, he went out to look for that job.

Maybe he really wanted to keep that promise or perhaps he was merely getting older. Whatever it was, he was gone but two days this time when they brought him home. The next morning, Alice had come to her senses. She had learned the lessons that must, in time, be learned by all reformers; you cant reform anyone who doesn't want to be reformed.

When Charlie had dressed himself, she sat in the tiny living-room, and told him exactly what was what.

"I've tried very hard, Charlie, but this is the end. You're not only ruining your own life; you're doing the same thing to mine and the baby's. I can't let that happen. I won't let it happen. I'm not going to live with you any more. "You've got some grand qualities, and, deep down, I still love you very much. But, as things have gone and as they will always go, our marriage is hopeless. All I can say about you, Charlie, is that you're useless.

"I don't want to hurt you, but I can't help saying what I think. You're just useless."

Charlie looked at her. He started to speak, but turned away without a word. He went into the bedroom, and when he came out he brought a packed bag with him. He placed it on the floor near the door, and then stepped close to her.

"Alice, you're never goin' to say nothin' that's any righter than what you said a few minutes ago. When you said I was useless, you said the truest tiring you ever spoke. I ain't denyin' nothin' to you. I can't.

"I'm goin' away, kid, so it won't be necessary for you to leave me. I don't have to tell you to do the best you can for the baby, 'cause I know you're nuts about her.

"Good-bye, sweetheart. Some day, maybe, I'll like to prove that I ain't so useless. There ain't much chance, I guess, but I'd like to. Good-bye, honey. And good luck."

He left without another word, but that night she had a note from him. He wrote, in brief, that he was going to commit suicide. She and the baby would never have to worry about him again. He really loved them, he said, and this was the only way he could prove it.

"All I ask," he concluded, "is that, when the kid gets bigger, just tell her her old man wasn't such a bad guy after all. You'll do that, won't you, honey? Good-bye." He signed the note "Useless Charlie," and let it go at that.

His wife cried that night, and for many nights thereafter.

IT WAS about five years later that Alice went to work in a Coney Island cafe. It wasn't the finest place in the world. As a matter of fact, if you'll pardon my Lithuanian, it was a dump. After her third day on the job, Alice stepped out into the hot streets in order to walk to the nearest subway.

She hadn't gone more than five steps when she almost fell in a faint. For there, ragged and unkempt, stood Charlie. He was almost as surprised as she was. But, as soon as the first shock was over, he told her the story. It was a very simple one. He had made all plans for the suicide when he had sent her that note— but she had been quite correct about him. He was even too useless to commit the act he had decided upon.

So he had wandered. From city to city. An odd job here. An odd job there. And now, here he was. Back in this seaside resort hear New York. And doing what? Oh, minding a car here and there. Opening a machine door when it looked as though he might be slipped a tip. Just as useless as ever.

Alice spoke:— "I thought you were dead, Charlie. I honestly thought so. I'm supposed to be married in six weeks to a man I really love. I'm only working now to fill in, even though he doesn't want me to. Not only do I love this fellow, but it means financial independence to. the baby and myself.

"And now, of all times, you have to come back. God, Charlie! What am I going to do now?"

She didn't wait for an answer. She ran.

The following noon, when she reported for work, she found the cafe closed. One of the waiters stepped up to her as she rang the bell, and asked her if she hadn't read the papers.

"Not this morning," she returned nervously. "But what's the matter? Is something wrong?" The waiter shrugged his shoulders.

"Plenty," he replied. "After you left last evening, that screwy bum who's been watchin' the cars around here steps inside and picks an argument with the boss. At first the boss don't mind, because he knows the guy is just a useless bum. But when the mug goes for his back pocket, a few of the boys let him have it."

Alice stepped back,. "He's— he's dead?" she asked. "Sure," the waiter nodded. "That's why the joint's closed for a few days. But I got to tell you the funniest thing.

"When we look in the bum's back pocket, he ain't got no gun there at all! That's right. There's nothin' there but an old picture of some dame and a little kid."

________________

41: It's Fun To Be Fooled

IN THE CASE of Mrs. Mollie Carroll and Randy Thomas, the flower of romance was a girt blossom. They met at the Club Select, where spring and the odor of stale beer are always in the air. Mrs. Carroll— pretty, petite, and partly plastered— was a discontented wife. Randy— dapper, dramatic, and definitely dizzy— was a singer at the Club, and specialised in discontented wives. Result: Trouble.'

Or maybe it wasn't trouble; maybe it was love. I don't find much difference, but that's neither here nor there. The very first afternoon that Mollie met Randy he sang eight risqué songs to her in a row. On the theory, I suppose, that "nothing risqué, nothing gained."

Mrs. Carroll was highly insulted, and proof lies in the fact that she begged him to sing eight more. He sang the same eight all over again. After he had choked on his last note, proving that the choke was on him, Mollie begged him to sit down. Randy sat, although he wasn't particularly interested. Another discontented wife meant as much to him as a "passengers-are-not-allowed-to-ride-on-the-platform" sign in the subway. But as the lady talked, the gentleman begun to listen more attentively. Her husband was in the theatrical business, and was away most of the time. Right then, he was in Europe. More, he was an excellent provider— and Mrs. Carroll really had more money than she quite knew what to do with.

The singer asked her to repeat that last remark, and Mrs. Carroll did so. And, ah! my friends, how quickly romance blossomed after that! Randy Thomas thanked his stars that one of the Mdivani brothers wasn't around that table. He held her hand while Mollie held her breath, and— well, it wasn't long before both of them were well out in front in the Romance Handicap. At this point, we come to that portion of the story where you get nothing but dots and asterisks.

After a series of those quaint little punctuation marks, Randy Thomas was singing his songs exclusively for the ears of Mrs. Mollie Carroll. I might add that he was being paid handsomely for his services, but I'd hate to go into that type of sordid detail. So just forget I said anything about it. Mollie was very happy— and so, after a fashion, was Randy.

Quite a few discontented wives had been calling the Club Select during the past few weeks. But the boss was a friend of Randy's, and he wouldn't divulge any addresses. Which was very lucky for Randy.

Came the mourn. A cablegram from Mr. Walter Carroll to his darling wife announced the return of the darkie in the woodpile. And when Mollie showed the message to Randy, he gathered her in his arms.

"All, my sweets," he crooned, "how terrible it is going to be without you." He might have added— "and your dough." But he didn't. Once a crooner, always a gentleman.

"But it's all in the game," he went on. "Our love was a pure and wonderful thing. But now that your husband is returning, I suppose it is best for us to part. Kiss me tenderly, my wonderful one, and then if you'll give me my expense account for last week, I'll pack my things and―"

Mollie placed a finger on his lips and three fingers in a glass.

"You'll do nothing of the kind, my love," she told him, "because I have an idea. No matter what happens, I am not going to lose you — but I am not going to lose my husband, either. I have an idea."

Randy was a trifle nervous, and I don't know that I blame him. Three times he had listened to ideas from discontented wives — and three times he had wound up in an ambulance.

Nevertheless, he listened. This was too good a touch to be tossed away without a struggle.

Mollie's notion, like Mollie herself, was simple. Mr. Carroll knew nothing of Mrs. Carroll's relatives, which made him a pretty lucky guy. When hubby arrived, what was to prevent Randy from being introduced as a cousin from out of town? Mr. Carroll would be around but a short time, and wouldn't have the opportunity to grow suspicious. So why not? The singer wasn't too strong for the idea at first. Why go to all that trouble when hubby would only be in town a short time? And, besides, just what kind of theatrical producer was Mr. Carroll? He had never heard of him.

Mollie hastened to interrupt. "He does a special type of producing." she explained. "He uses another name. But it doesn't make any difference anyhow. And oh, by the way, another cheque came in yesterday from him. Will you cash it for me, darling?"

That clinched the deal. When Mr. Carroll arrived, the little deception was put through. Randy Thomas was introduced as Mollie's cousin, and the husband was so nice to him that the situation was absolutely criminal. After one or two meetings, Mr. Carroll insisted that Randy move into the house with his wife and himself. He couldn't show enough hospitality, he said, to a relative who had been so courteous to his wife in his absence.

And so it went on for the ten days that Mr. Carroll was in town. When Mollie had one of her imaginary headaches, the two men went out together. They got along beautifully. And it was with genuine sadness that the husband packed his bags on a Thursday evening and prepared to leave.

Mollie couldn't go to the station. One of these headaches again, she said. So husband and lover journeyed to the station together and shook hands warmly before the gate. "I want you to take good care of Mollie for me," said Mr. Carroll. "I love her very dearly, and I'm happy to know that she's in such good company. Stay as long as you can, Randy, because— even though you are a relative— she seems to like you. You will take good care of her, won't you?"

Randy nodded. He could afford to.

"That's fine," the other went on. "It's a relief to leave her in the hands of a man I know I can trust. I only wish I could stay with her myself— but the act must go on. I play the Northwest for the next two months and then I may be booked in Australia. Who knows?"

The singer stepped back. "You— an actor?" he queried. "I never knew that. What type of actor?"

Mr. Carroll smiled indulgently. "Of course you didn't know, my boy," he explained proudly. 'My work and my other name are hidden from everyone, and even my dear wife is forbidden to mention them. But I can tell you, because your eyes tell me that you are to be trusted."

He drew himself up. "I am the great Petruska," he said. "The world's most famous mind reader."

____________________

42: He Wanted To Help Humanity

I WANT to tell you a fable. It isn't much of a fable. But I heard it some months ago in capsule form, and I resolved to write it. Like all fables, it disregards logic in favor of a vague moral. It is very definitely unlike the stories I usually write— and that., I imagine, should be something of a relief.

Therefore— Pierre was a Gascon. He was dark, and tall, and full of a great sympathy and love for mankind. At the age of 17, he had left Gascony, arrayed in bright colors and a hope of making his fortune. He had loudly kissed his parents and his sister, and, astride a shaggy percheron, had started off at a lumbering trot toward Paris.

But Paris had not opened her gates to Pierre. The city was rife with rebellion, and the king had ordered the prefect to shoot all agitators on sight. No one in Paris understood Pierre. So Pierre went northward. Northward to the Flemish Coast. There he saw the great black swells of the sea. He saw the miles of yellow marshes and tasted the salt of the air in his throat. He saw the simple houses of the fisher folk and the saddle-leather faces of the men. He saw the modest maidens, clumping along the wharves in wooden shoes. And he knew that they were honest people.

Pierre extolled his virtues as a fisherman, and almost died with sickness his first time out. But soon he grew to love the sea as well as he loved mankind. And soon his love for Celestine grew greater than either. She was a full-bosomed girl with a saucy smile. Her father was a boat captain. Pierre told her that his life's ambition was to help his fellow man. Celestine's saucy face grew sober.

"I, too, should like to save mankind," she murmured. "But there is little that a woman can do."

Pierre's sad eyes brightened. His heart lightened. He took her in his arms, and lifted her to him so mightily that her wooden shoes dropped off with a great clatter. They were married in the Spring.

One day, when the summer sky was trading yellow for lavender, Pierre hurried home to his bride in great excitement. His mouth opened to speak, but words would not come, because he was out of breath with running.

"What is the matter, Pierre?" asked Celestine, frightened. "Is something the matter with your boat?"

"No," he panted. "The boat is nothing. I run to tell you my chance has come. Celestine, they have offered me the lighthouse! The great white lighthouse! Other men do not want the job. The young ones say it keeps them from their wives. The old ones say it is too cold and lonely.

"But someone must take it. The ships must be warned of the rocks and the marshes. It made me happy. Celestine. to accept it. Now I will have my opportunity to save mankind!"

Celestine was saddened. Sparkling tears brightened her eye, but her mouth smiled, and site told Pierre that she would pray for his safety. Celestine stood alone on the shore as his boat pulled away. Her heavy skirts whipped around her legs in the sea breeze, and site shaded her eyes from the sun the better to see her Pierre as each stroke of the oars pulled him further away.

Three miles away, on a heap of black rocks, stood the lonely white sentinel that would be his home. Each night its brazen beacon would flash a yellow warning of shoals and rocks. Each day. he would sleep— alone.

Pierre was happy in his work. He lighted the great beacon at sundown. And kept a lonely vigil in the watch-tower with a strong glass until dawn. Then he extinguished the light, and went to bed. The only voice he ever heard was his own in prayer. He prayed first of all for Celestine, and then for all mankind. He prayed that all men would be happy and good. That disaster would never be visited upon anyone. And that his light might save the unwary.

In the years that followed, the light saved many ships. Fishing vessels and great commercial barquentines felt their way cautiously along the Flemish coast and were thankful for Pierre's light of warning. But, on more than one occasion, the fog was too great or the pilots too daring. For, at least once each year, a ship would lurch and smash on the rocks. And Pierre, weeping mutely, would watch the struggle of crew and passengers to reach the shore. He saw many drown, and for these, too, he prayed.

He never left the lighthouse. Once a month, a boat brought provisions. And a post from Celestine. Once a month, he would file the old letter away, and read the new one. To him it was love. And conversation. He could hear her saying the affectionate words she wrote. And he would speak aloud in answer as he read the lines.

More years came and went, and Pierre grew gaunt and hollow-eyed. Now, when he stared for ships, he had to rub his watering eyes and squint through the darkness. Soon, he knew, he would be as useless as an old dog. Soon, he must return to his Celestine. He stayed another winter, and, when spring came, he saw a boat thrusting its jerky way through, the water. The sun was dipping west into a bank of black clouds, and soon rain would come. But a drenching did not trouble him. His thoughts were of home. And Celestine.

The man in the boat was the new keeper of the light. Although he was impatient to be off, Pierre explained the workings of the tower to his successor. Soon, he was in the boat, waving a farewell and a blessing as he pulled for shore.

The rain came down in sheets. Pierre pulled his great-coat tight about his throat, and hurried along the village streets in the dark. He was happy that he had been able to sacrifice so much for mankind without regret. Now, he had earned peace and tranquillity. His house was still neat. He stared happily into the beam of yellow light that came from the window. And then his eyes grew wide with surprise. For there, at the dinner table, was Celestine. Older. Plumper. A little grey. And at the table were many children of all ages and descriptions. And next to her sat a great hulk of a man who downed his food like a dog. Pierre pushed open the door, and stood in the light. Celestine stared and grew frightened. The man who ate like a dog stopped chewing in mid-mouthful. The children wondered who the old bat was.

Pierre couldn't control himself. He wept. "Celestine," he murmured. "For 17 years I have labored to save mankind. Many have I saved. Some I have lost. Many I have seen swimming vainly in a boiling sea."

He took her in his arms tightly. He smiled. "Now I know that not all of them were lost," he cried happily. "My heart swells in gratitude as I see here that at least 10 were washed ashore to you!"

_________________

43: The Revenge Of Sydney Wilkens

IF this story sounds a bit cockeyed, it will sound a bit cockeyed, and don't come running to me with any complaints. In fact, I hereby warn you, in all fairness, that it's one of the dizziest yarns that ever came my way. And that, you will admit, covers a multitude of columns.

It was related to me in one of the swankiest dairies of the East Fifties. Now this was one of those novel spots where you can pay the British war debt in one night without getting an edge on. And yet the waiters hold their noses so high that if it ever rained, they'd drown. What I was doing there in the first place, I haven't the faintest idea. But the bartender had been out in the back mixing some gin and cider and pouring it into champagne bottles, when the pest edged up to me. He was tall and broad, and he had a face that looked as though it had been caught in a revolving door recently. He slapped me on the back most heartily.

"Well, well, well," he yipped. "If it isn't old man column himself. What are you doing here, pally? I say, what are you doing here?"

I turned his way slowly. "I was just beginning to wonder," I replied vaguely.

"Say, he said suddenly, "could you use a good story?"

Now, when I hear those lovely words. I can forgive even a pest. So I promptly crawled into his vest pocket, and said "Sure."

"Well," he said, "I'll tell you a swell yarn about revenge, fella. But first I want to ask you something. Do you know Sidney Wilkens?"

Now what's in a name? Besides, there was that story. So―

"Do I know Sidney Wilkens?" I said. "Of course I know Sidney Wilkens. Good old Sid. Sure I know Sid."

"Well," he replied, "I'm Sidney Wilkens!"

"Whaddya know," I retorted with typical Hellinger wit. "How time does change a man. But the story. The revenge."

"I'm coming to that, Mr. Corum," he continued. "Just a minute. The story concerns myself and Joe Black. You know Joe, don't you?" He wasn't going to catch me the second time.

"Certainly," I murmured. "That's you, too. Am I right?"

"You are not," he replied affably. "Joe Black was my partner in the importing business. A greater guy never lived.

"Joe and I," he went on, "were pals since we were kids. When we got old enough, we started a little business together, and I don't mind telling you we prospered. We vowed never to marry, for fear it would split our partnership and friendship. You can understand that."

"To be sure," I agreed. I could also understand the end of the story.

"Well," he continued, "things went well until just before the war. It was about that time that I met Nellie."

"I was afraid of that," I ventured.

"Well, Nellie and I fell in love. It couldn't be helped. It was one of those wild, uncontrollable, passionate loves that are stopped by neither mountains nor mortgages. We went gaga."

Period. New paragraph.

"I tried to keep it from Joe, but after we were married, I guess my happiness gave me away. He guessed what happened."

Mr. Wilkins stopped to finish my bottle.

"From that point onward, he acted rather coolly toward me. Business went on as before, but something was lacking. We weren't the friends we once were. Yet, somehow, I didn't care. I had a gorgeous home, a lovely wife "

"—And a baby," I concluded.

"Say!" Wilkens expostulated. "Who's telling this story? We had no baby."

"Pardon," I said. "My error. I must be thinking of another column."

He smiled in friendly fashion. "You fellows are all alike. Always impatient. Always jumping ahead. Bartender," he said, turning to the dairy maid, "another bottle of champagne for Mr. Corum."

I nodded. "Yeah," I said. "And charge it to Corum."

"Now," he said, "getting back to the story. Where was I? Oh, yes. I had a gorgeous home, a wife, and a car. And when we were married two years, Joe Black ran off. Absconded. Can y'ou beat it?"

"You mean," I said, "that your pal took the firm's money and left town?"

"Exactly. That dirty, low down heel ran away with everything but the bills. He left them for me. It was at that moment, when I saw how matters stood, that I determined to be revenged. A Wilkens never forgets, you know."

"I had imagined as much," I murmured.

"Well, I sold the house and car and put my wife in storage with my mother-in-law, and followed Joe Black. The first clue I got was in Buenos Aires. The police there said that he had left an hour before for Port Said.

"No sooner said than done. So I hopped the next boat, and when I reached Port Said I found he had crossed into India. I followed."

"Skip all that," I begged. "And tell me when you caught up with him."

He finished the bottle, and ordered another.

"In short," he continued, "I followed him all over the world. I used the fastest boats, trains, and planes trying to catch up with him, but I couldn't.

"After one solid year of chasing that mug, I gave up. I took a slow steamer home, and tried to figure out a way of building up the business again.

"Arriving in New York, I first got myself carefully plastered before going to my mother-in-law's house. Imagine my surprise when I walked in and found my wife in the arms of another man!"

"Horrible," I said.

"Well, sir, I fixed her all right. I sued for divorce immediately, and named her lover as co-respondent. My case was clear. I won the divorce. And here I am."

I passed a very weary hand over my forehead. This bird was slowly driving me daffy. I had to think a moment before I could even remember what story he had started out to tell.

"But," I murmured, "What about this guy Joe Black? Didn't you ever see him again? Is that the way your story ends? What about your revenge?"

"My revenge?" he whispered. "My revenge? Oh, you mean revenge. Well, I got that all right. That was simple."

"How?" I begged, all a-tremble.

"I just told you," he yelped. "The guy I found with my wife was Joe Black. And the poor simp married her!"

______________

44: Flirted Herself To Death

WHEN they found Amy Borden, she was dead. The room was filled with gas. It was all very, very funny...

In my own peculiar way, I'm going to try to show you how funny— how howlingly humorous — was the death Amy Borden. She was a petite creature. this Amy. Very fond of life. She liked to laugh, and play, and dance. She had jet black hair, and it was so arranged that it framed the ivory of her face. Her eyes were large, and her mouth was fresh. She had been married to Jerry for five years, and she was intensely in love with him. Amy had few faults. True, she was a bit vain. She liked to be flattered, even as you and I. And she was something of a flirt. She'd give the boys those big eyes— and then seem quite surprised when the boys went for her. You know the type, don't you? Oh, yes, Amy was flirtatious, all right. But give her credit for one thing. She never went beyond the flirting stage.

The whole trouble, I guess, rested in Jerry's disposition. Somewhere near the top of his dome was a little, green-eyed man with a two-edged fork. And every time that Amy so much as smiled at another man this little, green-eyed man would jab at Jerry with the fork. Then the fight would be on:— "Say, Amy, what's this all about?"

"What's all what about?"

"You know what I mean. You seemed pretty friendly with George tonight."

She'd shrug. "Oh, George is all right."

"Like him?"

"Not especially."

"Now, listen, Amy, and get this straight. I'm not going to have you fooling around with my friends. People are talking, and I can't stand it. I'm telling you right now that if I catch you flirting again there's going to be trouble. Plenty of trouble."

Usually that was enough to bring on the tears. Later, at home, the fight would be renewed with greater vigor. And so it went, day after day and month after month. There must be many thousands of couples just like Amy and Jerry— and if this story teaches them any lesson, it's worth the space it gets. Which is more than can be said for a great many of my stories.

These two, you see, were very much in love. Nuts about each other, really. Yet Amy was forever walking out on Jerry, because of his insane jealousy. And Jerry was forever imagining a great deal more than he actually saw. It was during the latter part of their fifth year together that the split became definite. Amy walked out— and she didn't come back.

Jerry was so peeved, so hurt, that he didn't ask her to return. So it was different this time. Usually, after three or four days of separation, they'd fall into a clinch, and swear that it would never happen again. Usually, the sweetness of the reconciliation was almost worth the bitterness of the argument. But not this time.

Weeks went by. Long weeks, during which Amy found a job, and worked to keep herself in a little furnished room. She often cried during the night, and she cursed herself for being a fool. Jerry, she told herself, was unquestionably in the right. Even though it meant nothing, she should never have flirted when Jerry loved her so devotedly.

And Jerry, meanwhile, was learning how to send the wash out on Mondays so that it would be back on Thursdays— maybe. And he was learning how to fry steak and potatoes so that one wouldn't be done too long before the other. He blamed himself for everything. If he wasn't so insanely jealous, he told himself, he'd still be living happily with Amy. What right had he to keep Amy in chains, just because he placed a ring on her finger?

Well, both kept it up as long as they could. Then Jerry, verging on daffiness, made the first move. He phoned Amy, and, when he heard her voice, he burst into tears. He begged her to come back. He said he couldn't stand it any longer, and he swore he'd never be jealous again. Never! Then it was Amy's turn to weep. It was all her fault, she insisted. She had been terribly silly, and she would never flirt again. Never! They agreed to meet in a fashionable restaurant that night. And when they hung up, they were two of the happiest people in this whole wide world.

Now, this part of the story is tough to write. Frankly, I don't like it— and yet, without it, the story of Amy and Jerry is nothing at all. So listen: When Jerry walked into the restaurant, he saw Amy sitting alone at a wall table. Standing beside her was a fat man who was arguing and gesticulating. Jerry stepped into the picture. He pushed the fat man aside, and demanded to know what the trouble was. Amy tried to say something, but the fat man beat her to it.

"I am the manager here," he cried, excitedly. "This— this woman, here— she has been annoying a customer. An old customer, and a good one.

"We don't allow women like this in here. We have a reputation. If she is looking for men she must go elsewhere. If she doesn't leave at once, I will call the police."

Jerry helped his wife with her coat. Amy was trying to talk, but Jerry wasn't listening. He asked to pay her check, but the manager refused the money. He merely wanted the woman out of his place. When they reached the sidewalk, Jerry looked coldly at Amy. He raised a fist and smacked her so suddenly that she turned completely around. Then he left.

The following morning, in a downtown business organisation, the office wag was filing his nails. Two stenographers and an office boy gaped at him in admiration as he spoke.

"Well," he was saying, "you know me. All dames go for me like this." He snapped his fingers. "But here I am, sitting next to this pretty number— at the next table, mind you— and she won't give me a tumble." He grinned. "But did I fix her? Wow! You know what I did? I just walked up to the manager, and said: 'Look here, Pepino. I've been eating here for eight years, but now I'm through. That dame at the wall table has been on the make for me ever since I sat down. Is that the kind of customers you're getting now? I ought to report this to the police!"

"And did he get scared? Wow ! When I left, he was telling that dame plenty. I sure got even with that haughty dame!" The office force howled with laughter. What a wag this man was!

When they found Amy Harden, she was dead. The room was filled with gas. It was all very, very funny.

________________

45: He Made The Couple Happy

OLIVER MARMADUKE was a man of large ambitions and slender means. It's too bad that his bankroll wasn't as big as his desire to aid humanity, because he certainly would have made this dizzy world a better place In which to live. Hp was, as Shakespeare or Winchell once said, a man in a million.

Charity was this man's middle name. Charity was his hobby, his vocation, his great mission in life. He was forever making speeches for some cause or other. No flag day was complete without his assistance.

In his enthusiasm for his work, Oliver sometimes forgot that he was a very lonely person. He liked to talk of matrimony, and of the blessings to be derived from a satisfactory union. Whenever it was possible in one of his speeches, he spoke of marriage— of its innumerable joys and comforts.

"Marry young," he would advise his listeners. "It is the one true path to happiness."

Oliver, himself, had never married— which might possibly account for his point of view. I wouldn't know about that.

FROM HIS SMALL income Oliver managed to scrape by with the necessities of life and contribute a few dollars to his favorite charities. His pleasures were few, and his sole recreation was a stroll in the park each evening. If the night was warm he would sit for an hour or so on one of the benches. There he would relax and watch the occupants of the other benches. In time he came to know many of them by sight. And it was in that manner that he became interested in one particular couple.

They came there two or three nights each week, and they Invariably occupied the same bench. They talked together in low, intimate tones. The sight of these two filled Oliver Marmaduke with a great deal of pleasure. Their young love was a touching thing. Some day soon, he reflected somewhat enviously, they would marry. They would have their own little home— and love— and children.

But before long he began to suspect that there wasn't complete happiness between these two. The girl seemed downcast, and the boy seldom smiled. Passing close to them one evening, Oliver heard snatches of their conversation.

"It's tough," he heard the boy say. "Terribly tough. Just because we haven't enough money, we've got to go on like this indefinitely."

"I know," was the girl's reply. "And I suppose by the time we have enough money, we'll both be old."

Oliver was deep in thought as he walked homeward. His tender heart ached for the countless young couples who were kept apart, by financial difficulties. He sighed for the pair on the park bench.

There was a week when they didn't come. For a while. Oliver feared that they had grown tired of waiting, and had given up hope and each other. Then he grew happy as he decided that they might have married, in spite of all obstacles.

But one night they came back. They sat on the same bench, and talked together in the same low, earnest tones. The girl seemed more downcast than ever, and the boy, too.

That night Oliver decided to do something about the situation. He must help these young people who wanted so badly to marry. He hadn't much money, outside of his small income. There were a few hundred dollars in the bank that he had been saving for any emergency that might arise. Now he thought of that money, and he thought of his unknown young friends.

"It isn't right that they should want to marry, and not be able to," he told himself. "All my life I've been preaching about charity and about folks getting married— and this Is the first chance I've had to really do something."

By this time Oliver had reached his decision. He was going to give his money to these youngsters.

He was at his favorite spot two nights later. The money was in an envelope In an inside pocket. Anxiously, he waited for the boy and girl to arrive. And when they did come, he was trembling with excitement. He arose and walked to the entrance of the park. A newsboy approached him with a paper.

"I'll give you a quarter," he offered, "it you'll do an errand for me. You see those two people there on that bench? I want you to deliver this envelope to them. You're not to tell them who gave it to them. You're merely to say that a friend sent it. Understand?"

The boy nodded. And Oliver watched him walk off with the envelope.

"This is a little present," he had written. "from one who hopes to bring you happiness."

He waited until the envelope was delivered Into the man's hands. Ho saw him tear it open. He saw the girl's mouth open in a joyful exclamation. And then he walked slowly by the bench.

"I can hardly believe it!" The girl's voice was almost tearful. "Isn't it wonderful. Bill? Oh, who do you think could have done it? "

"I don't know." He scratched his head. "It's the screwiest thing I ever heard of. But you know what it means, don't you, Mary? We don't have to wait any longer!"

Oliver Marmaduke walked on, and his heart was warm with the satisfaction of his noble and generous deed. When he was out of earshot, the girl spoke again.

"Enough money!" she carolled. "No need to put it off any longer now!"

"No." Her companion smiled broadly. "And you've been a good scout about it all, Mary. I hope that guy you're in love with appreciates you. "Lord, what a break! Enough money, at last, so we can get a divorce!"

_________________

46: Broadway Attorney

THE LAWYER smiled reassuringly at the youth. "You know my reputation," he said, "and you know that, when you talk to me, you can tell me the entire truth without any worry whatsoever."

The young man nodded nervously. "I know that. I know you're the greatest lawyer in the world. I But I've done a terrible thing, I'm facing jail for a long, long time. And I'm frightened."

The attorney shrugged. "You're not the first man to be in that situation," he observed suavely, "and I assure you that you will certainly not be the last. Now, listen. If you want me to advise you, start at the beginning and tell me your story.

"I've met you in the cafes several I times and I like you. Otherwise I assure you that I wouldn't be bothering I with you in the first place. Make up your mind that I can help you and stop all this nervousness. Go ahead."

The young man wet his lips. "When you saw me around the cafes," he began, "you must have felt that, because I tossed money around as though it meant nothing to me, I was the son of some multi-millionaire who was out to spend a million or two as quickly as possible. I only wish to God that that were true.

"It's not. I'm actually a teller in a bank. And when I tell you that, you already know most of the story. I guess that any time a bank teller goes on a spending spree, the answer isn't too difficult to supply."

"I don't know how I started. Oh, well. I guess that's not quite true. I started to steal because I liked the Broadway life. I suppose you've listened to many similar cases, but I honestly believed that I could return every penny before they'd ever catch up with me. "You know how it goes. If I owed $5,000 to the bank, I figured that it would be simple to make that up in a stock deal or by cashing one good bet on a horse. I kept taking more and more— and the more I bet or the more I gambled on the stocks the more I lost.

"As I understand it, there is to be an examination of the books and records within two or three days. There isn't a chance in the world that I can replace the money I took in that time— or in any time. Because, Mr. Fallon, I have stolen almost $150,000 dollars."

The attorney whistled. "One hundred and fifty thousand dollars!" he repeated. "You do things thoroughly, don't you? You spoke the truth when you stated that you had no chance of replacing the money. We must figure some other way out of the difficulty."

He looked out of the window. His mind seemed a million miles away. Suddenly he wheeled in his chair.

"Can you steal $300,000 dollars more?" was his amazing question.

The teller's mouth opened wide. He started to talk. He stopped. He swallowed hard. Then the words came. "I— I think so," he replied. "In fact, I'm sure of it. Nobody suspects me at the moment, and the entire organisation trusts me implicitly. I can take that much— and more— without any trouble. But why?"

The Broadway attorney, one of the most famous characters in courtroom history, waved a hand. "Don't ask too many questions. If you want to put yourself in my hands, do exactly as I advise you. And I think I can get you out of this.

"There are three things you will have to do. First, you will take the $300,000 at your earliest opportunity, and turn it over to me. Secondly, you will sign a statement that I will dictate. And last, you will leave for South America on the first boat after I have the money in my hands.

"Then, within three months, you will be able to return to America without the slightest trouble. It may even be sooner than that; it all depends, of course, on the way things go. Do you want to go through with it?"

The young man nodded.

"Yes. It's the only chance I have."

EXACTLY three days later the attorney sat before a gathering of the bank officials. He had been talking for fully half an hour. Now he leaned back and lit a cigarette.

"And there, gentlemen," he concluded easily, "is the entire story. Because he was underpaid and because he couldn't withstand temptation, that boy stole $450,000. I tell you very frankly that he has gone to Europe and that there isn't a chance that you will ever catch him.

"But if, by some great coincidence, you do catch him— then what? The money is still gone, and all the jails in the world will not bring it back to you. Consider my proposition carefully, and I think that common sense will show you its worth.

"Give me a signed statement that the boy will not be prosecuted, and I will have him turn back $150,000 of the $450,000 that he stole. Before he left, he told me that he still had that sum in a vault. I know that with a convincing talk on my part I can have him return it to you.

"You see how very simple my proposition really is, gentlemen? You have lost $450,000 dollars. By a move that will mean nothing to you, you can cut that loss to $300,000 dollars. Surely there can be no doubt as to which is the best way to turn.

"I'm going back to my office. You can call me at your leisure."

THE following morning, the attorney wirelessed his client's boat and told him to return to America from the next port. Then, looking at the $150,000 dollars he had added to his bank account, he smiled happily.

"Making money is easy," he mused. "If you know how."

_________________

47: Gallant Lady And The Truth

THE office was full of books. Around the walls, every available inch was crammed with law books. They all seemed to have red bindings. And they were all fat. And smug. And ponderous. If you could forget the books, you'd notice five persons who made sounds with their voices and motions with their hands.

They were all there to see justice done— out of court. Poppa Brent, rich, ruddy, and relentless, wanted his son, Winstead, freed of marriage. Poppa's attorney, A. Z. Lome, a powerful lawyer for powerful people, uttered polite noises. Winstead, soft of chin and brain, sat admiring Poppa. Jennie Burton, a tiny thing with a frightened monkey face and bony hands, sat staring at the Weak Willie she had married. Her attorney, C. C. Blom, nasal and noisy, was obviously trying to impress Poppa Brent.

The case was simple. Winstead, with everything in his favor except brains, had taken up with Jennie. Jennie, poor and credulous, thought Winstead was the nuts. They were married. There was a baby named Walter. And now Poppa wanted to shelve Jennie with as little noise as possible. They met in Lome's office to decide the details. And Poppa hogged the show. As usual.

"This," he said with finality, "is a simple matter. There should be no trouble whatever in reaching an amicable settlement. I have arranged for Winstead to take up residence in a western State. There, after a few months, he will file suit for an annulment, charging fraud and deceit."

"Wait a minute," whined Blom. "My client objects to this procedure. My client has perpetrated neither fraud nor deceit―"

"Shut up," said Poppa casually. "Let me finish first. I'll listen to you later. My idea is to let Winstead file the suit. Jennie, of course, will not defend. The suit will go uncontested and everybody will be happy."

He turned on a brief smile.

"Of course," he added, "to recompense this girl, we'll have to see that she gets a suitable cheque. She looks like a sensible person to me." He beamed at her momentarily. "She realises that her marriage was a mistake. She knows that Winstead is out of her class. And she knows how impossible it would be for me to allow her to sue my son. Winstead must sue her. And, I might add. with a minimum of publicity."

Lome nodded.

Winstead was busy, winding his watch. Jennie kept shaking her head negatively and looked more frightened than ever. Blom grinned amiably to the old man.

"The cheque," he said brightly. "This girl has been through a lot, Mr. Brent. Now. about how much do you figure—?"

"Hundred and fifty thousand," snapped Poppa. "Not a cent more."

Blom staggered. He had figured fifty thousand.

"We can't consider such a ridiculous sum," he shouted, when his voice returned. "Why, you can't buy an affection such as this girl holds for your son." He started to close the zipper on his brief case. "We wouldn't think—"

The old man's eyes glittered. "I said a hundred and fifty," he whispered icily. "And that, my friend, is that. If you don't take it, try bucking the Brent name and money. See what it gets you. Now take it or leave it."

Blom unzipped the zipper. He whispered in Jennie's ear. Jennie stared at the rug and said nothing. Blom shrugged. "All right," he said happily. "We accept."

"Fine. Fine," said Poppa Brent. "Now as for the details, they should be easy to settle. Naturally, the baby is a Brent, and, as such, is entitled to the attention and care and background that only we can give him. So, naturally, we'll―"

Jennie suddenly came to life.

"Oh, no, you don't," she shouted. "No, you don't. You can do what you want with me, Mr. Brent. But that baby is mine. And if you stand there and talk until you're purple, that baby is going to stay with me. That's my baby. You hear? Mine."

Blom tried to make her sit down. He kept pulling at her. He could see the hundred and fifty thousand sailing out the window. He tried to shush her, but she continued to yell. Winstead turned around to stare at her. Finally she subsided.

Poppa smiled down at her paternally. "This woman," he said softly, "is a bit upset. She doesn't know what she's saying. So I forgive her. But if she does not become reasonable within the next few minutes, I'm going to wash my hands of this whole mess, and drag her through the courts. We'll prove that she's not a fit mother. We'll prove that she's disreputable. We'll prove that she's an unfaithful wife. We'll prove―"

Jennie smiled sardonically. "You don't really believe that," she murmured. "Not really."

"Of course not," the old man admitted. "But we're going to have that baby. That baby is a Brent, and must have the best in life. And, whether you like it or not, I'm going to see that he gets it. Even if I have to arrange the evidence."

Jennie rubbed the side of her face nervously.

"All right," she said quietly, "you asked for it, mister. Now you're going to get it. I had hoped that I'd never have to tell you this, but I'm forced to. Mr. Brent, just forget about your son's baby. Because it isn't your son's.

"Oh, don't look so shocked. It's not as terrible as all that. I've been unfaithful to your son. And the man who is the real father is as much of a nobody as I am. There's no Brent blood in my baby."

All bedlam broke loose. Winstead called his wife names. Poppa looked as though he bordered on a stroke. Lome actually showed astonishment. Blom could have killed her. And all the time, even when they were talking, she went on reciting the details. In the end, Poppa agreed to let her have the baby. The papers were drafted and initialled. Jennie and Blom got their hundred and fifty thousand and left without a backward glance.

AFTER they had gone, Lome shook his head and smiled. "You know." he murmured half to himself, "I admire that girl. She knows how to put a story across. There's no doubt in the world that the baby is a Brent. But she had to lie in order to keep the baby for herself. It was a good move, and well timed. That girl is all right."

"Of course she lied," grunted Poppa. "But I don't care. I've got my son back, anyway."

Winstead smiled weakly at his father.

IN A taxicab, Jennie looked out the window as she talked to Blom. "I hated to do it," she said. "It's a humiliating thing. But I couldn't help it. Now I'm glad that I at least had the gumption to tell the truth!"

__________________

48: Worker's Man

FOR A long time , the man had been staring at his newspaper. And for a long time, his eyes hadn't moved from the same spot. Finally he gave up his pretence of reading, and tossed the paper aside.

His wife looked up. "What is it, Will?" she asked tiredly. "You worryin' again?"

The man nodded gloomily. "Yeah," he sighed. "And you can't blame me, can you? Look at the way things are goin' down at the shop. Business has fallen off somethin' terrible the last couple of months. And―"

"And," his wife interrupted, "you're wonderin' what's goin' to become of you, I know just what you're goin' to say, so what's the use of sayin' it?"

Small wonder that this woman knew exactly what her husband was going to say. He had been repeating those same words, at frequent intervals, for at least ten years.

The man frowned at his wife.

"Here now, Martha," he asserted peevishly, "that's no way to talk to me. I got a right to worry about things when conditions are like they are." He stared at his slippered feet. "I'm gettin' older, Martha. And if it comes to lettin' somebody else go, I know they ain't goin' to keep me in preference to the younger men. "Look at what's happened down there. Most of the old hands are gone already; swell fellers like Clayton Quaw and Billy Hardey and Jimmy Niesen. I can't help feelin' that maybe I'll be next."

Martha shrugged. "You ain't gonna be fired," she consoled. "But even if it did happen, we wouldn't be as bad off as a lot of others. We've got this house, and a little money put by in the bank And if things got real bad, you got them bonds you could sell. Things ain't really so bad" Will arose from his chair and began to pace the room.

"It's not that," he observed. "You know it ain't, Martha. What worries me is the thought of havin' no job. Havin' nothin' to do all day but sit around the house and loaf. That's what I couldn't stand. The idleness, I mean."

"Well," Martha pointed out, "there's always lots of little things to be done around the house. And then there's the garden."

"The garden." The man's voice was bitter. "Just because I'm sixty years old, do I have to spend the rest of my life foolin' around a garden?

"A man needs work. Real work. I got to keep busy. I'm tellin' you, Martha, that I couldn't stand it if I had to be idle all day long. That ain't my nature."

"Yeah," said his wife. "I know."

Martha understood her man. She knew this fear in his heart was very real, and she tried always to be patient and encouraging. It was difficult to watch the other men who had been retired or fired. It was tough to see them wandering about during the day, trying to fill up the long hours and losing interest in so many things. For Will, Martha knew, being fired would be in the nature of a great calamity. Because, as he told her time and time again, he was an active man, and he had to keep busy. Otherwise, he told her bluntly, he feared for his sanity.

She tried to interest him in a hobby. No good. She pointed out very frequently that they were fairly well situated for people of their age. That argument failed to impress him. It was work he kept harping upon. Work, Work, Work.

"There's a lot of talk in the papers these days," she said one night, "about a pension for people of our age. Wouldn't it be wonderful if the bill went through? Imagine having all that money to spend!"

Will shook his head stubbornly. "It's a lot of nonsense," he cried. "The plan is silly, 'cause it can't work out. And, even if it did, I don't see where it would help me none. Money ain't everythin'. What they ought to do is to provide jobs for men like us. Then they'd really be doin' somethin'."

So both husband and wife looked forward with great dread to the day when Will would lose his job. That it would happen— and happen soon— was inevitable. The best they could do was to pray that it might be delayed as long as possible.

Their prayers, sadly enough, were of no avail. Will walked into the house one Saturday afternoon, and tossed himself into a chair. His expression told the complete story.

"Did― did it happen?" asked Martha.

Will nodded slowly. "Yes, Martha. After all these years, they kicked me out. Got the notice in my envelope down at the shop. I'm washed up now. Through. Finished."

His wife went to him. She placed an arm around his shoulders.

'I'm sorry, Will," she said simply. "But please don't take it too hard. Things could be a lot worse. You need a rest. Suppose you and I went down to the seashore for a vacation and then "

"A vacation!" The man almost barked the words. "That's all I'll be havin' in life from now on. That's all I m good for. Old man, that's me. Just an old guy who's good for nothing at all in this world.

"I don't want no vacations. I want work. I want it very badly— and they kick me out. So now what am I gonna do? Just sit around the house and twiddle my thumbs. My heart's broken, Martha. Busted in a million pieces. There ain't much left in life for me now."

Martha stood it for three days. She kept hoping against hope that Will might become reconciled to the situation and find some new interests. But that didn't happen.

And after three days, it became very obvious that both of them would go crazy if something didn't happen. So Martha did the only thing possible under the circumstances. Without saying anything to her husband, she went down to the shop to ask them to take Will back.

The manager of the factory listened politely to her story. When she finished, he shook his head and told her in a kindly manner that he was very sorry.

"But there must be something he could do," Martha begged desperately. "Some little job around here. Sweeping floors, or somethin' like that"

"I'm sorry," the man said again. "But we cannot rehire your husband. If it's a question of a pension, I'll look into the matter and see what—"

Martha stood up. She was trembling. "We don't want your pension," she cried. "It ain't that at all. It's Just that my husband don't want to be idle. Will has worked for you for a long time and I think he deserves somethin' better than this. It don't seem right for him to be laid off just because he's gettin' older."

The manager seemed somewhat annoyed.

"If you'll pardon me," he said, "that was not the reason your husband was fired. And if you want the truth, I'll tell you why it happened.

"We can't have men around here who don't want to keep busy. We had to let him go, because we found him loafing on the job!"

______________

49: Superstition

BUTCH slapped the table vigorously. " I'm tellin ' you, Margie," he said, "that I ain't gonna touch the job if it's got a thirteen in it. And I'm tellin' it to you right to your kisser. No thirteens for Butch Muggins."

Margie nodded in complete agreement. "Listen, Butch," she returned earnestly, "you're my guy, and I'm screwy about you. You got a hunch on that thirteen stuff, and I'd be the last dame in the world to cross that hunch. So let's get down to business, 'cause we sure need the dough."

The man rubbed his chin. Margie was right about the dough angle. They needed money; needed it badly. But Butch Muggins was in too tough a spot to be taking many chances. And anything that involved number thirteen was absolute poison to him.

Strange about such things. Here was as tough a gentleman as ever cracked a safe. He had a prison record as long as the speech of a windy Congressman. Right now, he was wanted— oh, decidedly wanted!— by the police of several States. He'd battle a regiment at the drop of a gat. But mention the number thirteen to him, and he'd flee for his very life.

Silly superstition? Certainly it was. But silly superstitions are very handy things to have around. If it wasn't for them, half the world's short story writers would have starved to death long before this.

Butch made an effort to Justify his position. "I know you wouldn't steer me wrong, Margie. You're a good dame, and I like you." He waved a hand. "But, my gawd, I gotta be terrible careful now! "If the cops nail me again, I'll never get out. They ain't gonna get me if I can help it, and you know I ain't afraid of nothin' that walks on this earth." He paused. "The only think that worries me," he went on slowly, "is thirteen."

The girl leaned across the kitchen table. She spoke with quiet conviction.

"Butch," she said, "I'm swearin' to you on my life that there's no thirteen in this thing— and I know there's at least seven grand in the touch. Lefty Dugan gimme the layout, and we slip him two grand before the getaway. That leaves us five gees for ourselves. And I'm tellin' you, Butch, that the job is the biggest cinch in history."

"Maybe." grunted Butch.

"Go on. What's the dope?"

"Here it is," the girl continued swiftly. "The old guy — he's about seventy, Dugan says— lives on the fourth floor of a walk-up flat on West 73rd Street. He—"

"Wait a minute," cried Butch. "Seven and three make ten, and four more adds up to— yeah, that's okay so far. That makes fourteen."

"Sure." Maggie saw she was progressing nicely. "It's just like I told you, honey. Now look: This old guy goes to the bank the day before yesterday and takes out this seven thousand bucks in ready cash.

"He's gonna give it to his daughter for some kind of a payoff, and he don't think nobody knows nothin' about it.

"The dame's comin' down to get the dough on Tuesday mornin'. This is only Sunday night, so you can nail it tomorrow without no trouble at all.

"Dugan gets soused with one of the bank guys the other night, and he learns the whole story. The bank guy is tryin' to point out how foolish some people are in leavin' money around, and Dugan yesses him to death. Then Dugan tells it to me for you— and there we are."

Mr. Butch Muggins eyes were beginning to sparkle.

"I getcha, kid," he observed. "It sounds okay. What's the old guy's name?"

"Ben Green."'

"Ben Green," repeated Butch. He began to count on his fingers. "One, two, three for Ben. Four, five, six, seven, eight for Green. No thirteen there. What's the address of the house?"

"1465," replied Margie.

"1465," mused Butch. "One and four is five— and six is eleven— and five is sixteen. That's okay. No thirteen there. What's tomorrer's date?"

"The ninth."

"Well," said Butch, "then that's okay, too." He shrugged. "When I don't find no thirteens standin' in my way, baby, I'm a guy who's ready to go right into action. I'll get that dough tomorrer night — and then you'n me'll blow town pronto." He regarded her closely. "Don't think I'm nuts, baby," he added apologetically. "About that 13 thing, I mean. I just can't help myself."

The lady arose and seated herself In Butch's lap. "I understand, baby," she said. "Gimme a kiss an' forget about it."

Butch forgot about it.

EXACTLY 24 hours later, Butch Muggins was in the custody of the police. To say that he was surprised would be a gross understatement. He was completely amazed.

The first part of his plan had succeeded admirably. Nothing to it, really. He had gone to the house in question, entered without the slightest difficulty, walked up to the proper flat, and found his elderly victim in bed. Most politely, he had requested the whereabouts of the seven thousand dollars. The elderly gentleman had handed it over. Then, also as politely as possible. Butch had hit him over the head with a piece of lead pipe he always carried with him in case of just such emergencies. And then, just as he was about to leave, the law had walked in. Patrolman Murphy, shield number 2562, had entered with his gun drawn. Butch had no chance to argue. And 15 minutes later, he was in a very choice cell.

He was talking to himself— and you are at liberty to listen in.

"I can't understand it," Butch Muggins muttered over and over. "Even the copper's shield don't add up to 13. No 13— and still I get pinched. I can't understand it."

IN FRONT of the 73rd Street flat, a youth was talking to a group of reporters.

"There was really nothing to it, fellers," he told the newspapermen. "I live on the third floor, and I saw that man enter the house. I didn't like his looks, so I told the cop on the corner about it. He did the rest."

"You're a pretty bright kid," said one of the reporters. "I'm gonna write a piece about you. How old are you?"

The boy threw out his chest. "Today's my birthday," he said proudly. "I'm thirteen."

_________________

50: Hail The Hero!

IT was probably the biggest thing that ever happened to Greenville. The customary births, marriages  and deaths were matters of course. But a new face— and a handsome one at that!— turned the town upside down with wild speculation.

The man bought the widow Murtree's house. It was an old house. It had eaves. And a porch. And vines. And a lawn. There was a large poplar tree at the side. The widow had always sat beneath that tree on summer afternoons. Sewing. He came into town mysteriously. He bought the house and moved In within a week. His name was Edgar Adel, and he was quite tall. He had a handsome face and a tinge of gray, like a movie actor. He also had a pronounced limp.

And that was all they knew about him. Even Jud Lanson, who was hired to keep the house and grounds clean, knew no more. The widow Murtree couldn't help solve the problem either. All she knew was that the handsome stranger had paid cash for the place. Nothing more. She didn't even know where he came from. These were exciting days in Greenville!

Bolman, the grocer, had his own theories. He spread his bony hands on the counter and winked.

"Greenville," he whispered, "is a good place for a hideout."

Mrs. Quaw pressed an index finger against the side of her head. "I never, never forget a face," she mused. "I've seen that man's face before. In a newspaper somewhere. It just won't come to me now. But I seem to remember a kidnapping "

Oscar Gordon, the postmaster, shrugged. "His name ain't Adel. That's a cinch. If it was, he'd get mall, wunt he?"

Oscar spat tobacco juice, missing the spittoon by three inches.

"It might be Edel," he continued mysteriously. "There was some society man by that name that kilt his wife some years ago. Yep. Might be Edel. But not Adel."

Josie Wilkens, the perennial maiden of the town, compressed her lips and drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders "Wal, all's I got to say is that it's up to Councilman Billingsly to proteck the fair name of Greenville. We got a stranger in our midst. Nobody don't know nuthin' about him. And if he ain't respectable, Billingsly has got to proteck us girls."

When Edgar Adel walked down the street, everybody stared. He seldom went outdoors, except' to go for groceries. He walked slowly, limping all the while. His chin was up, his chest out. But his eyes held a distant look, as though he wasn't aware of what went on around him. They watched him from across the street, from doorways, from behind curtains. But they hadn't the remotest idea whether he was a rich man, poor man, or beggar man.

Then Jud Lanson galloped to the post office one day fairly bursting with news. He was so out of breath that he couldn't talk. Oscar Gordon pulled out a bottle that was labelled cough medicine and made Jud take a swig. By this time half the town had edged into the post office to hear the news.

"By gee," gasped Jud. "He's a dad-blamed hero! A war hero!"

Eyes popped as Jud told his story. He had been dusting the furniture in the living room when it all happened. As the hired man, that was part of Jud's job. He had turned around to find Edgar Adel standing near the doorway and polishing a whole array of glittering medals. When Adel saw him looking, he clamped the lid on the plush box that contained the medals, and quietly went to his own room.

Oscar Gordon, the postmaster, pound his fist on the desk. "We're a nice bunch of fatheads," he admitted candidly. "Here we been suspectin' this man— this hero who was too modest to talk about what he done for his country. I don't mind sayin' I'm ashamed of myself."

"Yep," agreed Mrs. Quaw, "it all comes back to me now. I saw Mr. Adel's picture in the paper with the President of the United States. He was a-givin' him a medal. It's all as clear as a lily pond now."

" 'Pears to me," observed Councilman Billingsly, "that 'twould be in order if we made Mr. Adel a honorary first citizen of Greenville. Lord knows 'taint often we get visited by notables. And when a world war hero who's loaded down with medals comes here, it's only decent to make some sort of fuss 'bout it." It was done.

But Mr. Edgar Adel only smiled when the World War was mentioned. He refused point blank to attend any ceremonies. They sent him a scroll, naming him honorary first citizen of Greenville— but he never even hung it on the wall. It was his modesty, everyone said, and the town spoke with reverence of Edgar Adel. There were those who tried to cultivate his friendship, but they all met with a stone wall of reticence. Mr. Adel kept his own counsel.

He lived in Greenville for six years. During that time his proud manner and his limp became legend. No travelling salesman ever got within the confines of Greenville without hearing of the great Edgar Adel. And, as time went on, he left his home less and less frequently.

One day he asked Bolman, the grocer, for credit. Said his funds were running low. Bolman was the happiest man in the world. Not only would he extend credit to the hero— but did Mr. Adel need a little cash? The hero said no at first, but he finally borrowed 250 dollars from Bolman "for a short while." That was a lot of money to the grocer, but he passed it over with pleasure. And for a long time after, he boasted to the town that Adel thought enough of him to borrow money.

Then one fine summer morning Edgar Adel left Greenville as mysteriously as he had arrived. I mean to say, he died. Died in bed. When Jud Lanson walked into his room to awaken him, there was Mr. Adel— dead.

Councilman Billingsly had the town bell tolled for half an hour in slow measure. An impressive funeral was voted for the quiet hero. Greenville closed up tight on Wednesday, and everybody attended the services. A flag was draped across the casket, and the man was buried with the greatest respect. Never in the history of Greenville had so many real tears been shed. Oscar Gordon fired five shots in the air as the body was being lowered. It was a touching testimonial; a hero's reward,

Just three days later Jud Lanson came running out of the house with the all important medals that couldn't be located for the funeral. And, when he displayed them in Bolman's grocery store, you can believe me when I say that many more tears were shed.

For the medals were inscribed to "Edgar Adel, best Pastry Cook in Paddington County for the years 1915-1916-1917-1918 and 1919

_________________

51: Leg Man

HE WAS a little chap. About this high. He had a lean, hungry-looking face, and his hair was always in need of combing. At first glance you'd say he was quite young. But, after a while, you'd notice the tuft of grey above each ear. And the change purse under each eye.

They called him Nappy. In the city room of his newspaper even the copy boys addressed him as Nappy. Only the cashier and a few old-timers knew his real name. The others never bothered to ask. Nappy was a leg man.

Know what a leg man is? Well, he's a reporter who is hired to run down stories— but is seldom asked to write them. He uses a telephone instead of a typewriter. Did a wealthy widow commit suicide and leave all her dough to a home for stray dogs? (Hey, Nappy. Get up to 68th and Park in a hurry!) Was a liner sinking at sea? (Hey, Nappy! Grab that phone book and check the passenger list!) Was there a movie star due in town today? (Hey, Nappy! Hop over to the station and ask her if it's true that her sixth husband will be an Indian chief.)

Leg man. That was Nappy. At the big fire, you wondered about the little feller who stood beside the battalion chief. Two to one it was Nappy. At the murder scene, the little guy who flashed the police card and darted up the steps to view the body was also Nappy. At the poultry show the gentleman who smelled of whisky and held his nose was— Right you are. Nappy.

This man was a conscientious worker. When the city desk sent him on a job. Nappy could be depended upon to get every bit of information. He was never known to shirk. He'd get everything possible. And then he'd phone the office. "Hello, boss. This is Nappy, on the kidnap. Naw, not much. They claim the note was a phoney. You want me to come in and write it? No? All right, then. Gimme Howard, willya? He understands English."

He'd stand in the booth, muttering to himself. Why didn't the boss order him to come in and write it? Why bother with a rewrite man? Couldn't he write rings around any rewrite man that ever lived? Why— "Oh. hello, Howard. This is Nappy, on the Brigham snatch. Listen, Howard. Try to catch it just as I tell it. You can ask questions afterward. Oke? Fine. Then listen: "Although Mr. Lemuel Plankington Brigham is still certain that his ten-year-old son. Joseph, is alive, District Attorney Schwartzbaum claims that handwriting experts are convinced the ransom note is the work of a crank. The secret code, left in the child's bedroom, was not carried out in—"

Poor Nappy. His great ambition in life was to see a story published exactly as he had written it— and he was doomed never to realise that ambition. Sometimes the editor did tell him to come in and write his story. Not very often. But sometimes. On those infrequent occasions Nappy was the happiest man in town. He'd bounce out of the phone booth, dash into the subway and race up the stairs to the city room. He was going to write a story! At a typewriter he would roll a piece of paper into the carriage. Slowly, his index fingers would pick out the letters. Slowly, the great story would take shape. Page after page would go to the city editor's desk. And at last, when it was all completed, Nappy would leave the office, smiling from ear to ear.

As soon as he was gone the city editor would call Howard. "Nappy," he would say casually, "has just written himself another book." He'd toss the many pages to the rewrite man. "Glance through this junk— and boil it down to two paragraphs for the next edition."

As he grew older, Nappy became grimmer. When the city editor said: "Come in and write the story," Nappy cursed softly to himself. He knew it meant writing his fool head off— and then giving it to some rewrite man to mangle. Nappy wouldn't mind it so much if their stuff was better written than his. But it wasn't. Nappy was sure of that. His stories were written with meticulous care— and yet the boss never even glanced at them. Sometimes, when the paper wasn't too tight, the assistant city editor would use one or two of Nappy's stories as fillers at the bottoms of the pages. But never without changing them. Never.

Nappy put in more than twenty-five years as a leg man. Twenty-five years of chasing real alarms and interviewing false alarms. Twenty-five years of meeting boats on which he never sailed, trains on which he never rode, and people whom he never saw again. A long time, twenty-five years— and Nappy grew tired of waiting for death. He wasn't afraid of it; he was simply tired of waiting for it. Often, when he was drunk in the solitude of his room, he had to laugh at himself. Alcohol would make the situation seem funny. Here he was, a  reporter for twenty-five years— and he had never seen a story published as he had written it! He'd chuckle. Then he'd laugh. And then he'd howl until the tears came.

One night he laughed for the last time. He sat down and wrote a short note, signed it with a flourish, and turned on the gas. In the morning the room was filled with cops and doctors. The landlady stood in the gloomy hallway and cried in her apron. Nappy was dead.

The news spread quickly around the office. The general tenor of the comment was: "Izzat so? Nice feller."

The city editor shook his head sadly and phoned to make certain that funeral arrangements were made. Several of the old-timers chipped in for flowers. The cashier merely grunted and removed Nappy's name from the payroll. Another leg man was sent out to cover the story. He came back with Nappy's short suicide note— and very little else. He wasn't as good a leg man as Nappy had been.

The city editor read the note over and over again. He kept shaking his head as though he didn't quite understand. Nappy had died, according to this note, because he was tired of living. No other reason. Just tired. Grabbing a pencil, the city editor ruled off the paragraphs on the suicide note. Nappy deserved an obituary and the city editor was going to see that he got it. He wrote a short lead to the note and took it to the composing room himself.

And so it was that the strangest thing happened. Death accomplished what life had failed to give. Nappy's final story, the suicide note, went through all editions that day— unchanged!

_________________

52: Last Request

TO BEGIN this story, we'll have to travel back some thirty years. You mustn't permit that to alarm you, because your correspondent likes to go back through the years every now and then. It gives him a chance to catch up with some of the radio comedians of today.

At any rate, it was back around 1906 that Faro Carson and Whitey Gans first met. They both went to work for the same gambling house in the Middle-West. Gans ran one of the two roulette wheels in the joint, while Carson sat against the wall in the opposite corner of the room and dealt the Faro game.

Whitey and Faro liked each other immensely from the very beginning. They spoke the same lingo, and their ideas ran along similar lines. Both were fairly young, and both were ambitious. So it was perhaps inevitable that they would one day become partners in their own enterprise. Which is exactly what happened. They worked diligently, pooled their resources, found a good location— and opened their own gambling house.

Soon, as in all short stories, they were prospering nicely. It's only in real life that most gaming houses go bankrupt in short order.

Time rolled on, and Whitey and Faro were two very happy men. Theirs was a genuine friendship, and they enjoyed their work together. For some ten years they moved serenely along. Nothing had happened to disturb their partnership, and there was only one thing that had a chance of doing it. That one thing finally arrived. Her name was Ethel.

Faro fell for Ethel in short order. Overnight, she made a changed man out of this man who made change. His business began to suffer. He kept seeing Ethel's face before him, and one evening he handed a player the correct change for a 100-dollar bill. He knew then that it was time to talk to his partner. So, after they closed the place that night, Faro broke the news to Whitey.

"No sense beatin' around the bush with you. Whitey," he said. "I'm stuck on Ethel— so stuck that I don't know whether I'm comin' or goin'. You're the best pal a guy ever had, and I hate like blazes to quit you. But, because you're a swell pal, I guess you're gonna understand.

"I'm gonna marry Ethel. She don't like gamblin', so I'm gonna quit the racket and move East. Name your own price for my share of the business, 'cause I'm sellin' out to you right now."

Whitey lit a cigar and leaned back in his chair.

"Faro," he replied, "I ain't buyin' your share. Well sell the place tomorrow, and we'll split fifty-fifty. Without you, I couldn't stick around here. I'll go north and open a new place entirely. Things'll feel better if I do it that way." He paused. "Faro," he went on, "we been together a long time. I'd like to keep on bein' together. I'd like to tell you a lotta things about dames, and how you'd be better off stickin' with me, and such like. But I ain't gonna open my kisser in that direction.

"All I'm gonna do. Faro, is shake hands and wish you and that skirt all the luck in the world. And we're gonna promise each other that, if one of us ever needs anythin' in the years to come, he'll ask the other guy for it. No matter what it is. Is that okay with you?"

Whitey extended his hand. Faro grasped it firmly. "That's a go, Whitey," he said slowly. "If I need you— or you need me— we'll get together. All the luck in the world to you, Whitey."

Whitey smiled. "Keep a little for yourself, pal," he suggested. "You'll be needin' it more than me."

FOR MORE than nineteen years Whitey and Faro did not see each other again. Perhaps once a year they exchanged letters. And it was only through this meagre correspondence that each knew what the other was doing. Whitey had done well, as he figured to do. He had opened a gambling house in a new location and had prospered through the years.

Faro had never returned to the gaming racket. His wife had presented him with a son about a year after their marriage, and she had died in the effort. So Faro had invested in a small business in the East, and had raised his motherless son to the most comfortable surroundings he could provide.

Then, one morning about a year ago, Whitey received an unexpected letter from his old pal. The promise they had exchanged so long before was suddenly recalled. Faro was dying, his letter said, and he wanted very much to see Whitey immediately. It was about his son, Faro's letter went on. He wanted to talk to Whitey about the boy's future before death snatched him from the picture. Would Whitey come at once? Whitey didn't hesitate for a moment. His old partner needed him, and that was all he had to know. He packed a grip hurriedly, and tossed a wad of bills into the case. If Faro needed any money, it would be there for the asking.

An hour later Whitey was on his way.

THE FOLLOWING morning found Whitey sitting at Faro's bedside. As he looked at the other man, Whitey verged on tears for what was possibly the first time in his life. Thin, feeble, gasping, it was obvious that Faro wasn't good for more than another few hours on this earth. The dying man made a tiny attempt at a smile.

"I knew you'd come, old pal," he said haltingly. "And you're just about in time. too. I'll be meetin' the Big Dealer almost any minute now." His voice grew lower. "I gotta talk fast, Whitey. So listen close.

"I love my kid. He's nineteen now, and I want him to have every chance in life. We're in a tough world, Whitey, and I want my son's future to be assured. I don't want him to be broke, or to need nothin' as he goes along."

Whitey pressed the other man's bony hand. "Okay, partner." he cried. "Tell me what I gotta do for him. I'll do anythin' you want, Faro. Anythin.' "

Faro clutched at his throat. His words were coming with great difficulty.

"I got fifteen thousand bucks in the bank." he murmured. "I want you to handle that for the kid. Take that dough. And invest it for him."

Sure," cried Whitey, biting his lip. "Sure I will, in invest it for the kid. Is there any business you wanna suggest?"

Faro was going rapidly now. He tried to nod.

"Yes, Whitey." he whispered. "I want you to take that fifteen thousand dollars and give my boy an interest in your roulette wheel. And remember, Whitey, that I love my son, and I wanna see him raised right. So be sure the wheel is run crooked!"

___________

53: The Goal

THE LITTLE MAN sat in the shadowy corner. He was a tiny chap. About five feet tally I'd say. Maybe less.

His eyes, pale blue and watery, stared ahead with a hopeless expression. His pallid face was a study in tragedy, and his thin hands moved nervously about, one over the other. Ordinarily, he was a silent man. For three days he had scarcely opened his mouth. But now, suddenly, he began to talk. And he talked. And he talked. The heavy-set man, who had been regarding him with something akin to disgust, leaned back to listen.

"It ain't fair, I tell you!" Peter Gordon's voice rose to a trembling squeak. "They never gimme a chance to get started. I always tried to do the best I could, but I was licked before I got started. Look at me, Joe."

He stood up and raised his head high. He looked like a little boy. A frightened little boy. "You see what I mean, Joe?" he queried. "From the very beginnin' my size was against me. I never had a chance."

The other man nodded. "Yeah," he said shortly. "I getcha."

Peter Gordon sighed.

"When I was a kid in school I was always the smallest guy in the class. All the other kids used to pick on me. I was afraid to open my kisser, for fear they'd take socks at me. And they did, too, plenty of times, for no reason at all.

"I guess the doctors got a fancy name for what a thing like that does to you. After a while it got so that I was afraid of anythin' and everythin'. I didn't stay in school very long.

"I was about twelve when my father yanked me out." His voice was now a steady whine. "I used to get up awful early to sell newspapers, and I was afraid to come home nights if I didn't sell enough of 'em. If I didn't bring home enough dough, the old man would take a sock at me.

" 'You won't never be good for nothin',' he used to say to me. 'You're nothin' but a skinny runt what's worthless to everybody. You oughta be out doin' some hard work, like I was at your age.' And then he'd hand me a coupla wallops, just to show me he wasn't kiddin'.

"So you see what I mean, don'tcha, Joe? I had it tough, right from the very start."

"Sure you did." Joe stared at his hands. "Sure."

The little man drew a deep breath. "You know," he went on, "I did have a pretty good job once— but only once. When I was about eighteen, I went to work in A factory. I swept the floors and did all the dirty work around the joint.

"I thought, when I was there, that I might have a chance to get ahead, like they say in the books. And once I even asked the boss if he'd put me to work down in the boiler-room, or on one of the big machines.

"But you know what he done, Joe? He laughed at me!

" 'A little shrimp like you,' he says to me, 'ain't fit for hard labor. We gotta have men what can stand hard work. You just go back to sweepin' the floors and forget about the other stuff.'

"Seems kinda silly in the tellin', Joe, but it was right after that I got married. I wasn't makin' enough to support a wife, but Mary was workin'— so we figured she could keep her job and we'd get along all right." He shook his head. "But we wasn't married a year when the baby came, and Mary had to quit work. We was up against it, and no kiddin'.

"The old sayin' is awful true, Joe. It never rains but what it pours. The baby wasn't four weeks old when the factory shut down and I lost my job. That was a fine thing, I can tell you. Here I had a wife and a baby to take care of, and no money comin' in. I was in a swell spot."

There was a strange light in his eyes now, and his voice became shriller. "You betcha, Joe," he repeated. "I was in a swell spot!"

"Hey." Joe cautioned, "pipe down, feller. Don't go gettin' yourself in a sweat."

Peter Gordon went right on, as though the other man hadn't spoken at all.

"I looked for a job. Honest to Gawd, I looked like crazy. For six months I went out every mornin"', tryin' to get any kind of a job. I woulda done anythin'; dug ditches, shovelled coal', anythin'. All I wanted was a chance to do some hard work.

"But what good did it do me? I'd go into a place, and the guy in charge would take one look at me and then bust out laughin'.

" 'Son,' they'd say to me, sneerin'-like, 'you couldn't do no hard work. What we need around here are real men. You better wait until you grow up. You ain't fit for no hard labor now.'

"It was always like that, Joe. Every place I went, it was the same thing. The only thing I was good for was what they call untrained labor, and nobody would gimme a chance at that. Too small, they said. Not big enough for hard work."

He paused for a moment. He sat without moving. Finally, Joe broke the silence.

"Well," he grunted, "go. on. Then what?"

"Then." the little man said softly, "I had to do somethin'. I couldn't stand by and see the wife and kid go hungry, could I? I had to get some dough some way. And I did.

"The first time I busted into a store I was scared to death. But after that it wasn't so hard. Even if I only got a few bucks at a clip, it helped plenty.

"After a while it got so I didn't even try to do nothin' else. What was the use? Any place I'd look for a job, they'd tell me I wasn't cut out for hard labor. So I was soon spendin' all my time on this other thing.

"I'd sleep most of the day, and I'd mooch around nights until I found a place that looked easy. I got together some tools, and I was doin' pretty handy."

A note of pride crept into his voice.

"Yes, sir. I did some pretty neat jobs all right. I woulda been a wizard at it if I coulda stuck." He shrugged. "But I couldn't stick," he went on. "The cops nailed me one night when I was workin' over a cheap safe. Once they got me, I didn't have a chance. They pinned all the jobs I done on me. and a lot more I hadn't done. "Seems, Joe, that they decided to make an example of me. And that's why I'll be here for such a long time"

Peter Gordon arose. He walked to the door of the prison cell and looked out through the bars. Then, suddenly, he began to laugh. It was a long, chilling, hysterical laugh.

"Hey," shouted Joe in alarm, "you goin' nuts? What's you laughin' at?"

The little man wheeled.

"Can't help it, Joe," he cried. "I was thinkin' of somethin' awful funny. All my life I wanna work hard— but they say I ain't fit for it. So I steal, and I'm caught. And I stand before a judge who looks at me and says—

" 'Ten years, young man— at hard labor!'"

__________________

54: Benefits Of Experience

IT WAS a family restaurant. Not big. Nor beautiful. But it had a nice, homey smell and the table service seemed always to be neat and clean. The gilt on the window advised pedestrians that they were passing the " Elite Restaurant." Down in the lower left-hand corner, a smaller legend said:

"M. Galononulous, Mgr.

But it is a mistake to tell you too much about the Elite. The man I want you to know is Mr. Mordecai Wentworth, a most elegant person, and easily the most pretentious individual who ever walked into the Elite. Mr. Wentworth had class. He was about 55, and his hair was snowy. His skin was soft and ruddy, and he had the portly manner of a benevolent baron. Everybody loved Mr. Wentworth. When he came into the restaurant, all the helps smiled a greeting. Wentworth was aces. Like most well-fed men of middle years, he was a philosopher of sorts. If you felt blue, Wentworth knew how to cheer you up. If you were in a dilemma Wentworth would steer you right. If you wanted to get some secret off your chest, he was your man.

One day he spotted a new kitchen boy. The kid was about 18, tall and skinny. He had a bright, eager face, and he went about his duties swiftly and silently. He was carrying a tray of dishes when Wentworth stopped him.

"What's your name, sonny?"

The kid grinned. "Rogoff." he said. "But my first name's Manuel."

Wentworth nodded. "A bit of Russian," he murmured, "and a dash of Spanish. Good combination. I'd like to introduce myself. My name is―"

"Oh, I know all about you, Mr. Wentworth. The chef told me about you early this morning."

"Indeed," murmured the other man. "How nice. Tell me, are you going to be a chef some day?"

The kid shook his head. "No, sir," he said emphatically. "I don't like cooking at all. I can't even fry eggs. I'd like to be like Mr. Galonopulous— own a restaurant!"

Mr. Wentworth sighed with the wisdom of years.

"Why," he asked pleasantly, "must you own a restaurant?"

"Oh, no special reason, Mr. Wentworth. I just figure I'd like to own one, that's all."

Wentworth looked reproachful. "My boy," he said, "you have an aimless ambition. If, instead of. being a boy here you were employed in a slaughter house, your ambition would be to own a ranch.

"Now let me explain something to you. All really great men were not obsessed with ambition. Many of them got to the top quite by accident. Others who spent a lifetime trying to get somewhere— achieved nothing.

"It is not wise to allow yourself to be burnt up inside with a consuming ambition. Take matters as they come. In stride, you might say. Let me illustrate, as an example, my own case."

The kid set the tray of dishes down and rubbed his hands on his apron.

"I have an old photo, somewhere," said Mr. Wentworth, "of the graduating class of old Number Six school in 1893. Many times in my life I have consulted that photo. There were only eleven boys, in that class. Ten of us with innocent eyes, thought the world was a luscious apple to be divided among us." He chuckled ironically. "Jeb Franklin was the smartest. He wanted to be a lawyer. And he was. He did fine until they disbarred him and he died of a broken heart.

"Henry Schor wanted to be a great merchant. He now owns a sizable department store, but his creditors keep him awake at night.

"And then there was Johnny Smith, who carried the world on his shoulders. He always said he'd be a banker. He is— but his children dissipate his millions and his wife is a notorious social climber."

The old man spoke murmurously, staring vacantly ahead as though he forgot that the boy was listening.

"Izzy Grafton wanted to study medicine. He did, and turned out to be a great doctor— but he lost a lot of money in the crash, and now his wife has left him.

"Joe Green was a likeable kid, but dull and unimaginative. He became a master bricklayer, and made 18 dollars a day— but he drinks like a fish, and will probably die a drunkard.

"Marty Williams was another one. He wanted to be an actor, and he almost starved around Broadway for about five years before a break came his way. Then he did very well for a time.

"But he tossed away all his money. When he did do well— and now he's just another ham who walks from office to office and tells you of his past successes.

"The same goes for the rest. Hilton, who'd laugh at anything; Raft, whose eyes were crossed, but who became a noted accountant; Quaw, who later wrote music— all of them had consuming ambitions. All of them were going to set fire to the world. Each was going to make his mark in the world."

The kid coughed apologetically.

"Well, Mr. Wentworth, it seems to mc they sort of made good, though."

The old man snorted. "Made good? Sure they did. But what good did it do them? Where did it get them? Nowhere. Rich men die quite as easily as poor men. A contented mind is the finest insurance in the world. Making good availed them nothing."

"Well," the kid said hesitantly, "what would you advise, Mr. Wentworth?"

The old man smiled. "Do as I did. Take life easily. I went to school only when I felt like it. If I didn't feel like going, I stayed away. When I got a job, I worked at it just as long as it held my interest. When my interest flagged, I gave it up and tried something else.

"Of course, I am not a millionaire. Not by any means. But I count myself a success in life in my own modest way. I have no wife to make me jealous or worrisome. And no children to disgrace me. I live my own life, and go my own way. And I most certainly would advise you, my boy, to do likewise."

The boy hastily grabbed his towel.

"Gee," he said, "excuse me, Mr. Wentworth. But I'd better get back to work. Mr. Galonopulous just walked in the restaurant, and I don't want him to think I'm lazy. I'm still new at the job."

"Fiddlesticks!" snorted Mr. Wentworth. "Anyone could tell at a glance that you're not lazy."

"But I'd better get busy, anyway," said the boy, backing away. "Excuse me, please."

"Certainly," said Mr. Wentworth.

"And listen," said the kid, as he left the kitchen, "if you're smart, you won't let Mr. Galonopulous see you standing there doing nothing. Those dishes are piling up!"

_________________

55: The Reason

NO ONE ever thought of Miss Quinn as a woman. She was a nurse. She was small. Thin, Trim, Efficient. She was night supervisor, and hell-on-wheels to clumsy probationers. She was everything a good nurse should be. But no one ever thought of Miss Quinn as a woman.

The doctors called her "Quinny." The elder— especially the department heads— had a genuine affection for her. Young interns and externes resented her. She had a soft, left-handed way of telling them what to do.

I don't know how many years she was in the hospital. But I do know that she strolled in one afternoon in soft, feminine attire, smiling sweetly. There was something wistful and sad about her when she told the superintendent that she was quitting. He wouldn't believe her. He said the hospital couldn't get along without her. Quinny said it would have to. Then she held up her left hand and the doctor saw the platinum band, engraved with orange blossoms.

Within twenty minutes every ward in the hospital knew that Quinny was married. Every doctor, nurse, cook and orderly agreed that she was the last person in the world they thought would get married. No one could imagine Quinny in a romantic setting. But Quinny was now Mrs. Roger Brandt.

The name Brandt meant nothing until Miss Jones in Nine Medical remembered a patient of that name. She sent down to the record room and looked up the chart. Then she recalled the good-looking, grey-haired man. He was a soft-spoken fellow of middle years who had a slight jaundice. He had a private room in the corridor. Miss Jones recalled vaguely that Quinny had shown unusual interest in the case. Practically every night she had sat chatting with Brandt. And no one had dreamed that, while the patient was convalescing, the night supervisor was losing her heart.

The hospital buzzed for days. Then the local paper published a picture of the middle-aged bride and groom as they left for a European honeymoon.

"Well," said the day supervisor casually. "Quinny did all right for herself. After 20 years of death, sickness, and ether, she wins the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Not bad. Not bad."

Quinny was as devoted and efficient as a wife as she had been as a nurse. Brandt, a wealthy man, showered every luxury on her. Then, after four months of bliss, Brandt arose from dinner one night and fell over his chair. He couldn't get up. Quinny unloosed his tie and belt and phoned for a doctor. The diagnosis was simple: apoplectic stroke. Brandt could neither talk nor move. Day after day he lay in bed. silent and still— with only the startled movement of his eyes to show that life was still present.

"Mrs. Brandt," the doctor said one evening, "you've seen as many of these cases as I have. You know how they work out. His chances of living are excellent. His chances of recovering speech and locomotion are— well, fair. His chances of having another stroke at any time are about even. "The best thing in his favor is you. The fact that his wife has a wealth of experience in nursing is a definite asset. A large measure of his recovery will depend upon you. Don't let him get excited at any time. Don't let him eat anything but what is on the diet list. Keep him in as cheerful a frame of mind as possible. "Good luck. Mrs. Brandt."

Quinny was a pitiable figure. She slaved night and day: hardly ever left the house; slept but little, and was in constant attendance on her husband. She hired a night nurse to help. But Brandt was afraid to let Quinny out of his sight. As he slowly recovered his speech, he'd follow her with ,his eyes and emit hoarse moans if she so much as left the room. She lost weight. She worked like a horse. Her eyes were always heavy with sleep. And her nerves were worn raw. But still she kept going, reading to him long hours on end. Cheering him up. Browbeating him into trying to move his legs. And his arms.

In eight months, he was learning to walk again. His speech returned. He was still an invalid, though. And the slowness of full recovery made him irritable. He complained bitterly about everything. The food. The weather. The house. The night nurse. He taunted Quinny a lot. Wanted to know how she liked being tied to a cripple. Asking her why she didn't drop a little rat poison into his soup.

Quinny took it all, chin up. Now and then she went to her room to cry. Then, feeling better, .she'd come back for more.

Seventeen months after the stroke, Brandt was able to totter out on the porch alone. The doctor told Quinny that progress would be slower as time went on. That her husband would probably never be entirely well again.

Quinny tried to smile. "God's Will, doctor."

Quinny's jet black hair was now trimmed with white. Her trim, detached air was gone. Her black eyes looked worried. Her face was thin and sort of cracked. Her bony hands trembled all the time. Then came the second stroke.

A week went by before the doctor could say whether Brandt would live or not. The patient lay still and staring in a semi-darkened room. The doctor had to give Quinny sedatives to keep her from shrieking at the top of her lungs. Her husband's long illness had been bad enough, but this new stroke was almost more than she could bear. Her nerves were at the shattering point.

The doctor tried to spare her any further punishment. They had money, he pointed out, and she could easily afford the best of nursing care for her husband. Or, better still, why not place him in the best private sanitarium? He urged her to go away for a rest. She wouldn't hear of it. He told her that he wouldn't be responsible for her unless she obeyed. She said her place was at her husband's side. So she stayed.

Stayed and worked and prayed, and started the process all over again. She hired the night nurse again. And, late one night, they sat in the kitchen talking while Quinny prepared liquid food for Brandt.

"What does the doctor say?" the night nurse asked.

Quinny's voice was very tired.

"Mr. Brandt will live. The doctor says that there's a slight chance that he might recover his speech. It's almost certain that he'll never walk again."

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I mean, for you, Mrs. Brandt. You went through so much last time.

Quinny grinned briefly. "I can never repay him," she said. "He loves me. I should be in there instead of him."

"Mrs. Brandt!"

"Yes. It should be me. Not him. He's good and fine. He married me because he loved me.

"I married him, because it meant a chance to live a life of ease— and because I was disgusted with sickness and death!"

________________

56: The Ideal Man

DOLLY DUMPHEE was a type. A very definite type. You took just one quick look at her and you knew all there was to know. She was small. And thin. And school-teacherish. She was blunt and correct in her speech. And she insulted easily.

You knew without asking that she had a few bucks in the bank. Just as you knew automatically that she looked older than her age. She probably liked prissy poetry about autumn leaves, and wouldn't think of going to a movie unless it were historical. She abhorred games. Couldn't stand drinking, smoking, or gambling. She suspected everybody of the worst. Do I have to tell you that Dolly was an old maid?

Dolly was— well, to be charitable, forty. She worked as secretary to one of the local telephone executives. At the stroke of nine each morning she was taking off her hat. At the stroke of five, she was putting it on. She lived a disgustingly orderly life. She had a little two-room flat. It was spotless, always. There was a little 3-foot shelf of books. There was a chaste single bed and an undecorated dresser.

The select few who could command a smile or greeting from Dolly never dared ask why she didn't marry. Each of them wanted to know. But they knew better than to broach anything as sensitive as that. You just didn't talk about things like that to Dolly Dumphee. And yet, in her heart was the spark of romance. It was faint. But she could feel its warmth.

Despite her hauteur, her thoughts now and then dallied on a husband and a home. She had no legitimate objection to marriage. She thought marriage was fine and noble. But where, she asked herself, was a girl to find a man worthy of her? Where?

She liked to think that she had had plenty of chances. Oh, plenty! But there was always something wrong with the man in the case. Either she didn't like his looks. Or his manners. Or his habits. Or his family. Or perhaps she overheard him stutter "Damn" when he sat on his new straw hat.

One of her young men friends smoked. There was nothing else wrong with him. He didn't drink. He didn't care for women. He had a good job. A respectable family. And he saved twenty per cent, of his salary. But she found out that he smoked. That finished him!

In her heart, Dolly Dumphee carried an ideal. A tall, blond young man with— of all things!— dark eyes. His name was Hubert Twaintree, and Dolly hadn't seen him in twenty-five years. Hubert was her man. The man of her dreams. The one man whom she would have given anything to wed.

At night, when her eyes tired of reading, she'd dim the floor lamp and dream of Hubert. How tall and manly he was. And how he used to carry her books from school. And how, in his soft, bashful way, he told her that he admired her— character. Often he'd point out the beauties of the setting sun when the reds and purples drenched the hills. And the clean smell of early morning air. And the fascination of logic and reason. There, my friends, was a man! Dolly Dumphee never entertained a doubt that, some day, she'd be Mrs. Hubert Twaintree. Never. That is, until after high school was over and Hubert was sent to Chicago to work. He never came back.

Lately Dolly had suffered the attentions of a Mickey Mouse named Donald Pilton. Donald was a small, baldish man of about her own age. He was mild as warm milk, and he had no vices whatsoever. He didn't smoke, drink, gamble, or carouse. At least, he never seemed to. Mr. Pilton wouldn't even commit himself on the state of the weather if he stood in the middle of a cloudburst. But he was terrifically smitten with Dolly. He thought she was the tops. She was everything a grand lady ought to be. And more. She had intellect. Dignity. Taste. Propriety. Everything.

And yet she held him at arm's length. She never allowed him to get to the point where he could address her as Dolly. It was Miss Dumphee, if you please! He took her to dinner and to respectable shows for two years. And then he could contain himself no logger.

"Miss Dumphee," he blurted one night, as they strolled through the park, "Miss Dumphee, you must listen to me for a moment. Please. First I must apologise for speaking of so sacred a subject in such an informal manner. But you must realise that I do hold a deep affection for you, and I do want you to marry me. Miss Dumphee, I am proposing marriage."

Dolly stood still in the centre of the walk. She was aghast. The man only knew her two years and already he was blurting out proposals! "Mr. Pilton!" she said sternly. But she loved it.

Pilton was squelched that time. But he tried again. And again. And yet again, until he stormed the severe heights of her reserve. Then, and then only, did Dolly Dumphee talk turkey.

"Mr. Pilton," she said softly, "I shall give the matter consideration. You cannot blame a girl these days for being careful. I like you. I like your company, I mean. You're kind and considerate, and, even though you are new to our town, you seem to blend in with out people perfectly. But there's something I should like to tell you." And she promptly went into her dance about Hubert Twaintree.

She didn't mention him by name. Only that there was a man, somewhere, whom she felt that she loved. A man who was a perfect gentleman. The only man worthy of a good woman. Pilton heard about tills ghostly love so often that he grew sick of it. It got so after a while that he could not stand it any longer. And then one day when she uttered his name, Pilton leaped to his feet.

"Hubert Twaintree!" he shouted. "A tall, blond man with strange dark eyes? It must be. There couldn't be two Hubert Twaintrees. Why, I met him, Miss Dumphee. Several times."

Dolly nearly swooned. She demanded to know where. And when. And how dear Hubert was. And all about it. She said that she'd never marry anyone else, now that she knew Hubert was still alive. Pilton leaped up and slapped on his hat.

"All right, then," he said. "Go find him yourself. I'm sorry, Miss Dumphee. But I can't stand this any longer."

He left. And he scrammed for the nearest saloon. Inside, he found an old friend. They hoisted plenty of drinks together. And Pilton told the friend of his failure with Dolly.

"She's very much in love with him," he murmured. "No doubt about that. She demanded to know where I met him— but, somehow, I just couldn't bring myself to tell her that it was in the penitentiary!"

__________________

57: Old Man's Story

IT WAS cold out, and the late sun made golden patterns on the old carpet. The bed was ancient and the spring creaked every time the old man coughed. His white hair stood on end front twisting in the pillow so much. His eyes were larger than usual. His fingers toyed with the holes in the old bedspread.

The old man was dying. He still had a ways to go. He knew that he would see that afternoon sun trade its yellow for gold again. He knew that he would sip a little more of the chicken broth the landlady brought to his room. He knew that the doctor would peel his eyelid back and wrap a wide black ribbon around his arm again. But he also knew that he was dying.

He stared at the good-looking kid at the foot of the bed. He studied every feature carefully, noticed every characteristic. The last time he had seen this young man was in 1913. Twenty-three years ago. The handsome young man had then been a fat, round-eyed baby of two. A baby who loved to pull his daddy's hair and who could speak only one word plainly: "No."

Now, father and son met again. When the old man found that he was going to die, he had sent for the boy. The boy had walked in the room tight-lipped. Hard. He had made no secret of his disaffection. He had stood at the foot of the bed. The old man tried to hold out a hand, but the young man didn't see it. Or didn't want to.

"If it's money," the boy had said, "I can't help you. I'm not working at present."

The old man shook his head slowly. "No," he murmured, "it's not money, son. Money won't help me now. Nothing can. I'm— well, tired. I didn't send for you to help. Call it curiosity. An old man's curiosity. I wanted to see my son before it was too late. You don't begrudge me that?"

The kid sighed patiently. "I'm sorry," he said.

The old man smiled again. "You are," he said, "a handsome fellow. You're your mother all over again." He chuckled. "She used to pray that you wouldn't grow up to look like me. And I didn't blame her. You're a handsome lad."

The boy looked away. "Anything I can do?" he asked tersely.

"Nothing. Of course," he added, "I would be very happy If you could arrange to have mc put near your mother. But you wouldn't want―"

"Sorry," the boy snapped. "I couldn't think of that. I can't even think of you as my father." His voice was rising. He was saying things he hadn't intended.

"You don't deserve to be in the same cemetery with her.

"I was only a baby when you walked out on Mom. Left alone to shift for herself. If it hadn't been for the kindness of Uncle Johnny, taking us in and feeding us, we'd have starved to death. He even paid for my education, while you forgot about us. Nothing doing, mister. I'm sorry."

No tears came to the old man's eyes. He took the licking without flinching. After a while, the lump in his throat grew smaller and he spoke again.

"There are some things," he murmured, "that should never be mentioned. I've had one of those things in my heart a long while. Now I find I can't hold it any longer. So please don't go for a minute yet, and let me tell you about 'it." The kid stared right through the old man.

"Maybe when I tell you this, you can forgive an old man. When I went to college, I roomed with a boy named Cottontop. He was a big blond, handsome fellow and he had a girl that I was crazy about. I would have married her in a moment— if it hadn't been for Cottontop, and the fact that the girl didn't know I was alive.

"I used to dream about that girl. I used to pray at night that something would happen to make her like me. Well, something did. Cottontop went a little nuts shortly before he was supposed to marry this girl. He got roaring drunk one night and eloped with a waitress.

"Everybody in the school knew about it. And the girl he should have married felt terrible about it. For some unknown reason, she turned to me for sympathy. I still thought I" had no chance, and didn't even try to court her. I used to tell her that Cottontop wasn't worth worrying about— just to make her feel better. After over a year I got my nerve up and proposed to her. And she accepted.

"That was your mother, son. At first it was quite a struggle, getting along. I barely made enough money to keep us from starving. And then you came along. Instead of discouraging us, it heartened us a lot. Somehow, I knew we had to make the grade after that.

"We were very happy. Very happy. When you showed your first tooth we staged a party and invited some neighbors." The old man was staring at the ceiling as he talked. His mouth was smiling faintly. "If possible, I grew to love your mother more and more as time went on.

"Then one day she told mc that she had seen Cottontop. She was very nervous about it and told me the truth. I felt very badly about it, and she promised never to see him again. Never.

"Two months later she told me that she was in love with him. She said that he had been coming to see her while I was at work. She said it was no use trying to keep going. Cottontop was her whole world. She wept, and I think she felt a little sorry for me.

"She told me that if I loved her as much as I always said, I would go away and forget about her. I begged her to reconsider. I pleaded with her. I said that Cottontop would go away again. That he was no good. But she wouldn't believe me. She demanded that I go away."

The kid moved around to the side of the bed.

"Well, son. That's about all there is to tell. I went away. I promised I'd never come back to bother her. And I didn't. I'm afraid that I didn't turn out to be much to be proud of, and if I wasn't such a coward. I wouldn't be telling all this now. But I don't want to die with you hating me."

The kid impulsively picked up his father's hand and kissed it. He started to talk— and tears came. "I didn't know, Dad. I swear I never dreamed it. All I knew was that my father deserted me and my mother, and Uncle John had to take care of us. I hated it. Please forgive me, Dad. I'll do everything I can to make amends.

"Only one thing I ask: Please tell me where I can find this Cottontop rat. That's all. I'll square things up. I swear I will."

The old man sighed.

"No," he said. "That won't do. You forget what I've told you. Because Cottontop did his best to right a terrible wrong. Cottontop is the man you call Uncle John..."

______________

58: The Boomerang

IN YEARS to come, if they ever ask me to tell them my favorite story, I think I will tell them this one. And it's a very simple story, too. It has to do with an actor whose eyes are bewildered— and whose hair has grown very grey.

The story is not original. It was told to me and, for all I know, It may have been printed before. But I do not think so. When the tale was unfolded to me, no names were mentioned. And that's just as well, I guess, because it isn't the type of yarn in which I'd care to use actual names. So all I know about it is that it is the true story of an actor whose eyes are bewildered— and whose hair has grown very grey.

Some twenty years ago, Joe was introduced to Muriel. Joe was about twenty-two. Muriel was about eighteen. Joe was an actor. Handsome. Curly black hair. Blue eyes. He was just another actor who was a million miles from stardom. But to Muriel he typified all that was romantic and beautiful. For this girl was, really, little more than a child. Her father and mother, making a mistake that is all too common, had ruled her with an iron hand. They had permitted her few liberties. Muriel met Joe at a party. It was a very proper party, or her parents would never have permitted her to attend. But Joe was there— and the kid fell madly in love with him. It was just one of those things.

They saw each other very frequently, and Muriel was soon so crazy about the boy that she could think of nothing else. She couldn't tell her parents, of course, because she knew they would never understand. And Joe? Well, he liked her. He liked her because she was good to look at and sweet to fondle. Because she was young, and so was he. He liked her, yes. But he never loved her.

Getting back now to the oldest story in the world. Beyond everything, the girl wanted to marry the boy; but Joe never mentioned marriage, so Muriel didn't either. She trusted him completely, you see. And there's no story older than that. No more than six months had passed when Joe began to grow tired. There were so many girls who were waiting to be wooed by a handsome young actor. Man tires quickly of the cutest dimples— unless they belong to the other fellow's girl. An agent offered him a job with a stock company in the south-west. The girl who was to be the ingénue with the troupe looked very cute to Joe. He took the job. And he left the following week, without bothering even to say goodbye to Muriel. What would be the use, he felt? Goodbyes are such a nuisance.

Twenty years later, Joe was still an actor. Forty-two now, and no bigger in the theatre than when we first met him. He was still playing in stock, when he could locate a job.

Physically he hadn't changed much, either. If you had known him twenty years before you would have recognised him immediately. His hair was still jet black, and his eyes were that same soft blue. Outwardly, then, he was the same. But inwardly he was different. For this man was lonely. Desperately lonely.

The monotony of his life was stifling him. He knew now that he wanted someone to call his own. He v knew now that he wanted to be like other humans; to have a son or a daughter to cherish and guide. He knew now that this was the one thing he wanted from life. And the knowledge that he would never have it made him a very lonely man.

A short while ago, Joe was playing with a stock company in the West. I do not wish to be more definite than that, because stock companies are few and far between these days, and we don't want any identifications here. At any rate— The curtain had- just rung down on a matinee. Joe was in his dressing-room, removing his make-up, when the doorman entered. The doorman said there was a young chap outside with a basket of fruit for the actor.

Joe smiled indulgently. He told the doorman to send the boy in. And a moment later, a young man stood before him. The boy was very young. Eighteen, possibly or nineteen. He had blue eyes and hair that was very black. He carried a basket that was covered with paper.

"Mother asked me to bring you this basket," he said bashfully. "It's fruit. Peanuts, pears, and such things. Mother saw your performance here last week and thought you were wonderful. So she wants you to accept this little gift."

"Certainly." Joe put on his kindliest expression. "Certainly I'll accept it. And I know I'll enjoy it very 'much, too. But won't you tell me your mother's name? I'd like to write and thank her for it."

The boy shook his head. "Mother said I wasn't to tell you her name. She said I was just to tell you it was from an unknown admirer."

Joe shrugged. He extended his hand. "Very well, then," he smiled. "If that's the way your mother wants it, I'll have to agree. Goodbye— and thanks."

"Goodbye," said the boy. And he went out, closing the door softly behind him.

Joe finished his dressing. Before he left the dressing room he decided to have a pear. He removed the paper from the gift basket. And there, between two pieces of fruit, he saw a note. The actor grinned as he picked it up. A mash note, no doubt. And the mother had sent her son with it. Doggone if some of these women weren't the limit!

He opened the letter and began to read. A moment later he was clutching at his make-up table for support. For the note was from Muriel, the girl he had deserted some twenty years before. And it told an amazing story.

"Joe," the note read, "after you' have read this, you will probably try to find me. But you will not be successful. I am happily married to a good man, and, although you may search from now until the day you die, you will never be able to locate me.

"Here is my message, Joe. The boy who delivered this basket of fruit to you is your son. I wanted you to see him— just once. Maybe you will long to see him again just as I longed to see you again many years ago. But you never will see him again, Joe, You never will. "That's all, Joe. Good-bye."

Joe isn't much good as an actor any more. In fact, he's not good for much of anything. He keeps hunting and hunting. But he can find neither Muriel nor the boy. The boy, did I say? It's his boy!

Blue eyes, black hair, handsome. Joe remembers that. He can remember little else. But what is the boy doing? Is he going to college? Is he being good? Who are his friends? Does he confide in the man he calls his father? Yes, it's his boy. But. merciful God, if he could only see him once more! Just once again. Just to clasp the boy to him. Just to put his hands on the boy's shoulders and gaze into his eyes. Just once. Just once.

And that's all there is to the story. It's just a simple little story, you see, of an actor whose eyes are bewildered— and whose hair has grown very grey.

_________________

59: The Legacy

THE OLD MAN was a picture. He was seventy-four , but he was far from the doddering stage. He had a massive frame and shoulders like a football player. His face was ruddy, and he sported a white flowing moustache of the handlebar type.

Usually he walked to the. office. But this morning it was too hot— and the limousine was cool. At the curb he left instructions with the chauffeur to call for him at four. Then, with a stride that was magnificent for a man his age, he filtered into the crowd that entered the big office building. He barged into the outer office and smiled a good-morning to the blonde receptionist. He breezed directly toward the door marked "Frank C. Gordon" in gold letters. But, before he reached it, he was stopped by a tug on his arm. Somewhat annoyed, he turned about. And there he saw a grinning, dark-haired young man— and an equally dark young lady.

"Hello, Uncle Frank," said the young man. Frank Gordon peered closer into the chap's face.

Suddenly he brightened. Then he beamed. Then he boomed. "George! Well, I'll be a son-of-a-gun!" He clapped a rugged hand on the boy's back. "What brings you all the way to our town in this hot weather?"

"Oh, just to pay you a delayed visit, Uncle Frank." He took the girl's hand in his. "And also to introduce you to the sweetest little wife any man ever had."

The old man turned his attention to the girl. He bowed from the waist without the slightest suspicion of a grunt.

"This," he said gallantly, "is an undeserved pleasure." He jolted his nephew playfully in the ribs. "Your taste in ladies," he observed, "is obviously inherited from the Gordon side of the family."

A few moments later they sat and chatted in the private sanctum. The old man bit off the end of a cigar and studied the girl.

"I've heard a lot about you, Mrs. Gordon. A lot of nice things."

The girl was obviously flattered.

"I've heard that you've tamed this young reprobate a great deal since you married him."

"I don't know why," the old man went on, "you didn't bring her to see me before this. After all, I'm getting on in years. Don't you think I deserved to meet the wife of my only living relative?"

"I'm sorry, uncle. I owe you an apology, on that. But I thought you were peeved at me because "

"Because you made a fool of yourself so often," the old man snapped. "Well, you're right. But since your marriage, I've heard better reports. So we'll forget all that now. There's something very important I have to tell you." He drummed the desk. George and his wife looked puzzled.

"Well," said the old man suddenly, "the best way to tell it is to be blunt. I haven't much longer to live. My doctors Say the end may not come for six months— but it might happen any day.

"Now don't go feeling sorry for me. I've had a good time on earth, and enjoyed myself to the fullest. From now on everything is repetition. "What I want you to know is this: Two years ago, I seriously considered leaving all my money to charity. I was highly displeased with you. But I like your wife, and I think you have acquired a bit of sense. So I am leaving everything to you. Everything. I hope you will use the money well.

"And that will be all for now. Come back to see me the day after tomorrow. I will then have further news for you."

George rubbed his eyes. He protested that the money didn't mean a thing. He said he was heartbroken to think that uncle was going to die. Mrs. Gordon wept softly into a lacy handkerchief.

Until they reached a small restaurant around the corner the young couple said nothing. Then they sat in a booth, and the girl pushed her hat back on her head.

"Georgia," she demanded, "tell me quickly. Is this a dream?"

The man grinned. "No, indeed. Anything but. If he says he's going to kick off, that's exactly what he's going to do. And we get everything! Why, that old baby's got millions! Millions, kid! Am I glad I brought you along! Wow!"

"But wait a minute, Georgia," said the girl. "What about your wife?"

"The devil with her," replied the young man promptly. "What good is she, anyhow? Always preaching about economy, and church, and clean living. I wasn't married to her two months when I knew it was a mistake. That church stuff may be all right for some folks, but not for little Georgia.

"Now listen, baby. He's impressed with you. Thinks you're the nuts. You'll just keep pretending to be Mrs. George Gordon until he passes out— and we'll be in clover for life!"

"Okay with me, Toots," nodded the girl. "But suppose the missus squawks?"

"Not a chance." The young man waved a hand. "She's the martyr type. She'll suffer in silence. She'd choke before she'd squawk. You just keep on being Mrs. George Gordon— and don't use slang in front of Uncle Frank. Try to pretend you're a lady."

"Huh," sniffed the girl. "As if I ain't!"

TWO DAYS later, the boy and girl were back in the private office. George immediately went into a flowery speech about not caring for the money, and hoping that the doctors were wrong in the diagnosis. But the old man shook his head.

"We all have to go, George. And when you go at my age, it doesn't seem so bad." He chuckled softly. "Only children like to sit through a movie twice."

He paused. And then, suddenly, he got down to business.

"I know," he said, "that you and your charming wife want to get back to your little home, so I'll cut this short. In all, George, my attorneys tell me that I will leave a little over four million dollars in real and personal property. I filed my will yesterday and, as my sole heir and relative, all that will go to you."

He wagged a finger and beamed at the couple. "I did, however, take one precaution," he went on happily. "To make certain that you'll use the money to advantage, George, I've left it all in the name of Mrs. George Gordon."

_________________

60: The Rebound

THE OLD woman sat and rocked herself. The chair creaked rhythmically. Now and then, she glanced away from the window. Through the rooms, she could see the iron stove in the kitchen. The potatoes were on. Poppa would be home soon.

The woman rocked back and forth to manufacture a breeze. There was no breeze. There was very little air. Only a smell. A smell of hot gasoline fumes and the rotting of old wooden buildings. Out of the window, on a level with her eyes, were the elevated tracks. The trains crashed by every few minutes. The trucks below bounced over the cobbled street, and the children screamed at play. The factory directly across the way stretched twelve stories high. The woman knew, of course, that the sun was shining somewhere. She was acquainted with the sun— by memory.

This woman felt no pity for herself. For Poppa, yes. That was different. Poppa worked hard. Poppa sweated in the shop all day. Poppa came home tired. Half the time he looked ill. So Momma gave no thought to herself. If she had it to do over again, she'd marry Poppa. Without hesitation. Gladly.

When they were young, it had been much easier. Poppa worked hard and talked about the future. About money, and a home in the country. And maybe a horse and buggy for their own private use. But they were now young no longer, and Poppa hadn't done well. Poppa had no push. No nerve. Other men went ahead, but Poppa was afraid of his own shadow. He worked harder than any man in the shop. But he asked for nothing. There had been children. Two of them, Eric and Mary. Named for Poppa and Momma. Beautiful blonde kids. Poppa and Momma knew that the children would always be very near and very dear to them. But who could tell in advance about those things? Who could tell that these babies would grow up, and get married, and go away, and forget?

Mary wrote sometimes. Once, she sent a picture of her babies. Momma placed the picture on the bedroom bureau. At night, she kissed it before going to bed. Eric never wrote at all.

Momma was still dreaming when Poppa came in. Poppa was a little man with tired eyes. He generally carried a worried expression, but tonight something must have happened. Poppa came into the dingy parlor, and he danced! He picked Momma up and swung her around, almost upsetting the rocker. Momma pushed him away.

"You gone crazy, maybe," she cried. "The heat isn't bad enough?"

Poppa grinned. He talked rapidly. "Wonderful news, Momma. It's the office. They give a raise today. Two dollars! But wait. It goes backward. Retro— retroaction or something, they call it. Thirteen weeks it goes backward. Look!" He displayed two tens, a five and a one. "You know what this means, Momma?"

Momma shook her head. She was speechless. Poppa drew himself up like a millionaire.

"It means I'm gonna take my best girl to the country for one week. We go away from the noise and the heat for one whole week. We go out to New Jersey, far away. On a farm, maybe. We sleep late in the morning and hear the birds wake us up. We go―"

But Momma was already sobbing. Poppa put his arms around her and made clucking, consoling sounds. In the kitchen, the potatoes boiled over.

Poppa never drank. But that night he allowed himself a drink. He walked many blocks from home, and then strolled into a saloon like a rounder. He knew nobody at the bar, and nobody knew him. But he couldn't refrain from bragging. After all these years, he was going to take Momma to the country. And the whole world had to hear about it.

He told the good news to the man who stood next to him, and the man smiled sympathetically. "I don't know who you are," he murmured, "but allow me , to congratulate you. I can see that you're an honest man; a man of sense." Poppa was pleased.

Poppa asked the man to have a drink. The man refused politely, but insisted on buying Poppa a drink. Poppa toasted Momma's health. He never felt happier.

The man talked of politics, and ungrateful children, and the condition of the world. Then he talked of money. He used big words, and Poppa listened open-mouthed.

"If you were wise, my friend," the man said, "you would not stand still with twenty-six dollars. You can give your wife two weeks— a month perhaps— in the country. Because I am in a position to do you a good turn."

"A good turn?" Poppa gulped. "But what―"

"It's a race," the man went on evenly. "A fixed race at a small track. Ordinarily, I would not wager on horse races. But this one is a sure thing. You can't lose." Poppa shook his head vehemently. "Horse races is not for me. I am not a gambler. Momma will go to the country for one week."

The stranger continued to smile. He continued to buy drinks. And it wasn't long before Poppa handed over the twenty-six dollars and begged the man please to be careful. The stranger told Poppa to come around tomorrow and collect. And Poppa went home. Frightened.

The next evening, at six o'clock, Poppa walked into the bar. He smiled pathetically as he walked up to the stranger. But the stranger wasn't affable. He sat at a table in his shirt sleeves and moved his coat from the back of a chair so that Poppa wouldn't crease it. Poppa threw his coat on the table and begged for news.

"The horse lost," the man grunted. "Came in fifth."

Poppa looked ashen and very old. He clasped his hands. He began to plead.

"Please, mister. Please, for my wife, lend me my money back. She doesn't know I made a bet. It will kill her now if we don't go to the country. You don't know what this means to her. I will sign a note, with interest. Please, mister. I will do anything: Only give me the money."

The man tried to dismiss Poppa. Poppa wouldn't go. He continued to plead, and the man slapped him with his open palm. It did no good. The old man was hysterical. He begged like a child. He tried to get down in the sawdust on his creaking knees. He fell over.

"Hey, George," the man said to the bartender, "this old bum's getting on my nerves. Get him outa here."

George came out from behind the bar. He stuffed Poppa's coat into the old man's arms, and then tossed him out into the street. The old man tried to return, and the bartender barely missed him with a swift kick. Poppa gave up. He stumbled away and disappeared.

A few minutes later, the bartender helped himself to a drink.

"Funny about that old bozo," he mused. "He didn't know when he was licked. Well, he knows it now. He's one sucker that won't be around here no more."

The man stood up. He chuckled as he prepared to leave.

"You said it," he grinned. "A sucker like that―" He stopped abruptly. Then came a mighty howl.

"You sap!" he bellowed. "You can bet he won't be around here any more. You gave him my coat by mistake, and I had over two hundred bucks in it!"

_______________

61: Crusader

THE DAY was warm. Very warm. All during the afternoon, the hot sun had been beating into the apartment. At six o'clock, Florence Jackson stepped from the blistering streets and entered the small, stifling rooms. She looked pale, and wan, and wilted.

In the living room there was one spot that was almost comfortable. At the window a faint breeze lifted the. curtains. And there sat George at his desk, pounding on his typewriter.

"Sorry I was late, dear," said the woman tiredly. "I had to stay overtime to finish up. Work hard today, George?"

The man nodded. "Worked like a fool," he grunted. "It's been hot as blazes up here. But I worked. Had to. Seems to be all I'm doing these days."

"I know, dear," said his wife. "It's not easy, working the way you do."

She picked up her bundles and walked into the staggering heat of the kitchen.

"I'll have dinner in no time,'" she called back. "You must be terribly hungry."

For a moment, George sat and looked at the sheet of paper in his typewriter. Then, with an angry exclamation, he pulled the sheet from the machine and tore it to bits. He stood up and stalked into the kitchen. He folded his arms and glared at his wife.

"I've got to tell you something, Florence," he cried. "I can't work in this atmosphere much longer. Nothing but interruptions all day long." He spoke accusingly. "The man was here for the radio instalment, and that kid from the grocer's was plenty fresh. Something about a bill you owe, he said." The woman lifted a heavy pan from the table to the oven.

"I'm sorry, George," she sighed. "I'll try to arrange things so that it doesn't happen again, know it's very hard on you." Her husband threw himself into a chair.

"Your being sorry isn't enough," he told her morosely. "I'm not getting on with my book fast enough. I should really go abroad again if I want to finish it correctly. Can't we manage it?"

Florence looked up anxiously. "I don't see how," she frowned. "Last time we had the money that Uncle Monroe left me, but that's gone now. My only chance would be in working overtime at the, office. I'll try my best to manage it for you."

And she did manage it. Later after she had served the dinner and washed the dishes, Florence went down the street. She carried her fur coat that was two years old, a gold watch that had belonged to her father, and her diamond engagement ring.

The following evening she told George that his trip abroad was possible

"I have enough money for your passage over," she stated simply, "and I've made arrangements to work three nights extra a week. I'll send you that money, and you'll have to live on it while you're working. Meanwhile, I'll try to save all I can on my salary. And by the time you're ready to come back I'll have enough."

George shrugged. "Okay," he muttered. "But I wish, you could have raised a little ;more: cash. I hate to travel tourist class!"

HE was gone about six months. Florence wrote four and five times a week, and was actually rewarded with a brief reply every now and then.

In her letters, Florence was very cheerful. She was getting along splendidly, she said. It was very cheap living alone, and she already had |most of his return fare in the bank. She didn't mind the extra night work at all, she stated. There were numerous things, though, that she didn't tell him. She said nothing, for example, about coming home at nights and falling into bed without eating, because she was too tired to cook dinner. And she said nothing about the doctor who had warned her to stop working for a while.

"You can't keep this up, young lady," he had said. "You're in very poor condition. You need a rest, and you need it quickly."

Florence laughed. A rest! She didn't need a rest, she told the doctor. She felt fine, except for those silly dizzy spells that hit her ever so often. In the middle of that statement, her laugh died suddenly. She slid to the floor. And when she awakened, she was in a hospital.

George heard the news shortly after, and he was quite concerned. He waited only two weeks before he sailed— and then, after he arrived home, he spent a total of three afternoons at his wife's bedside. Five weeks after they brought her to the hospital, Florence died.

And no one could say that George's grief wasn't completely sincere. Why, although the last chapter of his book was completed and merely needed polishing, there was an entire day when he didn't so much as go near his typewriter!.

THE book was a success. The critics were extremely kind, and some of them were enthusiastic. Of all the reviews, however, there was one that George prized above the rest. Have a look at it:—

"This first novel," it reads, "is something more than a novel. It gives clear and appalling picture of the unhappy conditions under which the women of India must struggle. It is both a sermon and a plea. In his book, 'Woman In Slavery,' Mr. George Jackson has done something courageous and honest. He has proved himself a friend and benefactor to the women of the world. "

_____________

62: Uriah Steps Out

TODAY, for no reason at all, we introduce you to Uriah P. Crisp, Read on at your own risk.

Uriah P. Crisp was, to use his own words, a conservative business man.

Thereby, he summed himself up quite neatly. He was of medium height. Not fat. Nor yet lean. His hair was neither dark nor light. You might call that medium, too. He always wore a dark suit and black shoes. The only, thing really definite about him was his age. He had spent 26 years on this earth— and that was about all he ever had spent.

He sought the company of no women. Movies, too were out of order. Liquor was strictly taboo. The only bottles in his little apartment were cough medicines. The place was conservatively furnished, and his only concession to art was a small, black-framed photograph. Of himself.

At the bank he was known as a reliable clerk. His job was to add up blocks of cancelled cheques. When he finished a block, the bank officers knew without question that the total was correct. For Uriah P. Crisp never, never, never made a mistake. At night, he cooked his own meals, at home. Fried, foods were out, because they weren't good for the stomach. He had a terrific yen for crab meat, but he curbed it sternly― our Uriah had will power. The meals were carefully balanced, just like the checks he added up. He wouldn't dream of using an ounce more of egg plant than the book called for. Not our Uriah!

His life was self-regimented. He went to bed at eleven, and arose at seven. The beauties of a hangover, the thrills of a roaring bust, were complete mysteries to this marvel. Uriah had a smile. But it was a vague, fleeting thing — and he saved it only for the proper occasions In other words, Uriah wasn't a man at all.  He was a museum piece.

Once— and only once— Uriah made a concession to modernity. He bought himself an electric refrigerator. Naturally, he paid cash. He wasn't the type of person to buy anything on time.

"What," he asked the salesman quietly, "do I have to do to maintain proper refrigeration?"

The salesman smiled. "Nothing," he replied. "Once every six months, as indicated in the instructions, you simply put a few drops of oil into the machine. Right here, see? And that's all.

"Of course, you won't have to do It now. Six months from now, say around the first of July, you use a little oil. And, in January, once again. It's a positive cinch."

"It's a what?" demanded Uriah archly. The salesman mumbled an apology., And it's well he did. He should have known better than to use slang In front of Uriah P. Crisp.

Mr. Crisp never invited anyone to his apartment. He employed a maid— a very elderly one, to be sure— to clean up the place in his absence. In addition to her regular pay, he left her a twenty-five cent tip once a week. If she did a good job, that is.

One year, on the day after Christmas, Uriah, was in the office, busily quoting economic platitudes to one of his fellow clerks. His victim finally heaved a long sigh.

"Say, Crisp," he murmured, "why don't you wise up?"

"I beg your pardon?" said the startled Uriah.

"Wise up. Get hep to yourself. Life is flitting by, and you've seen none of it. Oh, I know you're an efficient clerk and that some day you'll get to be the sixteenth vice-president in the Brooklyn branch— but what do you actually know of life?"

Uriah thought for a moment. "Do you mean biologically," he inquired, "or economically?"

The other clerk told that story around, and the boys got. together. They determined to 'get Uriah to a party, come what may. They told him that he wouldn't have to drink, and he wouldn't have to dance. And most: assuredly— oh, decidedly most' assuredly!— he wouldn't have, to put his arm around a girl. He'd just sit and watch, and learn how the other half lived. Well, believe it or not, they finally coaxed our hero to attend a New Year's Eve party.

They didn't tell him that people who don't drink all year will hoist a highball on that night. And they neglected to inform him that girlies who never forget what mamma told them, are often subject to memory lapses on this particular evening. ' So Uriah P. Crisp hired himself a tuxedo and went to the party.

What a picture he was, my friends! What a picture! He sat solemnly on the edge of the throng. When he was introduced to a pretty girl, he bowed from the waist and said "How do." If she lingered too long, he excused himself and disappeared.

It was shortly after eleven' o'clock that a wild and woolly blonde sighted him through the haze. Her legs were somewhat rubbery, and her eyes floated like compasses in a storm at sea. She flopped on his lap and cooed: "Dad-dy!"

"I beg your pardon," said Uriah swiftly. "You have mistaken my identity. I am not your father.,"

The blonde stroked his face. "Oh, Dad-dy," she breathed, "I think you're so cute." She reached luscious lips upward until" they touched his. Uriah P. Crisp gulped and blinked.

"D-Don't!" he demanded. "If you do that again, IX shall have to call for assistance!" She kissed him again. But definitely., Whereupon Uriah began to shake as. though with palsy. His knees would have knocked, except for the fact that the blonde was sitting on them. His teeth chattered. His hands trembled.

"Come on, Dad-dy," whispered the girl. "Let's just big you and little me take a walk in the garden."

Uriah P. Crisp said no. He wouldn't think of it, he insisted. But his voice was strangely hoarse, and she was already leading him Into the garden by the hand. They sat in a secluded corner, and he attempted to regain his senses. He tried to proclaim on the intense coolness of. the night, and the effect it would have on the human system. But she kept stopping his words with warmer— ever warmer— kisses. For a moment, they looked like a couple of the Warmer brothers.

Suddenly, he gave up. He discarded all pretence and grabbed the girl tightly. He kissed her until he felt certain the garden was spinning.

"This is more like it," murmured the blonde cozily. "You make me feel ' awful weak, Dad-dy."

Just then, whistles shrieked in the harbor. Bells tolled. Horns tooted. People shouted. The din was terrific as New York ushered in another New Year. Whereupon Uriah P. Crisp suddenly did a strange thing. He leaped to his feet— and the girl fell from his lap to the walk.

"Sorry," he murmured. "But I must leave now."

"Migawd!" screamed the girl, "Is the joint on fire?"

"Oh, dear, no." replied Uriah P. Crisp. "But it is January First— and I must go home now and oil my refrigerator!"

_____________

63: The Beefer

IT IS TO BE doubted that there is anyone in this broad land of ours who does not know the meaning of that charming word: "Beef" Of course, there may be a few readers left who will insist that it is an edible meat; a meat to be found exclusively in the steer and the cow.

But this, naturally, is a cardinal error. A "beef," as practically everyone should know, is a loud and prolonged squawk. There are many types and varieties of beefs. When a husband comes home and complains that his dinner isn't ready, that's a beef. If his dinner happens to be ready, and he complains anyway— that, too, is a beef. Should a man go for a girlie and end up without the fillings in his teeth, he beefs. On the other hand, should a trusting gal place her heart in the callous hands of a married man, she beefs, too. The only difference is that her type of beefing pays dividends. In court.

My alleged story for today has to do with the World's Champion Beefer. Not only is he the world's champion, but there's nobody around who can offer him any decent competition. His name, according to his mother, is William Junius Black. Around the dice games of Broadway, however, he is known as Bill the Beefer. Our hero is tall and ill-shaped— with a head like a radish and a middle like a watermelon. His physiognomy hangs out in back like a herd of elephants in a circus tent. And on his face is that always-wounded expression that is so common to the beefer.

Bill has patronised the dice games for many years. Sometimes he wins. Sometimes he doesn't. But, no matter which way the luck goes, he beefs. When he drops dough, he bellows that the dice will roll for anybody in the world but him. If he wins, he moans because he didn't win more. If he breaks even, he squawks that the evening has been wasted.

Before any fight, he'll pick the favorite and then try to argue odds out of you. If his man loses, Bill say's he's a bum who should be back on a truck. If his man wins, Bill weeps because he didn't bet more. Yes, Bill will moan about anything. Offer him a cigarette, and he'll accept it. But then he's liable to lecture you for not smoking his brand!

It wasn't so very long ago that Bill was standing on Broadway and offering a sucker six-to-five that Lemke wouldn't be elected. It was then that a pal edged close.

"Wanna see you a minute," murmured the pal.

Bill gave him the beady eye to see whether it was a touch. Then he nodded, excused himself to the other man, and walked down the block.

"I got bad news for you, Bill." Bill jumped a little,

"Now what?" he whined. "Why does everythin' happen to me? What is it now?"

The pal swallowed hard.

"Brace yourself, Bill," he counselled. "It's about your missus. An old friend of mine tips me off that your old lady is doin' a little steppin' around, while you're out earnin' an honest dollar."

Bill the Beefer fell against a shop window. He gave out a moan that was a first cousin to the Black Tom explosion.

"Myrtle?" he howled. "You mean to say my little Myrtle is cheatin'? My little Myrtle is doin' this to me? O Gawd, I'll murder that dame. I'll knock her head off even if I have to do a bit for it!"

"Wait a minute," cut in the pal. "You ain't got nothin' on her— yet. This is only a friendly tip. At this particular time, you ain't got no beef."

"Beef?" echoed the beefer. "Me beef? Why, I never squawked about anythin' in my whole life. Everybody knows that."

The pal waved a hand. "Okay by me," he said. "All I wanna do is give you the low-down. And here it is:

"If you wanna get the goods on her, I'll do it for you. I know her kisser, but she don't know me. So I'll tag her every place she goes. See what I mean? What'sa use of shellin' out for a dame if she's doin' you wrong? I'll get you enough dope to hang her."

Bill stopped moaning for a moment. His eyes brightened. This was a royal chance to get rid of the high-stepping Myrtle and thereby reduce "the overhead.

"How much for the job?" asked Bill naively.

"Three hundred," replied his dear pal. Bill the Beefer almost choked to death, trying to yell murder— but, in the end, he agreed to pay the money. And his friend agreed to get the goods on Myrtle.

In a way, Bill was happy about the situation. For now he really had something to beef about. And he did a fine job. He told everybody. No matter whom he met, no matter where he was, no matter how strange the people were to him— Bill told his story and beefed to his heart's content.

"Yeah, my friends," he'd cry. "I was like a father to her, I was. I give her some of the best months of my life. And what happens, I ask you? She turns out to be a double-crosser! A common, ordinary cheater! And you guys talk about hard luck!"

Bill the Beefer said a lot more than I've repeated here. But you must bear in mind that this is a family newspaper.

A few weeks ago. Bill stood at a bar in the Broadway sector. The place was crowded. And Bill took advantage of the occasion to give forth the loudest beef of any season.

"You hear about my wife, Myrtle?" he began. Everybody nodded— but it made no difference to Bill the Beefer. He launched into all the horrible details. He told how he had been tipped off— how he had employed a pal to get the goods on her— and how he had paid out three hundred bucks for the low-down.

"It's awful," he sobbed. "Awful."

The man beside him placed a friendly arm around his shoulder. "Don't take it so hard, Bill," the man said kindly. "You're not the only husband in the world who has been taken over the hurdles like that. After all, marriage is a complete lottery. A few get the winning tickets— and the rest get stung.

"Take the good with the bad. Bill. If your wife is that type of woman— at least you found out in time. And three hundred is a cheap price for the knowledge."

Bill let out a bleat that rattled the windows.

"That ain't the point." he whined. "You don't understand why I'm so sore. I paid out three hundred hard-earned bucks— and now I find out that Myrtle ain't cheatin' at all!"

__________________

64: New York Tale

IT WAS still hot. The sun had gone hours before but the night was airless. In the park, the leaves hung still. The smell of hot tar and grass wasn't exactly pleasant.

Here and there the blackness of the park was relieved by a splotch of color. Somebody sleeping on the grass. Now and then low voices could be heard — and, somewhere a woman was calling hysterically for "Junior."

The young man sat alone on the bench. He sat sideways, so that he used one whole section of it. In the murky dark you could see his fedora, tilted back on his forehead. Now and (then he wiped his face and neck with a handkerchief. If you looked closely you could see the mole on his left nostril.

He thought it over. Get drunk— or go to bed. If he went back to the apartment and turned in, the heat would keep him awake. If he got drunk, he'd have to fight a hangover in the morning. Altogether a very serious problem.

He studied the old man who shuffled up the path. A bum. You could spot one even in the semi-dark. No hat. Dirty white hair. The left pants leg torn at the knee. Shoulders drooping. Head darting back and fourth to spot suckers. A bum. The old man approached the bench.

"No," said the young man.

"I beg your pardon," said the old man. "I didn't say anything."

"Well," grunted the young man, "I'm turning you down before you begin."

"May I sit down?"

"The place is yours, old boy." The old man sat close to the young man. He mopped his brow and sighed.

"Terrible weather," he murmured. "Humidity is frightful."

There was something about the old man's voice. Something that didn't sound like a bum. Something that told you the old man hadn't always been a bum. The clothes were bum's clothes. And so was the man's attitude. But the voice held a certain softness, a gentility, a dignity that .made it sound as though it had once been on speaking terms with culture.

The young man turned. "Here's two bits," he said. "Never mind the sob. You'll find a saloon right through that entrance over there."

The old man's shaking hand held the coin. In the haze, the young man saw his eyes glisten. "Am I," the old man asked softly, "a bum?"

"Aren't you?" shrugged the young man.

"I hope not." There was a new note in the old man's voice. "I didn't think I was, but now I don't know. I've been trying to tell myself that everything would be all right if I could only get home again.

"But I've been called a bum by at least fifty people in the last three weeks. So maybe you're right. And maybe all the others are right, too."

The young man tried to chuckle. "Never mind the weeps, pop. I was only kidding." He wished the old man would go away. And he wished, too. that he had been more civil. "Where do you live?" he asked.

"In Ohio. If I can ever get eleven dollars together, I'll go home by bus. You see, I came here seven years ago with my daughter. Now I hate New York— but I can't leave it. It won't let me."

"Where's your daughter? She leave you?"

The old man sighed again. It was evidently something he didn't like to talk about. "I don't know why I should explain this to you, young man. You're probably laughing at me inside. But— well, my daughter is dead."

"Gee, pop, that's too bad. I really mean it. How come?"

The old man leaned back. "It's short," he observed, "and it's not very sweet. About eight or nine years ago, my daughter began to tell her mother of her ambitions. My wife listened, and soon she promised to try to sell me the idea.

"It seems that an artist must come to New York. Why, I don't know. We had no money to speak of, and I refused the girl for more than a year. But then I gave in. We came to New York so that she could have her big chance. Her mother stayed back home.

"We were in New York a few months when the girl fell in love. She never confided in me. Told me nothing, in fact, until it was too late."

He waved a hand. "It's the oldest story in the world. The man she fell in love with was absolutely no good. He treated her cruelly. Promised to marry her, but never kept his word. He gave her a complete run-around, and I found out about it only when it was too late to help. The baby died— and my daughter lived only four days afterward."

The young shook his head. He appeared nervous.

"Since that time." the old man went on, "I've spent every penny I owned in an attempt to find the man who caused her death. I don't know his name. All I have is a small photo, and a description.

"My money is all gone now. I haven't heard from my wife in more than six months. I've given up all thoughts of killing this fellow, because I no longer have the energy nor the money to hunt for him.

"I'd be satisfied to go home now— if I could."

The young man gulped. "What," he quavered, "what was your daughter's name?" The old man removed a half-smoked cigar from his pocket and struck a match. In the flickering saffron light he peered closely at the young man.

"Say!" he cried suddenly. "You have a mole on your left nostril! You have black hair, too! Just a minute now! Just a―"

The young man leaped to his feet. He tossed a bill in the old man's lap. "Here's 20 bucks, pop," he stated shakily. "I've got a date."

He began to walk rapidly away. "If I were you," he flung over his shoulder, "I'd get home as soon as I could."

The old man's bony fingers straightened out the crumbled bill. He got up as though to follow the young man, but he didn't have the strength to continue. He flopped back on the bench and sat there, shaking his head sadly.

An hour later the old man shuffled along until he reached 59th Street. He nodded to the bum who stood there. Together they began to walk away. The old man displayed the 20 dollars.

"As soon as they ask what my daughter's name was," he said quietly, "I know they have a guilty conscience. I light a match, describe the face I'm looking at— and the rest is easy. This last guy was a cinch."

He stopped for a moment.

"The way I tell that story," he opined, "always makes me feel that I missed something in life. Maybe I should have got married and really had a daughter!"

___________

65: The Promise

SCRUFFY MCBIFF was a dope. Yea, verily, and completely a dope. He was a huge, hatchet-headed monster with the mind of an infant in arms. He had a wide semi-toothless mouth that broke into a beaming grin at the slightest provocation.

He had attended school just long enough to learn that "b" follows "a" in the alphabet — but, as the years passed, even that knowledge dimmed in his mind. He would argue about it, but he wasn't sure. Accordingly, when it came time for Scruffy to choose a career in life, he had two logical possibilities. He could either swing a pick, or wrestle. He was well equipped for either. But Scruffy liked neither picks nor wrestlers.

So he chose larceny.

Now, to be a successful crook, it is admitted by all that you must possess a modicum of sense. Scruffy didn't know that. So, from time to time, he was nailed without the slightest difficulty. And, from time to time, he went on vacations up the river at the expense of the State.

No sense making any bones about it; Scruffy was absolutely dizzy. After a piece of thievery, he'd generally wander into a phoney auction and part with his proceeds to a smarter crook. . Or he'd give street urchins five dollars to spend on candy. He couldn't hold on to a buck.

And yet, Mary Jane Brown loved the big dope.

Nice gal, Mary Jane. She was about as short as a hooker of Scotch, and just as potent. She was insane about the big goof, and she did everything but club hint to death in an effort to effect a reform. She pointed out to him the stupidity of his ways. She pointed out that, somehow, he was always caught and always convicted. She pointed out that, in his case, thievery was a complete waste of time. When that happened, Scruffy would always wrinkle his brow as though his brain was working.

Yeah?" he would say. "Well, what's to do about it?"

"What's to do about it?" Mary Jane would cry. "Why, go to work, of course. Get yourself a job, like other men. Then we can get married, like we've always planned. Don't you see, Scruffy?"

Whereupon Scruffy would break into one of those grins.

"Ya mean go legit? Why, sure! You're right. I'll go legit. Then them cops won't tail me no more an' I can pull a few jobs on the side without gettin' caught! Say, hon, that's a swell idea!"

And Mary Jane would sigh very wearily.

One day, Mary Jane walked into a half-empty court. Her eyes were red with weeping. A man with a briefcase assisted her to a seat at the counsel table. Finally, a detective led in Scruffy McBiff. When he spotted Mary Jane, he grinned and waved his hand. She looked at him, and wept hysterically. Soon the judge swept in, and the bailiff rapped for order.

"The People," droned the bailiff, "versus one Steven McBiff."

Scruffy looked important. "That's me," he whispered in Mary Jane's ear. He stood up, adjusted his tie, and swaggered before the judge.

"How do you plead, McBiff?"

"Guilty, of course," said Scruffy. "I'm a feller that―"

judge looked up from the papers he was studying.

"Have you anything to say," asked his Honor, "before I pass sentence?"

Scruffy scratched his ear. "Nope. Can't think of anythin' right now."

Mary Jane leaped up and ran to the bench. The judge frowned.

"Please, judge," she said breathlessly. "Please lemme say somethin' before you send this guy away. He's my sweetheart. We were supposed to be married as soon as he got a job."

The bailiff looked to the judge for instructions. The judge waved him away.

Mary Jane began to cry.

"I'm asking you for mercy, judge," she sobbed. "I know the record shows that Scruffy don't rate no mercy, but you gotta consider the kind of guy he is.

"He's stupid, judge. Dopey. I know it ain't nice to say about the feller you love, but I can't help it. Scruffy don't even know what time it is. He don't steal because he's really no good. He just does it because he don't know no better.

"Judge, gimme a chance to reform him. I'm beggin' you to lemme show you what I can do. He loves me as much as I love him, and he'll do anythin' for me. And we'll make good for whatever amount he stole' from Mr. DuBoff's candy store. I swear it, judge. I swear it!"

The judge beckoned to a tall, thin man. This was the candy store owner. Next to him sat his wife, who was rocking her head from side to side sympathetically. The judge whispered to the man. The man studied Mary Jane and Scruffy. Then he smiled and shrugged. The judge called the parole officer and spoke to him. Then he folded his arms and spoke to Scruffy.

"My better judgment." he asserted, "tells me that the court is foolish to waste mercy upon you. The court, however, admires the sincerity of the girl who wants to marry you. So, because of that, the court sentences you to from five to ten years at hard labor in the State Penitentiary— and suspends sentence, pending your future behavior."

Mary Jane threw her arms around Scruffy and wept anew. Scruffy didn't know what it was all about, but he grinned anyhow. The lawyer mopped his brow and looked very puzzled.

"How long will it take you two to get married?" asked the judge.

"Two days," replied Scruffy happily. "It's a cinch."

"All right, McBiff. Have I your word that you will be wed in two days?"

"Judge," grinned Scruffy, crossing his heart, "I'm givin' you me woid of honor."

He and Mary Jane left the courtroom together.

Exactly two days later, Mary stood before the bars of a cell in the city jail and cried as though her heart would break.

"Oh, Scruffy! Scruffy! Why did you do it? Why, Scruffy?"

Scruffy gulped and hung his head. "Gee, honey." he returned hoarsely, "I didn't mean no harm. You wanted to get married in a hurry, and so did I. Well, I didn't have no money— so I jus' put the snatch on that lunch wagon. It was only 42 bucks, honey— and I done it for you."

The girl twisted her hands. "Oh, but Scruffy ! Don't you understand? The other sentence was only suspended, and now you'll go to jail for years and years! Why did you have to steal again to get money? I was in no hurry to get married. It wasn't important. Why couldn't you have waited a while?"

Scruffy drew himself up to his full height. "What?" he bellowed. "And go back on me woid to the judge!"

_____________

66: The Proof

THE MAN'S face was saffron. His mouth open and a frightened look in his eyes, he clenched the bedcovers nervously. The bullets in his stomach didn't hurt any longer. The pain had gone in the night when the ward was quiet.

Yesterday he had thought he was getting better. But now he knew he had to die.

"You're lookin' fine, Tom," said Michael Reilly. Michael had just come off duty, and he sat beside the bed in uniform with his cap on his knees. Michael and the man who lay dying had been buddies. Around the precinct everybody knew that the Reillys and the Caseys hung out together. Tom Casey was a fine, hearty Irishman. He had lost a great deal of his love of life when Mrs. Casey died, some five years before. Michael Reilly and his missus had done their best to make him forget. But they hadn't been successful.

Now Tom was in the hospital with two chunks of lead inside of him. The crazy drunk who had shot him was in jail and very repentant. But that didn't help Tom. He had to die. And he knew it.

"Yes, Tom," repeated Michael Reilly, "you're lookin' much better."

Tom Casey waved a tired hand. "The priest was in this mornin'," he whispered. '

"Ahhh," said Michael, "that's nothin'. They come around anyway."

Tom shook his head. "Michael," he said slowly, "I want to ask a favor. Will you listen— and will you do it?"

"Anythin' in the world," replied Michael Reilly.

"I want you to look after little Johnny for me. He's a good lad, Michael. He's just a little wild. His sister Mary will keep house for him. But look in once in a while, will you? See that he keeps good hours — and good company. You'll do that for me, won't you, Michael?" Michael Reilly bowed his head. He couldn't speak.

Tom Casey was buried, and little Johnny promised Michael that he'd be a good boy. The kid was sentimental, and always close to tears. That's what fooled Michael. He mistook the tears for repentance. It wasn't much trouble getting the boy a job. He was tall and strong, and made a good appearance. The trouble was that he never lasted very long in any job.

All the bosses told Michael Reilly the same thing. The boy started off beautifully. He worked hard for a week. Then he began to resent authority. Then he'd phone that he was sick, and come, in late. After three weeks he'd quit. If he wasn't fired.

Soon, Michael Reilly was transferred to the detective division. That meant that he no longer had to wear harness. He looked just like any other man on the street, except that his face was very ruddy and his feet were immense. Every few days he found time to wander into Johnny's neighborhood. The kid was generally on the corner, because the hoodlums hung out there. Johnny always looked ashamed when Michael Reilly caught him with them.

"I want to have a word with you, Johnny."

Whereupon the boy would excuse himself from the gang and walk slowly down the street with the big cop.

"Johnny, lad," Michael would say quietly, "those hoodlums are bad medicine for a bright boy. I've asked you many times to stay away from them. But of course, if you want to lead that kind of a life, my talkin' will do you no good.

"You know," he'd say reminiscently, "I often wonder to myself if the departed souls can look down on us and see us as we are. Some say they can, and some say they can't. I wouldn't know. But I'm sure your wonderful mother and big Tom would feel a little bit disappointed if they could. Don't you?"

Yes, Michael knew how to make the kid feel ashamed of himself. But he couldn't instil the stuff it takes to make it stick.

Michael Reilly never gave up trying to save the boy. Every few days he'd saunter, around "to have a little talk." Sometimes he'd talk about Johnny's older sister, Mary, who worked hard and kept the house going. And sometimes he'd talk about the gang on the corner.

"They're a bad lot, Johnny boy. A very bad lot. You didn't by any chance hear them talkin' about that fur robbery in the Twelfth Street loft last week? No, eh? Well, I thought not. You wouldn't tell me even if you had heard."

He'd laugh and poke the boy in the ribs. "You wouldn't tell me, would you, Johnny?"

"No, Mr. Reilly. I couldn't rat on fellers that I know. I'm not built that way. I just couldn't." "Of course you couldn't. And to tell the truth, I wouldn't expect you to. But tell me, Johnny, where did you get the money for that new suit you're sportin'? From Mary, I'll bet."

"Yes," nodded Johnny. "Mary gave me twenty bucks. I bought this suit over on Fourteenth Street. You like it?"

"It's a fine suit," agreed Michael Reilly. "You've got a fine sister in Mary, Johnny lad. All the good of the world is in her heart."

Michael Reilly didn't tell the boy that Mary had phoned him to say that Johnny had a lot of sudden wealth and had bought himself a new suit.

The man never forgot his silent promise to big Tom Casey. The boy showed no promise of ever leading an honorable life— but the copper kept trying just the same. He kept calling him off the corner; kept trying to shame him into  breaking away from the gang. He worried more about Johnny than he did about his own family.

One night he came home, looking very glum. He took off his shoes and sat in the parlor, thinking. Mrs. Reilly called him for supper, and he said he didn't want any. She came into the parlor, wiping her hands on her apron, and looked frightened.

"Somethin" has happened," she said. "What is it, Michael?"

The big cop sighed. "Yes," he murmured softly, "somethin' has happened, all right. Little Johnny Casey was found dead in a hallway an hour ago with two bullets in his back."

The woman sat down. "Mother of Mercy," she cried.

IN THE back room of a dingy saloon, the leader of the hoodlums was drinking straight rye. Two of his gang sat watched him. He was young. Very young. Not much more than a kid.

"So it happened, just like I'm tellin' ya," he said thickly. "As soon as I seen Charlie and Frank grabbed by the cops. I knew there was somethin' smelly about it. So I knocked off Johnny Casey myself, right away."

He drained his glass and slapped it on the table.

"I hadda do it," he added defensively. "He's been hangin' out with that cop Reilly for a long time— and that proves he's the one who ratted on us."

_______________

67: Dream's End

JOAB MARTIN sighed with envy. His eyes misted a trifle. They always did at sailing time. The deep-throated siren of the liner warned New York that she would leave for Europe in fifteen minutes.

But Joab Martin wasn't going. He just stood there, his arms resting on the empty hand truck. His baggage cap was pushed back on a forehead that gleamed with perspiration.

It was the year of 1906, and he was a young man who dreamed of travel. The passengers lined the promenade rail. The women wore big hats with veils tied under their chins, and they waved lacy handkerchiefs. The men I waved their straws. A pink-cheeked boy with a big Oriental gong threaded his way among the gay travellers. He pounded the gong and shrilled: "All ashore that's I going ashore! All ashore "

Joab Martin gulped. Some day, he murmured to himself, I'm going to sail like that. Some day I won't have to push a baggage truck no more. Some day I'll stand up there wavin' my straw hat, and somebody else on the dock will wish he was goin', too. Some day....

1907. 1915. 1925. Like figures on an adding machine, the years clicked off the tune of progress. The gigantic explosion in Europe came and went. Prohibition arrived. Short skirts. Flappers. Bobbed hair. Gangs. Rides. Joab Martin saw all these things. He watched the world change, even as he stood still. At sailing time, he still stood on the dock. And he still sighed with envy.

In 1926 he stood one summer's day and watched a new liner leave on a return maiden voyage. He had aged a great deal. His arms and his hands were still hard. But he stooped a little now, and his face was gaunt. The moustache that drooped from his lips was white.

"Some day," he muttered softly, as he leaned on his hand truck, "I'm goin' to sail like that. I been sayin' that now for more than twenty years. But I'll do it some day. Been watchin ships sail so long. Thousands of 'em.

"I load 'em with luggage and away they go. Must be swell to sail away on the ocean. Certainly must be swell "

The liner's siren emitted a terrific blast. As always, the man's eyes began to mist. The pink-cheeked boy pounded the gong and cried: "All ashore that's going ashore! All ashore "

Joab Martin sighed with envy. For ten years more, Joab Martin pushed his hand truck. The work was easier now. The baggage master ! gave him lighter jobs to handle. Slowly, the old man pushed the hand truck up the gangway into the steel sides of the liners.

It was 1936 now. The sleek 20,000 ton liners of 1906 had been replaced by giants four times that size. The old man turned his eyes skyward to study these new monsters. They seemed bigger than hotels. And they were, too.

For more than thirty years, Joab Martin had pushed baggage. He was beginning to believe now that he never would be able to travel to Europe. He was very old, and the baggage trucks seemed to grow heavier and heavier. He knew he couldn't last much longer. He heard the giant's siren let loose. He heard the frenzied goodbyes, saw the tremendous hull slip its moorings and come to life, and knew that— four days and a few hours later— the huge vessel would glide into its berth in England. Joab Martin sighed with envy.

The next day, the miracle happened. A well-dressed young man threw a familiar arm around old Joab. "I'm Clayton Quaw, of the publicity office," he said, smilingly. "The Big Boss sent me up here with some news for you, Mr. Martin."

Joab dropped his hand truck and shook with fright.

"News?" he quavered. "News?"

"Good news," grinned the publicity man. "I thought of a swell idea for a human-interest story, and you're it. You've been pushing a luggage truck for more than 30 years, so the line is going to give you a six weeks' vacation. "We're going to send you to Europe on our biggest liner in the finest suite of rooms. Free!" The old man sat down on a trunk and sobbed like a little child.

It was sailing day again. The noise, the bustle, the confusion— everything was the same. Up on the sun-deck, a confused old man faced a battery of grinding cameras. He was neatly dressed in a serge suit. The sound-men told him to say something, say anything.

"Well," he stated nervously, "I been workin' for this line for more than 30 years. Pushin' baggage, that is. When I was a young feller, I used to say to myself, I'd say: 'Joab Martin, some day you'll sail on one of them beautiful ships to Europe.' 'Course, I was just dreamin', and I never thought I really would.

"But here I am, thanks to my 'bosses. I don't have to push no more baggage, and I'm a first class passenger. I always wanted to see where these big boats go when they pass down the river, and now I'm going to find out. "I guess I " his voice broke a little, "I guess I'm just about the happiest feller in the whole wide world...."

After that, they whisked him down one of the elevators to the hold. They had a neatly pressed baggage pusher's uniform— cap and all— and they asked him to push one load of baggage aboard for the newsreel cameras. It would add a nice touch, they said.

The old man obliged. His brain was in a whirl. His mind was near the cracking point. As he pushed the load of baggage into the side of the ship for the cameras, it seemed incredible that he, old Joab Martin, was doing this only in fun. It seemed impossible that, this time, it would be he who would yell good-bye from the promenade deck and smile at the envy of those on the dock. Then the mighty blast rent the air.

The boy beat the gong and cried: "All ashore that's going ashore. All ashore!"

Joab Martin saw, heard, and smelled the same things he had seen, heard, and smelled for thirty years.

Fifteen minutes later the liner slipped her moorings and started to back out in mid-stream. But Joab Martin was not on board. He was leaning on an empty hand truck on the dock. Thirty years of habit proved too much for the man. His ticket in his pocket, he stood there with misty eyes and watched the liner disappear— and he sighed with envy.

_________________

68: Story Of Revenge

THIS IS a revenge yarn . I've written many of them before. And unless the boss gets wise to me I'll probably write many more. But this one, in a sense, is the best of them all. Have a look:

The locale of the yarn is in the deep south. In the centre of a vast plain, lies a prison farm. It is built like a stockade. A dusty, white road leads from the high gates through the plain to a town some twelve miles away. It seldom rains at the farm, and the sun is merciless all through the day. The inmates— both black and white― work from sunup to sundown. Most of them work on the vegetable farm-weeding, spraying, planting, reaping. The work is cruel and back-breaking.

Several years ago, a sheriff's car drove through heat waves over the plain to the Prison Farm. Inside the gates, a deputy delivered a man named Watkins. The deputy handed the warden the commitment papers. "Watkins gets five years at hard labor," he said casually. "For embezzlement." Then he left.

At the farm, they never learned much about Watkins. He had a dark, brooding face— and he seldom talked. At night he sat on the edge of his cot with his face cupped in his hands. Thinking. During the days, he worked willingly enough. Three months after his arrival, the warden learned that Watkins was a mechanic. So he was put to work in the truck garage. The job had but one virtue; it kept him out of the sun.

So time moved on. The same work by day, the same thoughts by night. Those thoughts never changed. They were routine. They always began at the same point— and they always ended with plans for revenge. yes, those thoughts always began with Helen.

He had married her when he was seventeen. She wasn't much more than a school kid at the time. Helen wasn't a strong girl. She was thin, and nervous, and worrisome. She thought Watkins was the only man in the world. And that's what it amounted to, too. When she married Watkins, she gave up everything. Family. Friends. Everything. No matter how tough the going, she never whined. When the twins were born— both boys— Helen smiled at her man and said she could never be any happier. Maybe she was right.

At that time, Watkins worked very steadily. He was a cashier in a cotton mill. Made thirty-five a week, and felt like a king.

Then what happened. You guessed it. Another woman. She was a new girl around the mill. She was a flaming red head who looked at him with "come-and-get-me" eyes. Watkins introduced himself, and the girl said her name was Joan.

Watkins went completely daffy about the girl. He took her out that night. She kissed him vigorously, and he was hooked from then on. Soon, he was not going home for dinner. He told Helen that the kids got on his nerves. A couple of times, he went away for weekends. Helen began to grow afraid. She was hearing things from all sides.

And yet she didn't complain. It wasn't that Watkins didn't know about Joan's reputation. The men at the factory told him about her at every , opportunity. They winked and made , wise remarks. They said she was no good. Yes, Watkins knew all about this girl with whom he was in love. But he had reached the stage in which he was willing to defy the world. It wasn't necessary at all, but he went to Joan and asked her to marry him. She shrugged and said she'd do it, if he could get rid of Helen.

So Watkins went to Helen and blurted out the truth. Helen sat, fumbling with the edge of her apron; listening, and nodding, and hoping she wouldn't cry. She asked him what she would do with the children. Watkins said he didn't care. In the end. Helen agreed to a divorce. She soon left town with her babies. And little else.

Watkins married Joan. and the boys stopped their wise cracking. To his face, that is. Behind his back they howled.

Exactly as everyone had figured, the marriage turned out badly. Joan was difficult to please. She wanted this, she wanted that. She was always demanding money, and more money. So Watkins borrowed the money from the company safe. At first it was just a few bucks. Then the sums grew larger and larger.

Three months after the wedding, Joan handed him the very same medicine he had given Helen. She began to remain away from home, to cheat on him at every opportunity. But Watkins didn't take it the way Helen had. He waited for Joan one night, and reminded her of what he had given up for her. She laughed in his face, and he punched her.

That's when she sneered at him. Told him that he was a complete sucker, and that she was in love with another man.

Watkins ran from the house, his fingers in his ears. He was afraid he'd kill her if he stayed longer. He didn't get very far. The company had been investigating him, and they brought him back a few days later. You know his sentence for the embezzlement. Five years on the prison farm at hard labor.

It was nice work on Watkin's part. He had lost his wife. He had lost two priceless children. He had lost his job. He had lost his freedom. And all because of Joan.

And so it was that Watkins lived now for revenge. His plan was simple and direct. He would escape somehow, and then he would kill Joan. He would strangle her slowly, and with delight. Then, probably, he would kill her boy friend. Penalty? So what? Hanging, for him, would only conclude a life that was already beyond redemption. And more, he had no wish to continue.

These were his thoughts, day after day, and night after night. He worked diligently on his plan for escape— and the day finally arrived when he was ready for the attempt. He was repairing the back of a truck. He was nervous and jumpy, and the job took him almost the entire day to complete. When it was finished, Watkins drove the truck around inside the farm.

"How's it look?" the driver asked Watkins.

"Oke," said Watkins. "Take it away."

The driver stepped up to the seat, and Watkins scurried around to the back. No one was in sight, and he crawled underneath between the wheels. He hung his knees over the axle, and gripped the flanges of the body with his hands. In a moment, the driver would go out the gate to freedom. He'd have a passenger— but he wouldn't know it.

The truck went into low gear. It started off jerkily and the driver swung the wheel. The truck lurched as it went over a huge rock, and Watkins didn't even scream. He was crushed between the axle and the rock. He was dead before they picked him up.

No one suspected that he was trying to escape. The Board of Inquiry said he must have been checking his work when the accident occurred. And that was all. So Watkins never had his revenge. It was just the other way round, in fact. Because, ironically enough, the State was accused of negligence. And Joan, his cheating widow, collected $12,000!

______________

69: Greatest Of All

TAKE THE case of Betty Lee, as we choose to call her in this story. Twenty years ago, her rise in the theatrical world was what the boys often refer to as "meteoric."

Ever see a meteor? Well, I didn't either. But they tell me that it screams across the night sky like a beautiful blue diamond with a long tail of red feathers. Suddenly, it darts downward in a shower of sparks and buries itself for ever in the moist earth. That was Betty Lee.

It was shortly before your Uncle Sammy decided to take a hand in the war— and a boot in the pants— that this kid came to New York. Betty Lee was pretty, but it was her voice that really got you. It was a low voice, and husky. When she laughed, it was deep in her throat. She went around, telling everybody that she was the greatest actress in the world. The agents, of course, merely smiled at that. The outward-bound trains are filled with girls who thought they were "the greatest actress in the world."

But Betty Lee really had something. Within a short time, she was understudying one of the big stars of the day. In that production Betty never had a chance to show her stuff. She prayed nightly that the star would break her neck, or, at the very least, develop a pretty case of pneumonia. But nothing happened.

Then came a couple of bit parts in mediocre plays. She enacted her roles to perfection, but the critics didn't even see her. If she had failed then, she might have gone home, and married the grocery clerk, and lived a fine life, and I would have had no story.

But she didn't fail. Success came her way. On wheels.

She understudied another actress, and this time the star fell ill. Betty Lee went on at very short notice, and gave a superb performance. When the final curtain fell, the audience stood to applaud a new star. It lasted only two weeks, but that was long enough for Broadway to run in and have a peek at her. The regular star came back, and Betty was pulled from the show by another manager and given the lead in a new production.

Betty Lee made good. She had everything in her favor. She had great ability, and looks, and a name that was easy to remember. Like the meteor up near the start of the story, Betty Lee raced across the night sky. There were the usual banquets, and boy friends, and stories in the magazines about the small town girl who made good. She loved it, too. No matter where she went, she was never too modest to admit that she was the greatest actress in the world.

And perhaps she was. I wouldn't know. All I know is that all Broadway was talking about her, and that many of the wise boys agreed she was better than the best. Her success was tremendous.

But success, like a new car, is something that should be tried with caution until you're sure you can handle it. It sometimes runs away with its owner. Betty, however, never heard of that. She acted not only onstage— but offstage as well. She went for the Merry Mad existence. And that consists mainly of men and liquor. The men, she could handle.

After awhile, Betty Lee couldn't go on until she'd had a few drinks. Her hands shook. Her mind refused to remember lines at important junctures. Her voice trembled in the wrong spots. Later, it took more than a few drinks to straighten her out. And Anally, she had to be tanked even to put on her make-up. Betty Lee's meteor was headed earthward— but she didn't know It wasn't long before the managers were digging up alibis for not hiring her. They really didn't need alibis. But they hated to tell her that she was already washed up. Meanwhile, she kept mumbling her favorite line. "I'm the greates' actress in the w'rld," she'd hiccough stupidly. "Don't ever f'get that. I'm the greates'."

She had several good friends, and she was therefore able to hang on to the ropes longer than many others. For years she marched from office to office, looking for a starring part. She'd never accept anything less— and she was too bleary to understand that she wasn't wanted.

But eventually oblivion came. She awakened one morning to find that the last of her friends had departed. And also, the last of her money. Necessity called for work. Broadway, crusty as always, wouldn't permit her to sweep out its theatres. Broadway pretended not to see and hear her whining for work. So she wound up drinking wherever she could mooch drinks. And it wasn't long before she found herself on the Bowery.

Now, the Bowery is not very particular. It treasures the wrecks of humanity who crawl to its bosom. So, even though they never heard of Betty Lee, they listened to the ravings of this strange hag. And they often bought her drinks.

"You don't know me," she'd drool, "but I'm Betty Lee. I'm the greatesh actresh inna worl'. Down on m'luck right now, but it'sh onney temp'rary. Whose gonna buy drink for greatesh actresh inna worl', hah?"

Her face was heavily lined now. She wasn't old, but the poison she was drinking would have aged the Rock of Gibraltar. She couldn't go on much longer. The meteor was heading rapidly for the soft, moist earth.

She staggered into a joint one day, and propped herself on a chair at the bar. Her hair hung over her eyes, and her face was dirty. She stared at the bar-tender.

"What's your's?" asked the barkeeper.

"Buy me a drink, willyuh?" she whispered. "I'm Betty Lee, and I'm the greatesh— the greatesh— " The bartender winked at the bouncer. The latter man knew his business. He grabbed her as her eyes started to close.

"Come on, you," he grinned. "You need a little sunshine."

Before he could steady her, Betty Lee toppled from the chair. The bouncer picked her up and sat her back on the chair like a loose-jointed doll. Her head hung on one shoulder, and she kept opening her mouth like a fish out of water.

A customer shook his head.

"That's a helluva way to treat a woman," he said to the bouncer. "You mighta hurt that dame."

The bouncer sighed. "Lissen, mister," he returned. "I been in this punk racket a long, long time. I didn't do nothin' to this woman. She deliberately fell off the chair. They all pull that racket. They fake a faint so that you'll buy 'em a drink."

In the chair, Betty Lee gave a convulsive jerk. Her head fell back, and she was very still.

The meteor was in the earth.

"Yes, sir," the bouncer went on, "this faint business is an old stall. Plenty of old hags use it around here. But I'll say one thing about this dame here, mister. She's just about the greatest actress of them all."

_______________

70: Court Scene

THE limousine nudged the kerb and stopped. The chauffeur stepped out , trotted around to the other side, and opened the door. A tall, good-looking man emerged. He murmured something to the chauffeur and disappeared inside a lofty building.

Upstairs, rows of women worked at machines. Some of them smiled as the good-looking man passed on his way to his private office, and a few of them said good-morning. But the man looked neither to the right nor the left. He kept walking until he stepped inside the office. The door slammed. George Williams flopped behind his desk and buried his face in his hands.

He was the owner of this factory— and a most unhappy man. Alone, he was unable to control his emotions. He wept for several minutes. Then he braced himself and made several business calls.

An hour later, he was back in the limousine. "To the courthouse," he said. The car was there in a very short time.

George Williams stepped out, sighed, and walked up the granite steps. Soon, he stood before a door on which gold letters read "Supreme Court― Part One." He entered the room and walked down the aisle to the gate. He swung open the gate and sat down beside his counsel. Court was in session.

George Williams looked at the stately woman on the witness stand.

"There," he thought bitterly, "sits my wife. There sits the woman who promised— oh, twenty-five years ago— to love, honor, and obey. There sits the woman who bore me two children.

"There sits the woman who now wants a separation..."

Counsel for George Williams arose to cross-examine the woman on the stand.

"Is the court to understand, Mrs. Williams," he began softly, "that you  charge your husband with cruelty?"

"Yes. Cruelty."

"Will you tell the court the type of cruelty, and when it began?"

"Well, it began when we were married. Twenty-five years ago. He wouldn't allow me more than 40 dollars a week. He said I would have to make it do. He―"

"How much was he making at that time, Mrs. Williams?"

"How much? I— I don't know."

"Isn't it true that he made only 100 dollars a week — and that he was putting most of that back into the business to make it greater?"

"I — well, I suppose so."

"Go on, Mrs. Williams. Tell us more about your husband's alleged cruelty."

"Well, he didn't like to dance. And he resented the fact that I would go to dances with other men."

"I see. Go on, Mrs. Williams."

"He was always petty. I mean, if I played cards and lost money, he'd argue with me about it."

"How much did you lose? I mean, when you lost."

"Not much."

"Not much?"

"Oh, a few hundred."

"A few hundred, eh? How much did you win, when you won?"

The woman fidgeted. "I'm not really very good at cards. I never did win very much."

It went on and on and on. Direct questions and reluctant answers.

After a while, the woman stepped down and a called the name of George Williams. He stood up and glanced at his wife. She turned away. He looked at the two grown children who sat beside her. Frank. And Evelyn. They stared through their father. George Williams took the stand.

"Mr Williams," said his attorney softly, "I am certain the court will recognise your state of agitation at the moment, and will bear with you. Suppose you tell us, in your own words, of your married life."

The witness shook his head sorrowfully. "There isn't much," he murmured, that hasn't already been said. My only defence to the charges of cruelty as outlined by Mrs. Williams and our children is that I never intended to be cruel. I intended to be a good husband and a father. I see now that my main mistake was in being old-fashioned."

There was an objection here. The judge told Williams to proceed.

"There is nothing I can say about my wife, George Williams continued, "She is of sterling character, and I lovely her as deeply at this moment as did on the day we were married.

"Our great difference was in our outlooks on life. I liked to sit home evenings. That's why I bought a beautiful place on Long Island. For comfort and relaxation.

"But Mrs. Williams was of a different nature― she wasn't content to take a drive on a Sunday, or to stay a home in the evenings and help the children with their studies. She wanted what she called fun. Night clubs, Broadway, dancing, cards, cocktails, gambling."

There was a series of objections. William continued.

"She insisted upon a nurse for the children. I thought that she alone should attend to the children." The man shrugged. "I lost that one. It wasn't long before we had both a nurse and a governess.

"As the children grew, Mrs. Williams seemed to go further from me. She lost more money than I could afford to pay. One year— 1924, I think It was— I had to sell a share of my business to help pay her losses."

There was a loud, yelping objection. It was sustained. George Williams seemed on the verge of tears.

"I begged and pleaded and fought against her gambling, but it did no good. Soon she drew the children away from me by sending them to distant schools.

"When they were home, which was seldom, I saw them only when they arrived and when they departed. When I asked to see them, I was told that they were 'out.' When I asked Mrs. Williams where they were, she didn't appear to know. I seldom received more satisfaction than that.

"After they left the college— incidentally, I wasn't consulted about that either— I hardly ever saw them When they wrote, their letters were addressed to their mother. If Mrs. Williams felt inclined, she read them to me. Otherwise, I heard nothing.

"And so, although I thought I was doing my best, my home life became worse and worse. For the past four years, Mrs. Williams has seldom spoken to me except in argument— or to ask for more money.

"Consequently, your Honor, I cannot afford today to pay the thousand dollars a month alimony that she now demands. I simply cannot, because my business no longer makes that much money."

The judge regarded the witness with kindliness.

"What business are you in, Mr. Williams?" he asked.

Williams seemed surprised. "I thought you knew," he replied. "My factory manufactures those little silk frames with the blue, embroidered mottoes in the centre."

"What sort of mottoes?" inquired the judge.

Williams hesitated. "Well," he stated finally, "our best seller right now is: 'Be It Ever So Humble, There's No Place Like Home.' "

___________

71: The Way Things Happen

GEORGE KELLY, keen student of the stage, wrote a play called "Philip Goes Forth," and saw it produced at the Biltmore Theatre a few years back; I liked the play immensely. And, as is customary with the things I like, it never got anywhere.

It was Kelly's second act that gave me my greatest kick. He showed us a boarding house in Greenwich Village and gave us some of the characters who might exist in such a house. He drew skilful portraits of the talented musician who finally killed himself because he could get nowhere, and the dull youth who thought he was a playwright because he talked of moods and artistic shadings.

Here, I thought, was a grand piece of work. Here was comedy on the arm of its closest relative, tragedy. Here was the Greenwich Village boarding house that so many of us knew in other days. Here were characters who will exist as long as New York continues to lure fools who do not know when they are well off at home.

But I'm getting away from my own story.

I, too, know a yarn about just such a house as Kelly described. I only wish I could write one-half as well as Kelly in order to do it justice. At any rate, listen:

In his rooming house, Carl was a strange figure. All of the figures were more or less strange, but most of them forgot to pose during the progress of their little parties. Carl never changed. For the simple reason, I guess, that he never attended any of their parties. Practically all of these people were drawn together by a mutual bond. They had but one aim, and that was success in the literary field.

Carl was no different from the rest in that respect. He, too, felt certain his book would startle the literary world when it was published. He had been working on it for eight months, and he still had sufficient money left to remain until it was finished. Thus he worked and worked. From early in the morning until very late at night.

In the beginning, Carl was always asked to these little village gatherings. He wasn't a bad-looking chap, and his soft smile was having its share of effect on the girlies who liked soft smiles. But Carl didn't seem to realise it.  He offered excuse after excuse.

"Sorry," he would say. "Can't possibly make it tonight. Just getting near my climax, and I must finish three chapters tonight." Or "No thanks. It's swell of you to ask me, and I'd love to come. But I've got to get over to the library and do some research work. Maybe some other time."

After a while the folks became curious. They began to speak of him as thinking himself too good for the crowd. The women referred to him as self-important. Yet all the while they knew in their hearts that he was an extremely decent fellow.

The true situation wasn't at all mysterious. This man had budgeted himself very closely. He had just enough money to keep going until that all-important book was completed. The pennies represented dollars in his eyes. And he would not attend these gatherings for the very simple reason that he could not pay his way.

If you had told that to the other villagers they would have laughed at you. What? Not attend a party because you couldn't reciprocate? Why, what kind of nonsense was that? It was hard on them, you see, to understand an old-fashioned guy with some real decency in his heart.

Carl finished his book and sent it to a publisher.

If you have ever sent an article or a story to a magazine— and who hasn't?— you will understand Carl's feelings as he waited for a decision from the publishing house. An acceptance meant everything in life to this man. It meant that some measure of success awaited him. It meant that those who had laughed at him in the home town would now open their eyes in amazement. It meant realisation of his every hope and dream.

A week passed. No word. Two weeks passed. Still no word. Carl was worried now. He was nervous. Frightened. Excited. He grew to know the exact time of the postman's arrival. Then he would stand on the porch and wait. And it was pitiful to watch his expression as the postman passed him by with a shake of the head.

Three weeks went by. Carl's money was going fast now. Another week or so and he'd be flat broke. He would be compelled to borrow. And that would be a tough spot for a bird who always insisted on paying his way. Very tough— but what else to do?

The other roomers felt sorry for Carl now. They knew this man was going through torture. They saw him growing more and more nervous with each passing day. If there was only something that they could do. If they could only get him out on a party and have him forget the book for a while, it might help him a great deal. If―

That night Carl received a telephone call. It was from the publisher to whom he had sent his manuscript. The publisher was extremely enthusiastic. As his head did e. dance Carl heard this big man tell him his book was an absolute masterpiece. If Carl would come to his office in the morning they would fix up a contract.

When he hung up, Carl was a new man. He dashed into the dining room.

"You folks have always asked me to parties," he cried excitedly. "Now it's my turn. I get a cheque tomorrow morning, and I can afford to spend a little tonight. This party is on me. My book has been sold!"

What little money he had left Carl spent that night. If he thought it strange that the others weren't as gay as they might have been, he said nothing about it. He was too happy. It was that glorious sense of happiness that comes to an author only once in his life; when he sells his first manuscript. Around three in the morning one of the men took him aside.

"I've got to tell you this, Carl," he muttered. "Please don't be angry. We only did it to cheer you up. Your book hasn't really been sold. One of the other fellows gave you a fake story over the 'phone. He wanted to make you happy."

It took a few minutes for Carl to realise exactly what the other man had told him. When the truth dawned he began to shiver. He said nothing as he walked from the room. Ten minutes later he put a bullet through his brain. The story received a line or two in most of the papers.

This part is known to very few. Two days after his death his book was accepted by the publisher!

_______________

72: The Big Chance

HE held his chin high as he adjusted the uniform cap. The visor shone blackly . The brass buttons of the blouse glittered. Little silver lights bounced off the shield.

Oh, he was a picture, all right. Officer Thomas McCoy, newly-created cop, was about to pound a beat for the first time. He was big enough. Six feet of rock. But his face was the face of a fresh Irish kid, scarcely out of school.

Patricia sat on the bed with her hands in her lap. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. This, she thought, is Tommy. My Tommy. But he doesn't look like Tommy. He looks like a policeman now. Afterward, she held his hands in hers before he left. She wanted to throw her arms around him. But she was afraid to muss the uniform.

"As long back as I can remember," she murmured, "Daddy was a cop. And a good cop. Now my husband is a cop. I hope. Tommy, your career will be as good as Daddy's. If you watch your step, I think you'll go further. In the old days, they needed muscle. Today, it's brains. You've got 'em.

"I've been thinking up this speech for a long time, so don't stop me. I'm going to be a cop's wife, like Momma was. In the winter you'll get stew. It sticks to your ribs. In the summer, salads. Plenty of greens.

"I'll always keep liniment on hand, and I'll see that you get fresh socks every day."

He forgot his new uniform. He hugged her close. "I don't deserve you," he said.

TOMMY had ambition. Plenty of it. If he thought for a moment that he would be pounding pavement for the rest of his life, he'd have gone back to driving a truck. The long way to success was to wait for the examinations. Take them, and come out near the head of the list. Then wait for an appointment. Tommy didn't like that. It took too long. If a man was a smart cop, and managed to pull a good piece of police work, he could be transferred to the Detective Division overnight. From then on, it would be a matter of breaks. So he pounded a beat for a while. He helped kids across the street, kicked drunks in the pants, and made sure that all shops were locked after midnight. He wrote out neat reports to his superiors, and swung a nightstick like a veteran.

A year later, he was transferred: Radio Squad car. He was put in with a driver named Schwartz. A quiet guy who drove around all night, talking about how bright his kids were. Tommy itched for an important assignment. Carefully, he listened as instructions droned over the radio. Patiently he waited for a big robbery, a murder, a chance to prove himself.

"Car 22... Car 22... Proceed to four-two Wilson Street. Four-two Wilson Street. Building Superintendent complains of drunken tenant. Building Superintendent complains―"

That was the trouble. Whenever they called Car 22, it was always on some prosaic mission like putting a drunk to bed. Or chasing kids who broke windows. It went on that way for another year.

His ambition was sullen now. Instead of grinning and assuring Patricia that he'd be a First Grade Detective soon, he gritted his teeth and said nothing. But it didn't break his spirit. He was more determined than ever to prove himself a good cop.

Weeks passed.

One night Tommy and Schwartz were cruising slowly along the street. "My oldest kid." Schwartz was saying, "gets out of high school this week. Now there's a bright lad for you. I'm going to put him through law school. That boy knows more about what's going on than I do. No foolin'."

The radio voice opened up.

"Car 22... Car 22... Burglar alarm ringing at Smith Street Warehouse. Burglar alarm ringing at Smith Street Warehouse. Investigate immediately. Car 22... Car 22..."

Tommy McCoy stared at Schwartz. His heart was beating in his temples. His hand reached for his polished revolver.

"Let's go," he said.

swung the car around. In n moment, the siren wailed as they scrambled over cobbled streets in the darkness. In another moment they were pulling up alongside of the warehouse. Tommy jumped out before the car stopped or the siren died. He could hear the alarm squealing to the world that something was wrong inside of the big, black building. He ran over to the corrugated steel door.

Suddenly the door swung back and a man ran out. The figure hugged the wall and hurried away.

"Halt!" Tommy screamed."Stop!"

The man kept going.

"Stop or I'll fire!"

His voice was like an hysterical woman. His hand wavered as he aimed the revolver above the fleeing man's head. The gun barked. The man tripped in his stride. Then he fell on his face.

Tommy's teeth were chattering when he turned the man over.

Schwartz was now inside the warehouse. Tommy's stomach felt weak and fluttery. The man's face was covered with grime. His eyes stared at the sky. Blood came from his mouth. And the flashlight showed his night watchman's badge Tommy knew the man was dead. But he hoped and prayed that those terrible staring eyes would close, and breathing begin. Suddenly the young cop stood up. He could hear the sirens of other squad cars coming. He turned and ran.

At home, he remembered that Patricia had gone to her mother's. He was glad. That saved him a scene with her. He ripped off the uniform blouse and tossed it on the bed. The trousers, too. The gun, shield and blackjack were placed on the dresser. He hurried into a brown suit, and tried to find a pencil and paper. He couldn't. Well, that was all right, too. Farewells are futile things. Patricia would know soon enough. Know that he had murdered a watchman in cold blood. Murdered a watchman who was running for help. Murdered a man who probably had a family. Murdered a man just as a gangster murders. A shot in the back―

Schwartz came around to the house the following evening. He said he was due to go on duty— but he had heard how Tommy had lost his head, and he wanted to sympathise. Patricia cried and wanted to know if the precinct had any news of Tommy's whereabouts.

"No, Mrs. McCoy," said Schwartz. "We haven't heard a thing. It's a shame that Tommy had to ruin his career like that. They never forgive a man for running out." He shook his head. "He's a foolish kid. He would have been made a detective for what he did. Who'd ever suspect that the thief would murder the watchman— and then try to escape― in the watchman's clothes?"

______________

73: As Ye Sow

THE STORY opens early in the Prohibition Era. Back in the days when smart guys with foresight began to see big dividends in the importation of good liquor. Tough days, those were— and you had to be tougher than the next man in order to survive in the racket .

At that time, Mickey Swan was on the way up. He was a big, bluff, hearty bird with a heart that was both generous and cruel. He had surrounded himself with a dizzy bunch of young gunmen, who would do anything he said. Thus, you would call him a gangster.

Of course, Mickey Swan did not insert paid advertisements to the effect that he was a gangster. Among his holdings was a large restaurant in the theatrical district, so he called himself a restaurant man. Which was, I suppose, as good as anything.

Mickey had a wife, and a child of three. He had plenty of money, and a lot of power. But the man wasn't satisfied. He was on the climb, and he kept building his organisation until he had his hand in every racket in town. And even then he wasn't satisfied. But, suddenly, something happened. Something that caused even Mickey Swan to think...

His wife died. She was a devout Irish kid, and she loved Mickey more than life itself. She knew the type of man he was, but it made no difference. And that's what made it so difficult when it came time to die. She knew she was going. And she cried a little when Mickey gulped like a kid and tried to pat her hand. The man was trying very hard to be tender— and the result was pathetic.

"Mickey," she said softly, "I'm thinking of Mary now. I don't want her to be brought up as a— as a gangster's daughter. I don't mean to hurt you, Mickey. But I can't be soft now, because my time is short.

"Mary is only a baby. In a little while, she won't even remember me. If you change your life now— if you live respectable-like, and quit all this killing— she'll never remember you as Mickey Swan, the gangster.

"Give her the chance, I ask. It's the only favor I want now. I'll die happy, Mickey, if you promise to take care of Mary as a good father should.

"Promise me, Mickey, please."

Mickey Swan wept as only a tough mug can. He promised.

YES, HE promised— but the lure of easy money is very great. It takes more than ordinary will power to resist it. So, when Mrs. Swan had rested beneath green sod, and snow, and green sod again, he compromised on his promise.

Mickey sent Mary away. He sent her to an exclusive school; a school in which all the little girls had blue blood and rosy futures. Mary had no blue blood, but Mickey paid huge sums for everything. And it was surprising how much social distinction that gave little Mary in no time at all. This man gave his daughter everything that money could buy. He also changed her name. She was, he told the school authorities, Miss Mary Sawn. And he was, so far as they were concerned, Mr. Michael Sawn

The years flew by, and Mickey Swan had his ups and downs. Some years were good, some were bad. But, in the main, the man did not change very much. Mary changed, though. She grew to girlhood, and then adolescence. And then high heels and soft eyes. Mary was a lady before Mickey realised it. He was still thinking in terms of babies when she wrote to him about "a nice young man near the school."

That, too, made Mickey think.

When Mary left school, Mickey rented a nice home on upper Long Island and installed her there with a cook and a maid. She, of course, had no idea that Michael Sawn was the notorious Mickey Swan. She knew her father as a wealthy restaurant man, and nothing more.

Mickey loved this girl now, and he found more and more time to be near her. He had always felt a great affection for her, but now that affection was almost reverence. Because Mary had grown to look almost exactly like her mother. Thus, matters moved along very smoothly until early spring. Then, as he sat at home with Mary one evening, she told him a bit of news.

"There's something I must tell you about, Dad, and I do hope you won't be angry. When I was doing my social service work for the poor on the lower East Side just before Christmas, I met a man named Martin. You wouldn't know him, Dad, because— well, he's a gambler. They call him Buck Martin, and―"

The girl prattled on. But Mickey Swan heard no more for a while. That name had chilled him. Buck Martin was a small-time heel, a petty racketeer and blackmailer; Why, Martin wasn't respected even in the lowliest gang circles. And now his little Mary— the girl who looked so much like her. sweet mother — had met this rat!

"And so," the girl was saying, "we began to see more and more of each other. I thought— oh, what's the use of a long speech, Daddy? He's asked me to marry him, and I'm very much in love with him. When you've met him, Dad, will you say it's all right? Please―"

Mickey Swan wasn't very coherent. He murmured something that sounded like okay, and he left the house rather hurriedly. And the following morning found him making a brief but very important 'phone call.

"You can't miss on this one," were his clipped words. "He generally hangs around Irving Place. Get him about ten tonight, and get him right. Don't 'phone me until the job is done. I'll be here at the office."

He hung up— and all that day Mickey Swan sat alone in his office. He thought of his wife. And of the promise he had made. And of how he had grown to love that kid of his beyond almost everything else in the world Now she had to fall in love with a heel like Buck Martin. A cheap nobody. A double-crosser who would make her life miserable.

Well, he was playing the safe course. Get rid of Buck and you won't have to worry about Mary. It was the only way out.

Mickey sat there into the night. Into the night he told himself that he was doing the right thing. And into the night he told himself that even Mary's mother would have nodded approval.

Ten o'clock came and went. Eleven o'clock. Then came the phone call that the job had been pulled at nine-thirty. A Tommy gun had been used from a sedan. They didn't wait to see whether Buck fell on his face or his back. It made no difference anyhow. He had fallen.

AN HOUR later, Mickey Swan took a train at the Pennsylvania Station. He bought a batch of newspapers and settled himself in the smoker He wondered how Mary would take the news. Not too hard, he hoped.

Then he saw page one of a morning newspaper. In the left-hand corner, under the heading of "Latest News Bulletins." he read the following paragraph:

"Buck Martin, East Side hoodlum, was slightly wounded tonight on Irving Place when gangsters fired from a passing car. He will recover. His companion. identified as a Miss Mary Sawn, was instantly killed."

________________

74: The Gourmand

JONQUIN PORTER was no fool. He had reached the stage in life where he no longer felt the urge to break his neck turning around every time a cute dolly ankled by. His heart remained untroubled by the blandishments of the fair ladies. Politics and war left him unmoved, if the country was going to the dogs, let it go.

The only thing he gave a hang about was food .

He lived a rather placid existence. He was 53, and had never married. He was handsome in a big, ruddy sort of way. His hair was snowy. He dressed well. And he knew a thing or two about a thing or two.

But food was a passion with Jonquin. At the mere mention of food his eyes would grow eager, his face would beam, and his portly bay window would tremble with delight. He could discourse for hours on creamed carrots. Or baked turnips with marsh-mallow crust. Or medium rare roast beef. Or chicken lobster with drawn butter sauce.

Food was the only thing that aroused him from a semi-lethargy. And yet, strange to relate, he had never married. Never knew the sweet culinary ministrations of a wife. Never, knew the delight of mixing gastronomic and connubial bliss. So, as age crept on him, he began to think of marrying. He felt the need of a cook he could call his own. He felt the need of a companion to while away the long evenings. He felt lonely for the first time.

Jonquin Porter went shopping for a wife in the manner of a man out to buy a used car as cheaply as possible. He had a nice job. But he was no longer ambitious. Therefore, if the woman had money, that was a point in her favor. If she could cook, she could be Jezebel incarnate and it wouldn't have mattered.

He met young girls. Pretty girls. Bad girls. Good girls. Hens. Wrens. Beauties. Fat. Thin. Faded. All kinds of females. Some couldn't cook. Some could. But not the way he liked food. Some didn't care for him. Others did, but didn't know that his heart was a feed bag.

Then he met Elsie Schultz. Elsie wasn't young. She admitted to forty, and that was about twenty per cent, off for good behavior. She had a form like a dirigible riding out a storm. But she had a kind face and blonde hair— and could she cook!

Elsie owned the Schultz delicatessen. Owned it ever since Hans, her husband, had died seven years ago. Practically everybody in town bought food at Elsie's place. She charged a little more, but to those who could afford it, it was worth it. Well worth it. The woman had a divine gift of knowing how to make food so delectable and so delicious that her customers always bought more and ate more than was good for them.

So Jonquin met her, and Jonquin managed to get himself invited for dinner. When the repast was over, he unhitched his belt three full notches so that he could propose in comfort.

Elsie giggled and said he hardly knew her.

"But, my dear madam, I know all I want to know. You are utterly charming. I love you dearly, my little chicken wing."

Elsie was dying to say yes. But she preferred to wait.

So Jonquin Porter went wifeless several months more. He found out that Elsie had money, and one night the widow confided that, if he ever married her, he'd never have to lift a finger to punch a time clock again.

If he loved her before, he fairly worshipped her now. He proposed to her, behind the counter every time the store was empty. He begged her to marry him before he died of starvation. He even threatened to commit suicide via the lunch-wagon hash route, if she didn't accept. But Elsie knew she had him in her pocket. And Elsie said "wait."

Jonquin waited some more. And; one evening, when he attended a party in a suburban town, he met the widow Benchley. She showered a great deal of flattering attention on him, and sat him down to roast turkey. After it was over, he stood and bowed.

"Madam," he "said, "I have gone through fifty-some-odd years of life, believing that I have eaten turkey many times. I always loved it. But now I realise that I never ate it before. If I were the president of France, my sweet lady, I would make you a commander of the Legion of Honor for what you have done for civilisation this evening."

The widow fussed, gushed and blushed all over the place. She insisted it was nothing.

Later, Jonquin Porter studied the woman and was amazed to find that she was actually attractive. She looked really young. And pretty. Of course, one drawback was that friends had tipped him off that she had no money. But with cooking like this, he'd almost be willing to work

So Jonquin Porter forgot about Elsie— and proposed to the widow Benchley. She said she didn't like to discuss such matters, but if he'd care to come to dinner tomorrow evening— alone — maybe they could talk confidentially.

Jonquin Porter hardly slept. His mind was full of roast beef. Gigantic pink-eyed pigs, with apples in their snouts and parsley on their backs, stalked his bed all night.

The next evening he boarded a trolley and hurried to the suburban town, hoping that the widow would accept. They had dinner alone. The dinner was something that Jonquin Porter will never, never forget.

He thought the turkey had been marvellous. But this time he tasted real cooking. This time he ate himself into a state of mildly approaching apoplexy. When he finished he couldn't get up from the table.

Later, when he recovered the power of locomotion, Jonquin Porter refused to be denied. He proposed so arduously that he surprised himself. And the widow, covered with blushes, finally murmured yes.

Two days later they were married

He was the happiest of men. His mind was one vast menu. He debated whether it was better to content himself with four helpings of roast and no dessert, or three hidings of roast, leaving room for dessert. He finally decided, after much self-argument, that it would be better to have four helpings of roast and dessert. In the evening he smiled gently at his bride and asked when dinner would be ready.

"Gosh, Jonquin," she said, "I forgot all about it. I was so excited it slipped my mind."

Jonquin Porter patted her hand forgivingly.

"All right, my dear," he said. ''But daddy's getting a little hungry. Suppose you just stuff a ham for tonight. All right?"

"Sure," his bride replied. "That would be fine with me. But where am I going to get it? I never learned to cook in all my life.

"I get all my stuff already cooked from a delicatessen in your town. A place called Elsie's."

_____________

75: The Alibi

SHE WAS a thin woman with faded blonde hair. Her eyes darted around the room in a frightened manner. This woman was a gangster's sweetie, but she hardly lived up to the public's conception of such ladies. She wore no costly jewels or furs. There wasn't so much as a plain ring on the hands that she clutched tightly together, and her clothes were very definitely of the bargain basement variety.

Three men sat with her in the room. And the stout, red-faced man at the desk began to question her.

"Your name?"

"Tessie Martin. Theresa, I was christened."

"Where do you live?"

She told him, glancing nervously at the stenographer who sat nearby. The stout man grunted.

"All right now," he said. "Let's get down to cases. You're a friend of Michael Penny, aren't you?"

"Mike? Why— er, sure. Me and Mike, we've been— well, we've been friends for years. A long time now I've known Mike."

The stout man nodded. This was no surprise to him.. He knew— almost everybody knew— about Mike and Tessie. It was a sort of underworld legend. For more than 10 years Mike and Tessie had shared an apartment.

Outside of that, with the exception of abuse, Tessie hadn't received anything from Mike. He was very generous, however, with his abuse. The beatings were vigorous and plentiful, and Tessie had wound up in the hospital on two occasions.

But Tessie had never entered any charges against her man. She wasn't Mike's only love through their years together, but he always came back to her in the end. And she, strangely enough, was always waiting. It was evidently one of those loves that nobody is ever quite able to understand. There was something out of the ordinary in this very ordinary woman's love for Mike Penny.

Now she leaned forward, and her eyes searched the police official's face.

"Is It true like they say? I mean, about Mike bein' arrested, for that murder last night?"

"What do you know about that?" The words were sharp.

"Me? Why, nothin'. Only I know that Mike never done it." Tessie wet her lips. "He never killed Joe Bircho, nor nobody else. Mike ain't a murderer."

The stout man shrugged impatiently. "Never mind all that. When did you see Penny last?"

"Last night. An' that's how I know he didn't have nothin' to do with killin' Joe Bircho. Mike was with me last night, an' I can prove it."

"How?" The three men watched her intently. Tessie opened her handbag and drew out a pair of ticket stubs.

"He was with me, see? We went to the movies, an' I got the stubs right here. I bought the tickets 'cause Mike was kinda short of change." She looked around eagerly. "So you see what a bum rap it is? He was with me, so he couldn't be no place else. We was at the movies, I tell you!"

"What time did you go there?"

"About eight o'clock, I guess. We got back to the apartment about quarter to eleven. I made some sandwiches. I didn't have no beer in, and Mike said we oughta have some. So he― "

She stopped abruptly. "Go on," cried the stout man. "Finish the story. He went out for some beer, and he didn't come back. Right?"

No, no, that ain't true!" Tessie had regained her composure. "He did come back. He was only gone a few minutes. Maybe five or six, that's all. Except for that, he was there all night."

For a few moments nobody spoke. The man behind the desk twirled his pencil. He was wondering why any woman would waste so many years loving a skunk like Mike Penny. He wrestled with the problem, and then gave it up. He coughed slightly.

"You say," he went on, "that Mike was with you all the time, except for the five minutes when he went out for the beer? And that, you say, was about eleven o'clock?"

"Yeah. Sure." The woman's voice was calm now; but it was obvious that she was lying.

"That's just how it was."

"Joe Bircho," mused the stout man, "was killed some time around two o'clock."

"I know it," Tessie smiled. "And that's just why I say Mike never done it, see? He was there in my apartment."

The stout man turned to his companions. "Boys," he said, "it looks as though we have a case after all. And just when I thought we'd have to let Mike go, too.

"He got this air-tight alibi about being in Callahan's club until three o'clock this morning, and six or seven guys were willing to swear they were with him until five o'clock. But Tessie says he was with her, so that kicks both his alibis right out the window. We've got him now, boys."

Tessie was on her feet. Her eyes were wild. "What are you sayin'?" she shrieked. "Are you sayin' he was at Callahan's club, and that he already had an alibi? You was goin' to let him go?"

"Right," nodded the stout men. "His alibi was okay until you stepped in with one too many. You can leave now, Tessie. We'll be seeing you later."

A police officer held the door open for her. Tessie walked out slowly, her thin shoulders hunched. The man at the desk shook his head and stared at the eraser on his pencil.

"Ain't it funny," he observed, "what a dame will do when she's in love with a guy? That woman comes down here and lies her head off to save a man who never did anything but punch her around. And by doing the thing she thought would save him, she probably sends him to the chair.

"Ain't it funny?"

Outside of police headquarters a taxi was waiting for Tessie. She stepped in, and the taxi rolled away. Another woman sat beside Tessie.

"You done it?" asked the other woman nervously.

"Yeah, Mazie." She laughed shortly. "I done it, all right. For ten years I been waitin' for the right chance to get even with Mike Penny for all the rotten things he done to me. And now I done it."

"Are you sure?" mumbled the other woman. "Are you sure you done right?"

"Sure I'm sure," cried Tessie. "Just look what he done to me last night. He breaks a date with me, and I gotta call you to go to the movies with me. If you ain't around, I gotta sit home all alone in the apartment."

She took a mirror from her purse and gazed at her reflection.

"Yeah," she murmured, "he had it comin' to him. He had no right breakin' a date with me, just 'cause them guys come for him to go to Callahan's club with them!"

_____________

76: Restitution

THE FAT MAN leaned on his knuckles as he bent over the speaker's table. His eyes swept the ballroom and it tilled him with pride to think that these men — all of these men— belonged to him. Worked for him. Earned their bread and their butter through him.

He saw their faces like a huge bin of oranges. All alike.

"And so," he went on tirelessly, "it takes an occasion like this, our annual stag dinner, to bring us all together— not so much as employees and departmental heads, but as men who have an affectionate regard for one another."

He paused. The men stared attentively without listening. Some toyed noiselessly with silverware. Some pretended to listen. Some studied the ceiling.

"Of course, loyalty comes before all else," the fat man went on. "It is not enough that a man does as he's told. It is not enough that a man does his job well. It is not enough that a worker puts in the proper hours in the office and executes the proper orders."

He pounded a fist on the table. "He must have loyalty. He must have a feeling that he's happy to work for his company. He must feel that he'd fight for his job if necessary. He must be prepared to protect his employer's interests at all times. He must I realise that he is more than a salaried ! man; more than a cog in a vast machine; he is, in sense, a partner. Yes, a partner."

Harvey Woodley went on to other themes. Few paid any attention. But down to the right at table 17, old Tendler, the second assistant cashier, had a misty look in his eyes. For 22 years he had listened to the bellowing and bleating of Harvey Woodley. His yellow skinned, hairless face was now creased with thought. In all these years he had grumbled to himself about Woodley's meanness. About the long hours, the poor pay. He had never had any love for Woodley. But now he found words running through his brain in a carousel-like sequence.

"Loyalty... job well done...! proper hours... loyalty... happy to work... fight for my job... protect employer... more than a salaried man... more than a cog ... a partner! Yes, by God! A partner!"

Old man Tendler never thought of that before. It had never occurred to him that he might be more than just a cog. It made him feel bigger. And yet smaller.

Bigger because he was more important in the scheme of things than he had thought he was. And smaller because, from time to time, he had taken a few dollars from the till.

He knew that Harvey Woodley never missed the odd few bucks that old Tendler had needed so sorely. He knew that a changed figure in the accounts squared it. But now, somehow, it hurt to think that he had even taken a solitary penny. That wasn't loyalty by any stretch of imagination. So he went home resolved to make restitution.

He said nothing about it to Carrie. She wouldn't understand anyway. But he had figured out a way to make good. The firm paid 1.50 dollars extra if a man worked overtime until 7 p.m. —and they paid three dollars if he worked until 9 p.m., or later. There was always plenty of work to do if a man really wanted to stay. So, if he stayed until 9 five nights a week, that would be 15 dollars he could return. A noble thought...

In his heart, old man Tendler knew that Harvey Woodley could never find out about the missing money. And yet that speech about loyalty had hit him hard. He was amazed when he averaged up the stolen total and  found it was near $1500. He had seldom taken as much as five dollars, and yet the debt assumed staggering proportions.

It didn't take Carrie long to get suspicious. "How come you're late every night? You can't be working because you only bring home your salary. What keeps you until 10 o'clock?"

Tendler fumbled with weak excuses. He didn't dare say he was working, because he never brought home the three dollars extra per night. He couldn't say that he was making restitution on money that he had "borrowed" in dribs and drabs over a period of years, because Carrie would tell him he was nuts. He couldn't explain that it was as difficult to doctor the books by adding 15 dollars per week as it was to cover up the taking of money. So he muttered a lot, and said practically nothing.

After four months, it began to hurt his health. He was thin normally. But now he was skinny. His figure seemed more curved, like a scythe. His face seemed older. More hollow. His eyes burned. His head ached. His hands trembled continually. He was rapidly burning himself out. Carrie got to the stage where she couldn't stand it any longer. She demanded to know what it was all about. She said she'd leave him unless he told her everything. Old Tendler was dogged. He said she'd just have to trust him, that's all.

"In about ten months or a year, Carrie, everything will be fine again. Just ten months more."

"Ten months!" she shrieked. "Ten months! You're out of your mind. I wouldn't tolerate this another week. I'm leaving in the morning. You're not the only fish in the sea, you know."

But she always talked like that. Tendler knew his woman. Knew her threats. At least, he thought he did. But this time he was wrong. While he was at work, she packed everything of value, and left.

It occurred to Tendler that he was going too far in his effort to repay. The 15 dollars he managed to sneak into the till each week wasn't even a drop in the bucket to Harvey Woodley. And yet he was losing his health over it. And now he had lost his wife. But, like a madman who sees but a solitary goal, he pressed on, determined to see the matter through, even if it killed him. He knew that when it was all paid, he could look Harvey in the eye, and say: "No one is more loyal than I."

A pretty sentiment. If you like sentiments.

It was almost all paid, and old Tendler was a jittery wreck, when he was summoned into Woodley's private office one morning. The old man held his head high.

"Did you call me, sir?"

Woodley glanced up bitterly. "Yes, Tendler. I just wanted to tell you that, despite your efficiency, despite your long service, you're through. Fired. If I can't get loyalty from my men, I don't want them."

Old Tendler shook violently.

"Loyalty, sir? But my loyalty to you is unquest―"

"Please," Woodley said, "go get your pay and get out. You have no loyalty. And no amount of pleading will get your job back.

"I happened to be in the hall when you left last night at five minutes to nine. You put in a nine o'clock bill today for three dollars— which should have been one dollar 50 cents. Tendler, you're a disloyal, ungrateful cheat. You're fired!"

_______________

77: The Victor

IT'S A screwy story. Screwy as Hubbell's fast ball. But the man who tells it to me is still manager of the slipper factory where it happened— and he puts on a wounded expression every time I tell him it sounds implausible. So, hang on to your hat, we're off again.

Mrs. Jackson Thistledown was a woman of about 35. She was a capable housewife, had a great deal of civic pride, and belonged to every woman's club in Roseaire. She had a sweet, unctuous manner. And her heart bled for everybody else in the world. She took in stray cats and dogs, and threw crumbs to the birds in the backyard every morning. She contributed to the Red Cross, the Salvation Army, and every other worthy charity that asked for funds. She was a trustee of the county poor-house, and was a prime mover in the drive to furnished a deeply upholstered morris chair for every inmate.

Her husband owned the local slipper factory. He knew nothing but the slipper business. He made money, and his wife gave it away. His whining disapproval got him nowhere. Mrs. Thistledown was a sweet woman, but she had a whim of iron.

One day someone knocked at the kitchen door. It was a tramp. A young tramp. He had greasy brown trousers and black whiskers. His old sweater was ripped up the back, and he shuddered in the frosty morning.

"Yes?" said Mrs. Thistledown, smiling. "What can I do for you, young man?"

"Lady," said the tramp. "I'm not good at making speeches, but I'm hungry. I mean hungry! I'll take anything. A hunk of bread, a cup of tea, anything ya got. I ain't eaten since Monday."

Mrs. Thistledown shook her head in sorrow, and clucked her tongue.

"You come right inside," she said. "I'm sure we can fix something up for you. Do you like roast beef, medium rare? It's from yesterday— but I can warm it up in the gravy.

"Now,, you just make yourself comfortable in that chair over there, while I get something together for you. You poor man! I'll bet you are awfully hungry— not having eaten since Monday. And I'll bet there are thousands of poor men just like you. It's like I've always said; those of us who have plenty should never hesitate to help others who are less fortunate.

"Some of my friends don't agree with me. But I guess I'll always be the same— just helping those who can't help themselves."

A little later, the young tramp gulped dizzily as Mrs. Thistledown set a steaming plate of roast beef, mashed potatoes, turnips, and creamed onions before him.

"Now don't be afraid to ask for anything," she said sweetly. "There's plenty more."

The young man managed to get away with three helpings of everything. He topped this off with a huge slab of home-made pie and two cups of coffee. Then he asked if she happened to have a cigarette handy. She had. So he sat back and dozed as he smoked.

When he was ready to leave she held up her hand.

"Oh, no," she said. "You mustn't go. You must meet Jackson. He's my husband. Jackson Thistledown. He runs the big slipper factory, you know."

"You don't say," said the young tramp, who never heard of the slipper factory, and didn't give a hoot, either. "I'd love to meet him. But— uh— I really should be on my way. I mean, he probably won't like the idea of me―"

"Nonsense! Jackson is always ready to help a fellow man."

Jackson Thistledown eyed the tramp as you would a mutt with rabies. His wife tried to make pleasant conversation at dinner, but Jackson answered in grunts. After dinner, he managed to drag his wife aside.

"What the devil's going on here?," he demanded. "Dogs, cats, birds, contributions, clubs, money— all that Is bad enough. But now we play host to a tramp who eats like a horse and will probably steal the silverware on his way out. Are you nuts?"

Mrs. Thistledown froze him with a glance.

"This," she said coldly, "is. not you talking. Not the real you. It's your baser nature in control. You really want to help this young man, but you don't realise it. You really want him to stay here and use that spare room upstairs. And you want to. give him a job— a nice job— at the factory. But your baser nature won't let you."

Jackson gulped.

"Stay here! A job! Help a bum! Eloise, either that tramp goes this very minute, or I do!"

All three stayed. Jackson Thistledown got the bum cleaned up, shaved, and bought him a suit of clothes and a pair of shoes. Then he took him down to the factory, introduced him all around as an old friend of the family, and gave him a job in the order department. It was a cinch of a job and it paid well.

But Barney, the tramp, had the same fondness for work that you have for the measles. He not only hated the thought of manual labor, but merely watching other people do it tired him out. After a week, Jackson told his wife that the bum was a bum. Incurable.

Eloise said that maybe the boy was unaccustomed to work, and it might take a little time for him to get used to it. At any rate, he would be kept on the payroll. At night, Barney rode home from the factory in Jackson's car,  and parked himself at the dinner table. He smoked Jackson's cigarettes, and murmured his thanks when Mrs. Thistledown put Jackson's best bathrobe around his shoulders. He went to bed early and arose late. He just hated to get up. And, when he got to the office, he made it plain to the department managers that, if they gave him too much work to do, he'd tell Jackson Thistledown on them. After six weeks, he demanded a rise.

A few days later, Jackson Thistledown walked into the office, whistling; He did a neat little waltz step in front of his desk, and sailed his hat neatly on to the rack. He was grinning broadly.

"Well," said the office manager, "what goes on? You look like you just landed a big order."

Jackson Thistledown beamed. "Nope," he said. "Even better than that."

"What?"

"Yessir, I finally got rid of that lazy no good bum."

"Barney?"

"I just walked up to him last night and told him what I thought of him. I told him he was the sorriest apology of a man I ever met. I told him that he had more chance to make good than anyone else in my employ. I told him if it wasn't for Mrs. Thistledown's interest in him, he'd have been fired weeks ago. And I told him plenty more, including the fact that I wanted him to get out."

"Good for you, boss. That's swell news. Did the missus take it bad? I'll bet she put up a kick."

Jackson Thistledown's face fell like a St. Bernard's.

"Not a word," he murmured. "Not a solitary word. She just packed and went with him!"

________________

78: Grins And Bitters

JINKS BURKE was incorrigible. Jinks was a huge, flat-domed, pig-eyed guy with the smile of an infant in arms. He was hopeless. Utterly hopeless. In tracing his life from cradle to cell, it becomes obvious that nothing could be done to make Jinks an honorable citizen.

Take a look: When he was four, he crawled out of bed one morning and set fire to the lace curtains in the parlor. The child wept when he saw all the excitement he had caused, but he showed no remorse.

At seven, he used to hitch on trolleys and steal pennies from newsstands. At nine, he kicked a schoolteacher in the shins, and at 10 he was dismissed from class and sent to the school for incorrigibles. At 11, he was arrested for shooting dice, and at 12 he could inhale a cigarette. At 13 he snatched purses. At 14, he was convicted of juvenile delinquency and sent to a reform school. At 16, he escaped and held up a candy store. At 17, he shot a man, and his career might have ended right there, but the victim didn't die. Jinks was a lovely egg.

When he reached 27, the law decided that it had reached the end of its patience with Jinks. When he had achieved his fourth felonious conviction, the judge sent him away for life.

The warden made a sweet welcome speech:—

"Jinks," he said, wagging a threatening finger, "I'll take no nonsense from you. Now get this straight. The first time I hear a complaint about your behavior, I'm gonna slap you into solitary so long you'll be talking to yourself when you come out.

"This institution has a good record. And it's going to stay good. I'm well acquainted with your trouble-making in other places, but you'll find that this pen is run along different lines."

The first thing that Jinks did was to organise the prisoners In his cell, block. When the guards opened the gates one morning, the prisoners refused to file out for work. They demanded— get this!— more humane conditions for the inmates! The strike lasted 35 hours. Hunger made most of them give up. Fear of punishment broke the backs of the others. That night, Jinks was downstairs in a little kennel of his own.

He later organised a plan of escape that was so beautifully complicated that he couldn't remember all the details himself. But someone tipped off the warden and again Jinks went downstairs to a private room. They gave him plenty of time to get remorseful, but Jinks didn't have brains enough to feel sorry. They took away his privileges. They gave him the toughest jobs. They made life miserable for him. But he still remained the same old hopeless Jinks Burke.

One day, a new reformer named Whipple tripped into the jail and went over the records with the warden.

"How many men have you here?" asked Mr. Whipple. The warden sighed.

"Two thousand one hundred four — and Jinks Burke."

" 'And' Jinks Burke? Who's he?"

"Any warden's nightmare."

Whipple, sanctimonious and soft, asked a lot of questions about Jinks. The warden spared none of the horrible details. When it was over, Whipple said he would begin his reformation of the inmates with Jinks.

You just can't blame the warden for laughing rudely.

Mr. Whipple made very little progress. He talked to Jinks for hours. The dope always looked tremendously interested, but he wasn't really hearing a word.

"Why," said Mr. Whipple on one occasion, "with your physique, you might have become a fighter! A world's champion. Making a lot of money ! And what are you doing instead? Hah? What are you doing instead?"

"Hah?" said Jinks vacantly.

"You're sitting here in prison, that's what you're doing. Sitting here behind walls. Your freedom is gone. Your privileges are gone. Your franchise as a citizen is gone.

"Undoubtedly, you think your case is pretty hopeless, Jinks. Well, it isn't. No, it isn't. I've known of plenty worse than you. I know one that I met four years ago. They said he was hopeless. He was a gunman. He's out now. He's free again. Do you know what he's doing, Jinks? He's studying law. Yes, indeed. He's going to be a lawyer. And a bright one, too.

"All he needed was for someone to put him on the right track. Treat life right and it will treat you right. That's the way to look at it. Play the game on the square and you'll come out on top. Keep that in mind all the time.

"Why, I know plenty of fellows who started out wrong like you did. But they wised up after awhile. They knew they couldn't beat the system. When you do wrong, you're one man against the world. You can't beat the world. Not when you're wrong."

Jinks was wondering whether he'd have chocolate pudding for supper again .

Whipple urged Jinks to read books. Morning, noon and night he begged Jinks to read the books in the prison library.

"The trouble with you Jinks, is that you haven't had time to think yet. You've been too busy, doing the wrong things. Now you've got a little time, you ought to read a little. The prison library is chock full of fine stuff. You don't have to read stuff like Shakespeare. Personally, I don't think you'd go for it.

"But what the dickens! There are plenty of fine books there that would hold your interest. Books that would set you straight on a lot of things.

"Start off on the easy stuff, Jinks. You can work up to the deep stuff later."

Jinks paid no attention whatever. He Just said "yeah" or "that's oke with me," but he never did anything. This went on for a long time. Apparently, Whipple was determined to reform Jinks even if he had to kill the guy.

Then, one day, success came. It came so suddenly that Whipple himself was breathless when he reached the warden's office. "What do you think?" he said. "Jinks is reading a book!"

The warden blinked. "Yessir, so help me! I was just up at his cell and he waved me away. Said he was too busy to listen to me. He was reading a volume! If you don't believe me, call the librarian."

The warden ran behind his desk and snatched a phone.

"Librarian." he said tersely. Then, a moment later, "warden's office. I got a report here that Jinks Burke is reading a book. What's that! It is true? Migod! It must be near the end of the world! When? What's that? Okay. Okay. Thanks."

He hung up and grinned.

"You're a fine reformer," he said. "A fine reformer."

"What's the matter, warden? Isn't he reading a book?"

"Sure he is," returned the warden. "All your talk about reading has finally borne fruit. He got out a book this morning.

"And what do you think it is? The Life and Methods of Houdini!"

___________________

79: Prosper The Great

THE MOMENT that Herman Prosper had been dreading had arrived at last. Mrs. Herman Prosper gazed upon the figure of her husband, stretched full length on the living-room divan, and there was a determined glint in her eye.

"You," she declared, "are going to work."

The man started. So aroused with indignation was he that he actually hoisted himself up on one elbow.

"Work!" he repeated. "Sadie, my love, you are talking nonsense. Where, if I may be so bold as to inquire, am I going to get a booking? You know what has happened to show business. Vaudeville is dead. And the circus season is over for another year."

"Regardless," Sadie said firmly, "you are going to work. You can get a job like other people."

Herman lifted himself a trifle higher. "You forget who I am," he stated with dignity, "I am Prosper "

"You are going out looking for a job next Monday morning anyway," his wife interrupted. "So you may as well stop arguing right now. You can't live on notices pasted in a scrap-book. They won't pay the rent."

Herman grumbled. He argued. He recounted past glories in the theatre and on the circus lots. He pointed out that he was a man of prestige, once the most famous in his particular line.

And on Monday morning he set out looking for a job with a list of advertisements that Sadie had cut from the Sunday newspapers. It was late in the afternoon when he returned. Sadie greeted him with an expectant, "Well?"

"Nothing doing."

"But you were gone so long, Herman," she protested. "I thought sure you'd got something. What kept you?"

"There was a job I coulda had. I almost took it, too."

"Then why didn't you?" she demanded. "Oh, Herman, the landlord was here again for the rent. Why in the world didn't you take anything at all, if there was a few dollars in it?"

"It was like this," he explained. "I got hired, and they sent me over to this factory on the West Side. That was that job for a handy man they advertised. Well, when I got over there, I found out there was a strike in progress."

"And what of that?" his wife inquired stonily.

"You wouldn't want me to take a job like that, my dear. There were a dozen or more pickets marching up and down outside the place. You know how those things are. You read about them in the papers every day. There might have been trouble. Suppose they had beat me up, or something like that?"

Sadie sighed. "If you don't get something soon," she murmured, "I'll have to go out s and look for a job. We haven't more than a few dollars left, and we owe just about everybody as it is."

"That will never be necessary." Her man waved the idea away. "You can I trust me."

A week later, he came home with the happy news that he had found a job. He was still a bit hazy as to just what his duties were to be. but he asserted importantly that it had something to do with construction. He didn't learn until tile next day that he had been hired to load rocks on a wheelbarrow and push the wheelbarrow back and forth between two points. He lasted on that job exactly one day.

"Imagine their nerve!" he told Sadie Indignantly. "That's no work for a man. They should have hired a horse. I told the boss so, too, when I quit tonight."

"Oh, you quit."

The woman's voice sounded a trifle discouraged. "Well, I suppose I can find some housework or something to do. I'll start looking tomorrow."

"That will never do," Herman protested. "You are my wife, and I am Prosper "

"And we both still have to eat. I'll have to do something."

Before many weeks had passed it was the few dollars that Sadie was bringing in that kept the pair from actual starvation. She was doing the cleaning for several families in the neighborhood. The pay was small and the work was hard. There were nights when she was so tired she could hardly drag herself home. But all this while, she fondly hoped, Herman was searching for a job.

You had to give the woman credit for her optimism.

She greeted him one night with what she believed was good news. "I've found something for you to do," she told him happily. "Mrs. Jenkins, one of the women I work for, spoke to her husband about you. He owns a meat market, and he said he could use you for a couple of days a week, anyway. You go down there tomorrow, Herman, and see him."

Herman nodded gloomily. "All right," he agreed, "but it may not turn out to be anything."

In spite of his hopes, he was hired. Mr. Jenkins, the proprietor of the store, explained what the work was.

"A couple of days a week we have special sales," he said. "When that happens, I have circulars printed. All you have to do is deliver those circulars from door to door. I'll pay you two dollars fifty a day, and it's more than the job's worth."

On the following morning, Herman set out with a bundle of the printed advertisements under his arm. He walked up one street and down another, climbed stairs, thrust circulars under doors and into letter boxes. When noon time came, he had disposed of about half the advertisements. The remainder he took back to the meat market.

"You better get somebody else for the job," he informed his employer. "I wouldn't want to do that for very long."

"Okay." The man shrugged. "My wife asked me to help you out, that's all. She told me that your wife was finding things pretty hard. You didn't like the work, eh?"

"Walking around like that all day? I should say not. The weather's getting bad, and I'd most likely catch cold if I had to plough around in the rain or snow. Then there's my feet," he pointed out. "Your feet get pretty tired walking all day like that."

"Yeah, I imagine." The butcher studied him. "Well, I hope for your wife's sake you get something you like. What's your line, anyway?"

"I am Herman Prosper." He seemed a trifle surprised that the other man didn't know. "I was in show business for years— circuses mostly. You must have heard of me.

"Yes, sir, I was known from coast to coast, billed sometimes as "Prosper the Great'— but more often simply as 'The Iron Man'!"

_____________

80: Reward Of Patience

THE KID prattled on. The man sat in the deep morris chair, puffing at his pipe and reading. The boy's voice was pleading.

"Please, daddy. Please, daddy. Dad-dy, will you take me to the circus? Hah, daddy? I'll be a good boy, daddy. I'll do my lessons and go to the stores, and help momma, and clean out the cellar. Will you, daddy? Hah, daddy? Can I go to the circus, daddy?"

Daddy set the pipe bowl down casually and smacked his offspring right on the noggin. The kid let out an ungodly howl and started to roll around on the floor. Daddy went back to his reading and smoking. At the supper table, the father gave his reasons.

"How many times," he said to the twelve-year-old, "have I told you to have patience? Hah? How many? You don't know? Of course, you don't know. You're a dumbbell. A dope. I keep telling you that patience is a virtue. Know what a virtue is? No. You're a dope. A virtue is something good. Your mother is a virtue." On the other side of the table, the woman glared. Her husband paid no attention to her. He was slapping food into his mouth and explaining the beauty of patience to a son who scowled at his plate.

"Suppose Lincoln didn't have no patience? Hah? What would have happened? Hah? You don't know? Of course you don't know. You're a dope. If Lincoln had no patience he wouldn't have made the Gettysburg speech. He'd have sent a telegram, you dope.

"Patience is everything. Edison had patience. Washington had patience. The whole world has patience. But you got no time to have patience. You're too much of a busy man. A smart guy.

"Time is money to you. Where you going in such a hurry that time is money to you? Hah? What's that, dope? I can't hear you? Nowhere, hah? Then take your time. Have patience."

The old man often made that speech. The kid listened— but he resented the constant belt on the lug, and the old man's humdrum speech about patience.

"If you learn to have patience," the old man would always conclude softly, "you'll be famous some day. I mean it. You'll have your name in the papers, and maybe your picture. "People will say: 'Look! There's little Joey Gannot. Look how famous he is? Name in the paper and picture and everything. I used to know him when he was a little kid.' That's what people will be saying. If you have patience. Just a little patience."

The kid must have sickened of it after a while. At the age of 16 he walked out of the house and disappeared. His father and mother appealed to the police, but no one could find little Joey. Almost a year later a postcard came from New York.

"Doing all right. Don't worry about me. No job yet. Maybe soon, I hope. Give my love to Momma.— Joey."

The old man shook his head.

"Look," he said. "After a year, he sends a postcard. A letter takes time. So he sends a postcard. We don't know whether he's alive or dead, but he can send postcards. That boy will never have patience. I used to tell him maybe he'd get famous and have, his picture in the paper if he had patience. But look at him. A postcard after a year!"

From time to time more postcards came. Never a letter. Sometimes he said he had jobs. At others he was out of work. He never sent his return address, but the cards were always cancelled at a New York post-office, so they reasoned that he lived there.

"Dad": one read, "You used to talk about patience. That's one thing New York has none of. Everyone here hurries. No one waits a minute. I think that stuff was the bunk. If patience makes you get your name in the papers, why ain't yours? Hoping you are the same, Joey."

It took Mrs. Gannot an hour to calm daddy down after that one. He nearly blew a gasket. He called his son a dope 30 times by actual count. After a while he calmed down— until his missus pulled a faux pas.

"If you ask me," she said seriously, "the trouble is you never had any patience with the boy."

Apparently, the kid realised that he was safe now from those slaps on the head, because his postcards got fresher and fresher. After a while, he began to refer to his father as a dope.

"You always called me a dope," he wrote. "If being a typical kid is a dope, then maybe I was one. But I'm not now. I've wised up. I know what I'm doing. But I'll lay you ten to one you're still a clerk in that same old joint and still getting 25 dollars a week. You may have patience, but there's a little bit of the sap about you, too. Affectionately, Joey."

Mr. Gannot swore that he would tear the boy limb from limb if he ever got a chance to lay his hands on him. Mrs. Gannot didn't say much. She was inclined to agree with Joey.

Years went on and postcards came and went. Some were mild, almost affectionate. Some were vitriolic and mean. A few exultantly announced a new job. But it was evident that Joey was getting nowhere fast.

One evening Mr. Gannot came home and found a letter. It was on the dining room table. He studied the handwriting. Then he hurried out to the kitchen.

"Momma! Look. A letter from the dope. Maybe he's president or something! No postcard. A letter. Holy smoke! It's the end of the world!"

Momma flipped the meat balls over.

"Maybe if you opened the letter, we could find out what's the matter. How do you know the boy ain't sick from so much talk, talk, talk."

Poppa looked hurt. He opened the letter with great flourishes.

"Dear Pop," the letter read, "I think maybe I. owe you an apology. I used to kid a lot about your speeches, but I find out now that you were right. Patience is a virtue. It really is. And without it, a fella can't expect to get very far.

"It was only by patience that I finally got where I wanted to get. I hate to admit that I was wrong, but I was. I achieved my lifelong ambition, and now I can afford to sit back and let somebody else have a chance. It was tough, but I made it.

"Attached to this note, you will find a newspaper clipping. It tells all about me and how I did it. Notice my picture. You always said that patience would get a fella's picture in the paper, and it did."

Poppa looked at the picture. It showed his son sitting on a soap box. Underneath, the caption read:

"The most patient man of the year is Joey Gannot. By virtue of sitting on a soap box for three days and nights, he managed to buy the first ticket in the bleachers for the World Series!"

____________

81: Opportunity

TOMMY HADN'T been in prison more than a week when Rita made the trip up on Sunday by boat. Rita went by boat because it was cheaper that way.

The girl promised herself many things during the journey. She promised herself not to cry when she saw him. She promised herself not to mention prison. She promised herself to be cheerful. In the screened room she waited with a number of other people. She gulped. And' when she saw him coming through the door and looking around excitedly, she couldn't hold back any longer. The tears came. And she ran into his arms crying: "Oh, Tommy. Tommy. Tommy!" Her promises were forgotten

The kid— Tommy was only 20 years of age— gritted his jaws and held her tightly.

"It's all right, Rita," he soothed. "It's all right, honey. Don't get excited, baby. It's all right."

In a minute she was all right again. She wiped her eyes and laughed.

"Is it bad here?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"Not bad."

"How is the food?"

"Fine. I mean, not bad."

"That's good, Tommy." She sighed. "If only you hadn't taken that money, Tommy. I get the blues every time I think of it. Two hundred dollars— and now you have to spend a year in this terrible place. Oh, Tommy!"

He saw that the tears were coming again. So he spoke swiftly.

"Stop being a baby," he said curtly. "What's a year? We're both young. And when you figure that there are guys here for life— well, what's a year? Anyway, I get three months off for good behavior, so I'll be home in June."

He held her chin up with his finger. "A good little wife cheers her husband up. Did you know that?"

She grinned feebly. "I'm sorry, Tommy. And I'll make good. From now on, Mrs. Thomas Quinton looks on the bright side of things. Mrs. Thomas Quinton knows her husband is going to be rich and famous some day, and nobody's gonna tell her different."

They both laughed heartily.

"Oh, by the way," Rita said, "I meant to tell you. I got a job."

"Gee," said Tommy, "that's swell. Swell! What doing?"

"Aw, it isn't much." Rita shrugged. 'Down in that place near Smith's where they make machine lace. Eighteen a week and overtime, or just enough to keep me going until you get out of here."

Visiting time was soon up. Rita Quinton felt the tears coming again, but this time she choked them back. They looked into each other's eyes— and then they parted. Just two kids, and one mistake.

TOMMY Quinton was right. It wasn't a year. It was nine months, with three off for good behavior. He went home to Rita, feeling that he owed the world nothing. He had paid his debt to society. Now he wanted to start again and make a success of life.

But he was young. He didn't know that this is a very dizzy world. He didn't know that the so-called good people who have never made a mistake seldom forgive those who were not so lucky. He didn't know— but he soon found out.

He soon learned that there are no jobs for an ex-convict. In his section of town, no matter where he tried, the employer invariably smirked and wanted to know when he was released. It was as though he had been branded for life. In a very short time, his buoyancy was gone. He no longer felt that he was going to beat the world. Instead, he had an unhappy hunch that the world was going to beat Thomas Quinton.

One evening, after supper, Tommy and Rita sat and talked about the usual thing.

"I'm worried, kid," said Tommy. "Terribly worried. Nobody believes I want to go straight. We've got to do something— and do it fast."

"I know." Rita's face held a worried expression. "But what, Tommy? What?"

The boy leaned forward.

"I've got an idea, hon," he asserted earnestly. "I think the only thing that's keeping me from a job is my name. I figure if we move out of here kinda sudden, rent a place on the other side of town, change our names to Mr. and Mrs. John Otis— why, I'll be okay.

"I'll land something, because no one will know me by sight over there. John Otis will get me a lot further than Thomas Quinton. See what I mean?"

"Yes," returned his wife dubiously.

"But―"

"No buts, darling," Tommy interrupted. "It we don't do something in a hurry, they'll move our furniture out on us. We'll lose our bedroom set, our radio, our rug, everything.

"But, as Mr. and Mrs. John Otis, we can start again. We'll save enough to pay off the furniture and then move out of the State. Don't you see what I mean, honey?"

Rita saw. She said it sounded very swell to her. What else was there for her to say?

Tommy really felt that their worries were over. He and Rita moved out the following night, furniture and all. Under the name of John Otis and wife, they rented a cheaper place on the other side of town. Rita had long since lost her job— and after they had paid a month's rent in advance, they hadn't very, much left. Except hope.

John Otis went everywhere, hunting for some sort of position. But things were no better in this section of town than they had been in the other. There simply were no jobs. Desperation settled upon the Quintons once again. And Tommy was in mortal fear of what he might do unless something turned up very quickly.

Then, as in the movies, came the dawn. Tommy called on a fat little man one morning, and the man was most cordial. He asked Tommy a lot of questions, patted him on the back, and told him there was a vacancy.

"But, Mr. Otis," said the man quietly, "you have had no experience in our business. And before I place you on the pay-roll, you must prove that you'll be an asset to us."

"Mister," said Tommy eagerly, "I'll do anything you say."

"All right," said the little man. "This is, as you know, a collection agency. We take bad accounts from all the firms in the city, and we get a certain percentage of what we collect.

"I am going to give you a simple test. If you make good, the job is yours permanently. All you have to do is to see this man and get him to pay what he owes this concern."

"Sure," cried Tommy Quinton happily. "That's a cinch. What's his name?"

"His name, Mr. Otis," said the little man, "is Thomas Quinton.

________________

82: Changing The Ticket

SAM, a dealer in luggage, was driving through one of those numerous towns that dot the Hudson on the way to New York. It is Sam's story that he really wasn't going very rapidly— but that's only his story.

I imagine that if he hadn't been exceeding the speed limit, that grim-looking motor cycle cop would never have stopped him. Or am I wrong again? At any rate, the usual thing happened.

The little boy in the blue suit pulled abreast of Sam's car, gave his siren a delicate twist, and wagged his finger in the "pull-over" hand-sign. Sam put on his brake, pulled out his wallet and began to sort out all the cards that had been given him to display in case he was ever stopped by a motor cycle policeman.

"Here's my licence, officer," he chirped, "but you don't want to give me a ticket. Look here's a card from the president of my lodge. He knows a very prominent Judge who―"

"Gimme your licence," interrupted the cop, "and don't talk so much."

Sam gulped. "All right," he muttered, "but you're making a mistake. Why, I know everybody. La Guardia and me are like this. Jimmy Hines is related to a cousin of mine on my wife's side. I own a piano on which Irving Berlin once composed some music. I―"

The officer waved his pencil. "If you don't stop talkin' so much," he advised, "I'll not only give you a ticket, but I'll run you in as well. I don't care. if. you're President Roosevelt's whole Cabinet— and I don't want to know anything about any of your friends. '

"All I know is that you were ridin' along at fifty miles an hour and makin' the highway unsafe for pedestrian traffic. And you're gonna get a pretty little ticket."

The luggage man sat quietly, as the cop wrote.

Suddenly he leaned forward and tried once more. "Listen, officer," he asserted, "I own a nice luggage store in New York. Here's my business card. If you'll drop into my store whenever you're in New York I'll be very happy to make you a special price on anything you might need."

The patrolman closed his book with a snap. He glanced at the card.

"Okay, Sam," he said. "Why didn't you say that in the first place?"

JUST ABOUT a week later the cop walked into Sam's store. "Here I am, big boy," he announced. "I'm taking a vacation with some of my pals, and I'd like to get fixed up with a nice bag. Guess you can fix me up all right, eh?"

Sam nodded. He walked to the rear of the store and returned with a black bag. "Here's something that I recommend very highly," he stated. "You can take my word for the fact that it's the best article in the store. It's worth plenty of money— but as a special favor for what you did for me, I'll let you have it for 18 dollars."

The cop examined it carefully, asked a few questions, liked it immensely and told Sam to wrap it up. He paid the 18 dollars in cash, thanked Sam extensively and left.

The moment he walked out, Sam went into a loud laugh and turned to his assistant.

"How do. you like that?" he grinned. "There's the best laugh of the season. That policeman came in for a favor, and did you see what I did? I took the 12 dollar tag out of the black bag and charged him 18 dollars for it. And he fell for it! Ho, ho, ho."

The assistant shook his head. "That's bad business, Sam," he said. "It may be a joke now, but it can get you into trouble. Suppose he finds out he's been gypped and comes back here?"

"Don't worry," replied Sam confidently. "He won't find out anything. We've seen the last of him."

EXACTLY TWO DAYS later, at the same hour, the cop returned. With him was another officer in uniform, and one of the toughest-looking babies you'd ever want to see. Sam wet his lips and closed his eyes. He had a very definite hunch that something was going to happen to him. The motor-cycle cop. walked right up to him.

"Look here, you," he barked. "Do you remember that black bag you sold me the other day; the one I gave you 18 dollars for?"

Sam was barely able to nod his head. "Y-y-yes," he replied feebly. "Is there— is there something wrong?"

The officer shook his head and motioned to the other cop.

"I should say not," he replied, "but I'm gonna trouble you just once more. As a special favor to me, could you sell another bag just like it to my friend here at the same price?"

_______________

83: The Reporter And The Old Lady

THE REPORTER who told me this story swears it happened to him around three o'clock yesterday afternoon— and I see no reason to disbelieve hint.

He was walking from Fifth to Sixth Avenue in one of the blocks in the Forties. As he neared Sixth Avenue, he came upon a very old woman, who was holding a slip of paper in her hand and looking about in bewildered fashion. The woman was a rather pitiful figure. She was bent away over and seemed barely able to hobble with the aid of the heavy cane she was carrying. You might spot her age as anywhere from seventy to eighty. The reporter was about to pass her when she stopped him.

"Pardon me, sir," she said in a very low tone. "I wonder if you would be kind enough to help an old lady."

With a hand that was shaking visibly, she extended the slip of paper.

"I don't know where I am," she murmured. "I have the address of the people I must see. It's on this piece of paper. But on my way over from Brooklyn, I broke my glasses. It's very hard for me to see anything. Could you point out to me exactly where I am to go?"

The newspaperman looked at the slip. It carried the name of Reynolds — and the address under the name was the very house in front of which they were standing. He smiled. "You haven't far to go, madam," he told her. "This is your spot right here. Right in this house." He returned the slip of paper, tipped his hat and turned to so.

"You've been so kind," she said. "Could you help me just a little more? I was told to ring a bell under the name of Reynolds and that the door would open. I'm afraid that, without my glasses I won't be able to find the name."

The old lady seemed so frightened and apologetic that the newspaperman was touched.

"Let me take you in," he stated. "I'll be only too happy to find the proper bell for you. Take your time now. Easy."

Together they walked slowly down the three steps that led to the hall of the walk-up apartment.

"It's good of you to be so nice to an old lady," said the woman.

"Nothing at all," the reporter assured her.

He peered at the various bells in a search for the name of Reynolds. He wrinkled his brow.

"Strange," he observed. "There doesn't seem to be anybody by that―"

That was as far as he reached. The old woman had suddenly straightened. And into the newspaperman's ribs went something that he now claims was the biggest revolver he had ever seen.

The old woman spoke. But when she spoke this time it was in the voice of a very healthy man. In other words, the poor "old lady" was a male crook with a new idea.

"Make a sound, buddy," he muttered, "and you'll be making the last mistake of your life. Just hand over your money and that ring on your left hand."

The reporter did exactly as he was told. Which was just what you or I would have done, I imagine. He had $150 in his pocket, and he forked it over without a second's hesitation. The ring went the same route.

"Okay," said the crook. "I'm backing out of this hall now, and if you make a sound or stick your face out until I'm gone I'll blow your brains out. understand?"

The newspaperman was too frightened to do anything by now. And he kept his word, too. He waited fully five minutes before he ventured to move. By that time, of course, the poor "old lady" had vanished. There's nothing strange about the story. That's the way it actually occurred.

As far as I'm concerned, the only element of mystery in the thing is how any reporter happened to have $150.

______________

84: Letter A Week

SETH WATKINS refused to be hurried. He studied the line of summer visitors at the postcard window , and counted out four one-cent stamps with the utmost deliberation.

"Kinda warmish," he said to the widow Burbridge. The widow was noted for her short temper.

"I wouldn't feel half so bad, Seth," she snorted, "if you'd shake your lazy body and have some git about you."

Seth cocked his head. "Can't no one hurry the U-nited States Guvmint," he muttered. "Not even a pickle-nose like you."

The widow Burbridge frumped out.

"Next," called Seth languorously. An old man stepped up to the window. His skin was leathery. He smiled faintly.

"Perkins," he murmured.

"'Morning, Perk," said Seth. "Kinda warmish, eh?"

The old man admitted it was a bit warmish. Seth sorted a pile of mail and extracted a letter. "Here 'tis," he asserted, flipping it over. The old man took the envelope and thanked the postmaster. Then he shuffled off into the sun again.

Seth leaned close to the window to watch the old man's fading figure. He shook his head in mystery at Hi Miller, who was next in line. Hi was the crossing watchman on the P. and J.

"T'aint that I'm a meddler," said Seth defensively, "but I'd give a hunnert fifty pound sow to know how that ol' man Perkins makes his livin'."

He smiled and scratched his head. "Seems like the hull town is mysticated by that old man," he opined. "Been livin' here twenty-one year. And in all that time, he ain't done a lick o' work— and he still pays cash for his vittals." He shook his head. "Mebbe the old codger has a sockful in the bank."

"Can't be," said Seth flatly, "or I'da knowed about it."

"Mebbe it's hid," suggested Hi hopefully.

"Nope. T'aint hid, or he wouldn't tramp through the woods for two days with a squirrel rifle. He'd be scairt to leave the shack if 'twas hid.

"No. Hi. Only thing anybody knows about him is he comes down here to git his mail onct a week. Only one letter comes, and that one's always from Noo Yawk. Always the same handwritin' on it, too. Same person's been writin' all the time for twenty-one year.

"Dang peculiar, Hi, Dang peculiar."

THROUGHOUT the week the townfolk forgot old man Perkins. But every Tuesday morning, when he came to get his letter, they remembered him anew. No one ever questioned the old man, because he wasn't the type that encouraged prying questions. He paid his bills in cash, bothered nobody, and kept to his shack on the hillside.

As time went on, the curiosity of the townfolk grew. There were innumerable speculations about the old man. He was a bandit who made a big haul and then hid out in this town to escape detention. He was a rich man who had been unfortunate in love. He was this. He was that. Children grew afraid of him. They had heard many strange tales about this ancient, weatherbeaten old man— and chief among them was that he had an "evil eye."

That was the one legend that persisted. Anyone who spoke to the old man could see at a glance that something was wrong with his right eve. The left one twinkled blue. The right one was grey, and it stared straight, ahead. It looked larger than the other one.

Yes, my friends. Old man Perkins had an evil eye.

The mystery might have gone to the grave with Perkins if Seth Watkins hadn't been in extra good humor one Tuesday morning. Perkins shuffled over to the stamp window and asked for his mail.

Seth tossed his one letter to him, and the old man began to walk away.

"Wait a minnit, Perk," Seth yelled. "Want you to come a-visitin' tonight. M'daughter's gettin' hitched, and we're havin, a time tonight. Can't take no fer an answer. Missus is makin' tater salad and all the fixin's. Be there at seven. Perk."

The old man tried to excuse himself. He said he never visited anyone. But Seth talked him down— and the old man finally agreed to step in "for a moment."

OLD MAN Perkins arrived at seven. He stayed and stayed— and when the clock reached eleven, he was still there. They were sitting alone in the cool of the back porch, and Seth had just dug up another gallon of what he called "cider."

Perkins had miraculously developed a conversational streak. He was talking on and on. And Seth, under the benign influence of his own cider, had suddenly developed enough courage to ask an important question.

"Y'know, Perk," he said casually, "I been wonderln' about you lately. I been wonderin' how a man in yore position, with neither chick nor child, manages to pay his bills. T'aint easy nowadays, with vittals sky-high."

Old man Perkins rose easily to the bait. He chuckled. "The truth is," he murmured, "I have no trouble at all. I own the little place I live in, and I get a regular income each week from New York.

"Those letters you hand me each, week contain ten dollars. And I've been getting them now for almost twenty-four years!"

Seth Watkins almost choked, trying to catch every word.

"Yes, sir," the old man went on, "when I was a young man, I lived in New York. I hated trouble of any kind and I wasn't very friendly, so I kept pretty much to myself. One night, I was in a cafe on the East Side. I had a few drinks— and the first thing I knew, I walked plumb into the middle of a big fight.

"When I woke up, I was in a hospital. They had a big bandage over my right eye. It had been knocked out. And a little later they put in this glass one."

He pointed, and Seth nodded.

"Well," old man Perkins went on, "to make a long story short, I decided to come up here. Before I left the hospital, they gave me a note. It had no name on it, but the writer said he had been drunk and that he was the man who knocked my eye out.

"He said he had a good job, and that he felt very badly about the whole thing. He said that he wanted to ease his conscience, and that, if I'd leave my address, he'd send me ten dollars a week for the rest of my life.

"And that's the whole story, Seth. He never signs his name or his address. And that's how I've been getting along all these years "

Seth's eyes were actually popping. Ho shook his head.

"That's sure some story, Perk," he breathed. "Guess that feller still feels purty bad about the whole thing, eh?"

Old man Perkins heaved a long sigh.

"Guess he does, Seth," he replied, easily. "But I'll bet he wouldn't feel half so badly if he knew that the eye he knocked out was a glass one long before he ever saw me!"

_________________

85: Theft From The Box-office

AMONG the boys on Broadway is one whom I am pleased to call Billy. Billy, I suppose, is not really a boy— inasmuch as he must now be somewhere in the vicinity of sixty.

On Broadway, however, no matter how old you are, you're referred to as one of the boys as long as you're regular. The reason being, I imagine, that most of these brains are so childish in the Broadway sector.

But no matter, Billy has been in the theatrical business all his life. He has made and lost several fortunes— and is always just one fortune behind. Several of our most prominent producers owe a great deal of their success to his instructions. And, regardless of how tough the times may be, he can always secure enough money from one of these men to start a small stock company somewhere out' of town.

About a year ago Billy decided to enter one of his frequent stock ventures. He secured $5,000 from a producer — I think the man in this case was Lee Shubert — and negotiated for a theatre in an up-State city. When it came time to take possession Billy found that he needed more money. So he got himself a partner. The partner was a German orchestra leader. It was agreed that, for his help in the financial end, the musical man was to conduct the small band in the pit and to receive an equal share of the profits.

An extremely melancholy chap, this German was not particularly jolly company. From the very first night, the venture was a success. It was operating on a ten, twenty, and thirty cent policy, and the house was taking in all it could hold at that figure. Still there was something wrong somewhere.

In the second week there were always a few dollars short in the count. Nobody seemed to know where the money was going. The box office man said he was unable to understand it. Billy knew that he wasn't guilty. And his partner couldn't have had anything to do with it because he was in the pit.

As the weeks, went by and the petty thievery continued, the German's face grew longer and longer. Billy recognised the trouble. They were splitting a nice profit, but the extra few dollars were worrying the orchestra man.

So Billy determined to get to the bottom of the mystery once and for all. That night he sent the ticket-taker on a faked mission to another part of the city. He slipped on the uniform himself, and began to take tickets. In such houses the job is a very easy one.

Tickets are in three colors; the ten-cent ones red, the twenties blue, and the thirties white. The first three rows are 50 cents, and are printed on green stock. They are held for special customers who might want to go that high. The first ticket Billy was handed on the door was a 30-cent. affair, and was white. Billy stopped the woman who handed it to him.

"You'll pardon me, madam," he said, "but may I ask what you paid for this seat?"

"Fifty cents," she replied promptly. "The box-office man said it would get me a good seat."

That was all that Billy had to hear. If the box-office gent, was phoney enough to be gypping in that direction, he was certainly the guilty party in every night's minor money shortage.

As soon as the regular doorman returned, Billy went into the box-office and fired the small-time crook. He sold the rest of the seats himself that night, and, for the first time since the company opened, everything checked in the box-office.

When the performance was over, Billy went backstage and secured his partner. "We're going over to Schultz's for a glass of beer," he announced. "I have something very important to tell you."

A few minutes later, seated at a table with the orchestra leader, Billy unfolded the tale of what had happened.

"Hans," he asserted, "I have some news for you. I did a little detective work tonight, and found out who was gypping us every night. It was the box-office man. He couldn't deny anything when I faced him with my facts, and I fired him immediately."

If Billy expected the German's face to show a ray of pleasure, he was doomed to disappointment. For, instead of improving, the partner's face became even more sorrowful. Billy looked at him in amazement.

"Good Lord," he cried, "what's the matter with you? Aren't you glad I discovered the crook? Or do you feel sorry for the box-office man?"

His partner shook his head slowly.

"I feel sorry for myself," murmured the German, mournfully. "I've been paying him 15 dollars a week to keep his eye on you!"

________________

86: A Gentleman From Michigan

WE were sitting in one of those places that have since been ruined, by Repeal . It was a comfortable, even luxurious room, dominated by a huge circular bar in the centre. Off, somewhere under a forest of palms, an orchestra was playing, softly and insinuatingly.

Some of the best people in town were there— and some of the worst— just to make it even.

A man tapped me on the shoulder. I looked up and he smiled down.

"The bartender told me you were Hellinger," he said timidly. "I never met you before and I'll probably never see you again. So I just wanted to shake hands with you."

We shook. He was a trifle drunk. I might have been "myself" at the time.

"I'm from Michigan," he went on, "and I always read your stuff in the Detroit Times out there. I'll only be in New York a short time and I'm hungry for company. Would you do me the favor of having a little drink with me?"

A reader from Michigan is just as important as one in New York. And sometimes more so. I excused myself to my party and nodded.

"Okay with me," I agreed. "Let's see if we can fight our way to the bar."

The gentleman from Michigan proved to be an entertaining conversationalist. For some fifteen minutes we talked about nothing in particular. The only interruption was when my companion ordered a straight rye for himself. This occurred frequently, and it looked to me as though this bird was out to get himself completely plastered.

He read my mind. "Don't worry about me," he said. "I can handle the stuff pretty well. Besides I've got a doggone good reason to drink these days." He stopped. And he tapped my lapel. "You know something?" he went on. "I think I've got a story that you can use. It'll only take me a few minutes to tell and. if it's no good, there's no harm done. Would you care to listen to it?"

"Go ahead," I said.

He drank his whisky at a gulp, ordered another and cleared his throat. "We're going back a long way to begin this one," he started, "but I'm going to make it as short as possible, so don't get nervous. It was many years ago, when a man named Burns settled in Michigan and was given 120 acres, of virgin timber land on a Government grant.

"I don't have to tell you too much about that hardy old pioneer. You know how those chaps worked in those days. Night and day without rest. Barriers that seemed insurmountable. Wilderness in all directions. And nothing to cheer him on but the wife at his side.

"In the end his dream came true. He was the owner of a farm that, due entirely to his efforts, was beautiful to behold. His struggle had not been in vain. He had conquered the unconquerable.

"And then, just as he was getting into a position where he could enjoy the fruits of his labor, he dropped dead."

Not bad thus far. The gentleman from Michigan gulped another drink. And once more he cleared his throat.

"We come now to the son," he continued. "His mother and father gone, the boy found himself with a productive farm on his hand. Massive barns. A big, rambling farmhouse. Earth that yielded the finest produce. Everything, in fact, that any farmer would want. Which may be one reason why young Burns wasn't satisfied.

"He, in turn, had found himself a good wife and they had been blessed with a baby boy, as the saying goes. There was no reason for this man to roam, except the fact that the urge to roam was in his blood. He wanted plenty of wealth.

"He finally skipped out. Wherever there was a whisper of gold, that's where Burns would turn up. He went to California. He went to Alaska. He went here. He went there. He never achieved any success, but he would never give up and go back to the farm. He was always positive that the millions were just around the corner.

"On the farm, the boy and his mother were doing the best they could to make a go of things. The boy was willing, but he was young. The mother was willing, but she was by no means as strong as the mother who had helped build the place. And bit by bit the farm began to fall into decay.

"One day the father turned up again. He had been gone for years, but he hung up his hat and sat down at the dinner table just as though he had only been to town. He talked of his adventures. And as he talked, he saw a yearning light in his son's eyes. The boy, too, had the wanderlust in his blood.

"After dinner, while his wife was washing the dishes, he and his boy walked through the fields. And the father talked some more.

" 'Son,' he said, 'maybe I'll make something out of my life and maybe I won't. Sometimes I think I ought to settle down here and forget about striking gold in some far-off spot. But I don't think too long before I remember what my father went through. And I shiver.

" 'Your granddad was a great man, son. He was a real pioneer, but he was something of a wanderer, too. If this farm had been here when he arrived, I don't think he would have taken it. He wanted the thrill of creating for himself, of moulding things with his own hands. And when he had won his battle, it was too late to wander on.'

"The boy looked up at the stars. " 'Pop,' he said earnestly, 'I know it's not very decent to talk about leaving Mother, but I can't help myself. I want to go with you. I'm really not cut out to be a farmer.

" 'I, too, want to get out and try my luck with other things. I want to see the world. I want so many things that are different from this. Won't you take me with you?'

"His father placed an arm around young Burns's shoulders. " 'All right, boy,' he promised. 'We'll go on together.' "

The gentleman from Michigan stopped to gulp a fresh drink. He looked at me quizzically.

"Do I bore you?" he asked.

"Hell, no," I answered. "It sounds great. Go ahead."

He shrugged his shoulders. "There isn't a great deal more," he said. "The boy travelled on and on with his father, both of them with that one idea in mind— to find gold in some hidden spot. The father died when they were both in a small town in Australia, a far cry from the Burns's farm in Michigan. The boy buried his father and went on alone.

"As you understand now, he got nowhere. He reached the age of thirty-five and found himself little better than a tramp. His mother had died long before and had been buried by relatives. Almost overnight he developed a longing for some friendly spot— some place that he might call his own. So he did what you or I, or anyone else, might have done. After all those years of vagabondage, he went back to the farm in Michigan.

"What's the use of describing Burns's feelings as he tramped around the farm? He undoubtedly felt now exactly as his father had felt before him. If he hadn't yielded to the wanderlust and had been content to remain on the farm, he might have been a happy man. For he had nothing now; nothing but 120 acres that were covered with weeds and taxes.

"He hadn't been at the farm more than six hours when a man drove up to the spot. He introduced himself as George Johnstone, and he came to the point immediately.

" 'I heard you were back,"' he said to Burns, "and I want to talk business to you. You know this place isn't worth very much, and so do I. But I've got an idea that I can do something with it. And if you'll put a cheap enough price on it, I'll buy it.'

"Well, Mr. Hellinger, you can imagine that Burns jumped at the chance. He was in no position to argue price, and he grabbed eager at Johnstone's first offer. In no time at all, the two men had shaken hands on the deal. The following morning a cheque was turned over to Burns and the farm was gone.

"The cheque was naturally a small one. Burns fingered it for a moment and then looked at Johnstone.

" 'It took three generations to get this small amount,' he smiled, 'but that's the way it goes. A funny thing though, Johnstone. All my life I've looked for gold, but the only gold I really ever found is in this cheque. And that's from the farm on which I wouldn't stay!'

"Just two days later, Mr. Hellinger, came the irony that you will surely appreciate. Oil gushed forth on that very property. If you ever get out our way, you'll find the place located between Mt. Pleasant and Muskegon. And any expert will tell you that it's one of the wealthiest oil wells in Michigan.

"Strange, isn't it? The gold for which they were searching throughout the world was under their feet all the time. And when it finally popped, it belonged to somebody else. Hey, bartender, give me another drink."

It was obvious that I was talking to Burns, himself. I felt sorry for the man. He was probably spending the last of that cheque on a drinking party in New York. It was a tough break, and I couldn't blame him very much. I really felt blue about the guy.

"It's tough, Burns," I said quietly. "Life handed you a pretty rotten deal. But there's no use drinking yourself insane over it. Why not lay off for a while?"

The gentleman from Michigan looked up in amazement.

"You got me wrong," he cried. "I'm not drinking because I'm unhappy. I'm celebrating. I'm Johnstone, the guy who bought the place!"

______________

87: A Womanhater

JOE BURKE was a woman hater. Definitely. He disliked women with a vehemence that was sheer insanity. All women. It made no difference how kind, how sweet, how beautiful or how virtuous they might be. Joe Burke curled a sneering lip at all of them. Including Eve.

He was a little, wizened old man with a face that was furrowed like a peach pit. His eyes were small and piggish, and his nose was always red-bulbed. He neither smoked, drank, danced nor gambled. He lived alone in a big, ramshackle old house on Black Street. He cooked, cleaned and swept. He read all the newspapers he could lay his hands on. Just so that he could clip all the articles disparaging to women.

"You know, he said casually to Schmidt, the grocer one morning, "the reason we got ten million out of work is because of women."

"Yeah?" said Schmidt, who loved his Elsie and the four kids, "how do you figger this?"

"You must be blind," snorted Joe. "Look around you, man. Women have all the jobs. Girls just fresh out of school work in factories for wages no self-respecting man would take. Older women are secretaries, business executives, shop-keepers, salesmen, clerks, counter clerks, servants, farmers, breeders, judges, wrestlers, canvassers— hell, name me a job that some woman ain't got."

"Ain't none been a father yet," murmured Schmidt sagely.

Joe Burke glared at the grocer, and walked out.

He never tired of talking about women. None of 'em were any good. They smoked like chimneys, drank like fish, dressed like naked savages, ate like pigs, and were as trust worthy as a maniac with a loaded cannon. Everybody in the neighborhood knew about Joe's pet aversion. Most of the ladies made it worse by publicly sneering at him. Some went so far as to make naughty remarks as they passed him. The men liked to egg him on and make him talk about it.

As he grew older, his mania grew worse. He became an enfeebled, bitter, little old man. He spent his days mostly in sitting in the park, wondering to whom he might leave his money. Joe had a considerable pile of dough, and the only kin left were Aunt Josie and a niece named Evelyn. Even If he had to take the money out of the bank and throw it to the winds, he wouldn't leave it to them.

But, on the other hand, there was no male friend he liked well enough to make an heir. And he didn't believe in charity, because he said there was always a female behind all charities.

He had this problem on his mind for four months when he met Eddie. Eddie was a little guy, very young and good looking. But he needed a shave and his overcoat was hanging in tatters. His eyes had a sort of permanent fear when he asked the old man for a match. The old man said he never smoked.

The kid smiled. "Okay, mister," he said. "Thanks just the same."

He walked off. The old man yelled after him. The kid came back. "Ain't you gonna ask for a nickel for a cup of coffee?" Joe demanded.

The kid smiled winningly. "Coffee wouldn't do this stomach any good, mister. Coffee would only tantalise it. I need thick soup, roast beef, mashed potatoes, celery, turnips, gravy, coffee, and two helpings of apple pie."

The old man grinned for the first time in years.

Kinda ambitious, ain't you? What's your name?"

"Eddie. Eddie Williams. "What's yours?"

"Joe Burke. I live in this town."

"Glad to know you, Mister Burke."

The kid sat down. They talked of this and that. Finally, Joe said:—

"Married?"

"Me? Not me, mister. I wouldn't marry the best dame on earth. They're poison to me."

"Why?" very cautiously.

The kid shrugged. "Just don't cotton to them. Can't trust 'em. They say one thing and mean another. They take your money, your job, your youth, and then leave you. No, mister. They're not for me."

Joe Burke sucked in a long, pleasant breath. This kid, this young man, was the first man he had ever met who saw eye to eye with him. "Come on, Eddie," said the old man.

"We're gonna eat."

They not only ate together, but the old man asked Eddie to share his house for a few days.

The few days went into a few weeks, and the few weeks slipped into months. The old man now had a receptive audience for his diatribes. And I don't think he'd have allowed Eddie to go, even if the kid wanted to.

When nearly a year had passed, the old man shuffled down to his attorney and changed his will. In it he left every solitary dime to Edward Williams. The kid didn't know about it until the old man lay dying. He was called into the sick room, and the old man laid a cold bony hand on his and called him "my son."

That was the tip-off. "No kin of mine is worth their salt," the old man murmured. "So I'm leaving everything to you. Take good care of yourself. And don't ever bother with women.

"Women will ruin the best of men. You know that as well as I do. One of them took a good job away from you once, and they'll do it to you every time they get the chance. So don't ever bother with them, son. Don't ever mix up with any of them, no matter what the cost."

Eddie gulped. "I won't, Joe. I promise".

The old man was buried simply. After the funeral, Eddie stepped in to the lawyer's office to go over the necessary formalities to collect his inheritance.

"Mr. Burke," said the lawyer quietly, "leaves you all of his real and personal property. This has a total valuation of about 170,000 dollars."

The kid leaped from his chair. "Wow!" he ejaculated. "170,000! I'm a rich man!" The lawyer smiled. "Yes," he said, as he clipped some papers together, "you're rich. And you're also very fortunate to have struck the fancy of the old man as you did.

"We all considered him a most eccentric man. When he was here at the office the last time, he told me he liked you so much because a woman took your job away from you."

The kid grinned. "That's right," he replied happily. "A woman did take my job away. But, believe me, I never knew it would bring me all this good luck."

"I see," murmured the lawyer curiously.

"Tell me, did the old man know anything about the job to which you referred?" Eddie shook his head vigorously.

"Oh no," he returned. "He never even asked me." He paused. "You see," he added smilingly. "I was a female impersonator!"

__________________

88: Mr. Jones's Chauffeur

DURING THE progress of the big auto race at Roosevelt Raceway recently, five gentlemen sat in a prominent box. The host was a certain picture mogul whom we will call Mr. Jones— and his four guests were equally well known in the film world.

Now, these gentlemen are very fond of automobile racing. They like the possible chills and thrills. As a matter of fact, there is but one sport they like better— and that is a horse race. The ideal combination for these gentlemen will arrive when horses are taught to drive racing automobiles.

At any rate. Mr. Jones and his guests sat in their choice box at the Roosevelt Raceway for about two hours. The race had begun at 11 a.m., and it was about one o'clock when one of the picturemen sighed suddenly.

"The horses are running at Jamaica today," he murmured. "That's not very far from here."

"The horses!" cried the second guest.

"Horses!" exclaimed the third.

"Lovely horses!" enthused the fourth.

"Did I hear horses?" said the beaming Mr. Jones.

It didn't take the five of them more than another minute to decide that they would leave for the Jamaica race track without delay. They had all driven out in Mr. Jones's car— and they would proceed to Jamaica in the same vehicle. They were ready to leave their box when Mr. Jones suddenly snapped his fingers.

"Trouble, gentlemen," he announced. "Serious trouble. I told my chauffeur to see the race and to call for us after the finish. Now I don't know where the car is— and I don't know where my chauffeur is."

The guest at his right smiled happily. "You call that trouble?" he asked. "Why, I'll solve that problem right now. Clem McCarthy's doing the announcing here — and he's a good friend of mine. I'll have him make an announcement to have your chauffeur meet us at the club house immediately."

Which he did very promptly. Clem, always happy to oblige, announced the fact that Mr. Jones's chauffeur was wanted at the club house with his car. And the sixty thousand people in attendance, of course, heard the announcement at the same time.

The five picture men proceeded to the exit— and Mr. Jones was definitely thrilled.

"What an age we're living in!" he mused. "Sixty thousand people here. I want my chauffeur. In a minute, he's with me. It's amazing, that's what it is!"

The five men walked along, when Mr. Jones stopped abruptly. The joy died from his face.

"Oh, my." he said. "Oh, my."

His guests were worried. They asked him the trouble. "My chauffeur isn't outside," he replied. "And he won't be outside. He definitely won't."

"Why not?" cried one of the guests. "Wasn't he just notified by the loud speaker system?"

Mr. Jones nodded.

"Yes," he asserted apologetically, "but I forgot to tell you gentlemen something rather important. My chauffeur is deaf!"

____________

89: Revenge Is So Sweet

MABEL needed the job. That's the only reason why she took it. She knew before she reported for work that no phone operator ever lasted more than a few weeks with the Phoenix-Maribou Hotel. Almost all of her friends had plugged that switchboard for awhile. And every one of them had soon gotten the scram signal.

The manager wasn't at fault. He was-a little, meek Mickey Mouse of a man who trembled every time a guest raised his voice. No, it wasn't he. It was Seldon Winslow, regal and rich. Seldon Winslow, who was even older than he looked, but whose pastime was chippie-chasing.

Old man Winslow was a gallant. He wanted his dames to be treated like Grand Duchesses. And woe betide the unsuspecting hotel employee who disregarded his wishes! Wow! Purple with rage, the old boy would gallop down to the manager and demand the immediate dismissal of the offender. And the manager, who couldn't afford to lose his best paying guest, always obliged.

So, you can imagine how dejected a little spitfire like Mabel felt when she took the job. Before she ever met Winslow, she knew the kind of guy he was. Her natural inclination was to kick him squarely in the chin. But her best bet was to try to please. The very first night on the job, a big blonde ambled in. "Please tell Mr. Winslow I'm here," she cooed.

"Who shall I say is calling?" asked Mabel sweetly.

The blonde's eye popped.

"Who?" she shouted. "Who? Who do you think? Would any lady except Mrs. Winslow be calling on him? Are you trying to insult me, you cheap little — little―"

"I'm sorry," said Mabel quietly. "Very sorry. Really I am. I'm new on the job, Mrs. Winslow. And I didn't know. Please forgive me."

The kid squirmed as she apologised. She knew from former phone operators that Mrs. Winslow was an old lady and had been crippled by arthritis for years. She knew these things, but she could say nothing. Except to apologise. The blonde tapped an indignant foot. Finally, she seemed placated.

"Well." she said, "don't let it happen again. I'll stand no nonsense from such as you, young lady. And, remember, I won't be kept waiting. I want to be announced to Mr. Winslow the moment I come in. Now call him, please."

Mabel did.

AFTER that the blonde called many times. And each time Mabel had to bow, and smile, and drop everything else to call Mr. Winslow.

"Mrs. Winslow to see you," she'd sing out. And then she'd plug out and smile even more sweetly at the blonde. "He wants you to go right-up."

It must get rather sickening to have to put up with that kind of abuse. But this kid needed the job, and forgot her pride temporarily.

Mabel lasted longer than anyone else. How she did it I don't know, because Winslow was always complaining. But she made the grade, and, eventually, she got an offer of a better job from another hotel. It paid more money, the hours were better, and, best of all, there was no "Mrs." Winslow to contend with. She was given a week to accept.

At the Phoenix-Maribou, she said nothing about it. She kept it to herself. Even when old man Winslow made his customary weekly speech on service, she resisted the temptation to heave a phone at him.

"Now, Mabel," he'd whine. "You must remember that the keynote of success in any hotel is service.

"And, as the best paying guest here, I must insist that you pay more attention to your duties. I'm not quite satisfied with you, Mabel. And, if you don't improve, I'll have to ask the manager to let you go."

"Why, Mr. Winslow! I always try to please you. What have I done?"

"What have you done. My dear young woman! Last night you kept Mrs. Winslow waiting for almost a minute while you completed some sort of a long distance call. Now I can't stand for that. And I won't. Either improve or get out!"

The kid's hair was always red— but, after that, her eyes matched it.

IT WAS early one evening, two days later, when she plugged in to hear the blonde ask for Winslow. The woman seemed agitated. So agitated, that Mabel "forgot" to close the can when she made the connection. She listened in.

"Hello, Winny? Lissen, Winny. I'm in a terrific jam. Yes. It's Dan. He's back in town again. That's right. And listen. Somebody tipped him off about you.

"Now, lissen, honey. Don't get hysterical. Not yet, anyway. He's a tough mug, all right, but he's thick. I told him he was out of his mind, that I only met you once at a bridge party, and that I'll bring him to you to prove it.

"Hah? No, that's all right. Don't worry. Just keep your head. Act very indignant. Pull the old act. Ask him where the devil he gets off, accusing you of going on the make for his wife.

"Tell him you have one of your own, and pull the weeps about her arthritis.

"That's the idea. Put it on thick. He'll be apologising before he leaves. That's the ticket. If you fail me, honey, there's going to be an awful lot of broken bones. Uh-huh. Now lissen. I'll bring him over about eight. Remember what I told you. So long, sweet. 'Bye."

MABEL got so nervous she almost fell off her stool. Later, she calmed down a little. After all, it wasn't her funeral. Let the blonde and the old buzzard worry about it. She went back to work.

Precisely at eight she could see the blonde coming through the revolving door. Mabel gulped, and almost swallowed her gum. The blonde had deep lines under her eyes, and she seemed on the verge of a hearty faint. The guy behind her was as big as a mountain— and he looked just as hard. They breezed in together, and it looked as though the blonde was pleading with him. The man kept his hands in his coat pockets, and his teeth were gritted. He said nothing. The blonde strolled up to the desk. She gave Mabel one of the most frantic winks in all history.

"Good evening, miss," she cooed, as though she had never seen anyone who even resembled Mabel remotely. "I would like to see a Mr. Seldon Winslow, who is a resident, here. Would you kindly call him?"

Mabel suddenly recovered the full use of all her faculties. She thought of the new job that was awaiting her— and she thought of all the abuse she had taken from this blonde. So she smiled very, very sweetly.

"Certainly, madam," she said. "One moment, please." She plugged in the board. In a moment, Winslow was on the phone.

Mabel talked at the top of her lungs. "Good evening, Mr. Winslow," she fairly shouted, "Mrs. Winslow is here to see you— with a gentleman friend!"

_________________________

90: The Way It Goes

IN A DINGY cafeteria on the lower West Side of New York, two men were talking earnestly in the not so long ago. One was Dan, a man some fifty years of age, and with the mark of the hardened criminal stamped plainly upon his face. The other was Mickey, a youth of perhaps twenty-three, and with eyes that were cold and hard.

"This stick-up," he said, "was made to order for you. If it ain't the biggest cinch you ever handled, I'll shine your shoes in Macy's window. And when I give you the news that there's plenty of dough for the take, it seems to me like you ought to jump at the chance."

Mickey pushed his coffee away and leaned forward. "Lemme tell you somethin', Dan," he asserted. "I don't want to give you no big shocks, but I gotta tell you once and for all that I'm through with the racket.

"I wouldn't care if the touch was for a million bucks and all I had to do was wave a red flag and get the dough. I'm not takin' no more chances.

"It's not that I'm afraid, Dan, or that I've turned wrong. You know me better than that. It's somethin' I found out while I was doin' my last rap. I just can't do no more time. I gotta go straight because, if they put me in again, I know I'll go nuts."

Dan nodded wisely. "I gotcha, kid," he returned. "And I don't know as I blame you much, either. Of course, to an old stir bug like me, it don't make much difference any more.

"But I've seen guys like you many times. Even when they're livin' high on the outside, they get to thinkin' how lousy it was when they was in. And they swear they'll die before they ever go back."

He sighed. "It's a shame, though," he observed. "You're only a kid, and you're one of the best stick-up guys I ever seen in operation. It's a shame to waste your talent drivin' a truck, or somethin.' "

Mickey shrugged his shoulders.

"I guess you're right, Dan," he agreed, "but it can't be helped. Tell you the truth, I don't know how I ever finished my last bit. I musta broke about forty watches lookin' at the hands goin' so slow, and then throwin' the watch against the wall.

"I used to feel like I was goin' screwy. I'd argue with the keepers, and wind up right back in the old base drum. No, sir. No more of that for little Mickey. I've done all the time I'm goin' to do. Even if I starve, I'm goin' straight. I―"

He stopped abruptly. Two detectives— well known to Mickey— and a neighborhood storekeeper stepped through the door. The storekeeper pointed nervously at Mickey.

"That's him," he cried wildly. "He held me up only twenty minutes ago. He took all the money in my register. That's the thief. Look out for him." The two detectives advanced without a word. They stood Mickey up and frisked him.

"That mug's got me wrong," said Mickey coldly. "I ain't done a wrong thing since my last rap. I've been sittin' right here for almost an hour."

The first detective smiled.

"Oh, sure," he stated sweetly. "And for the hour before that you were playing ping-pong in the Union Club. And for the hour before that you were playing croquet on Mr. Vanderbilt's lawn.

"Come on along, Mickey.; We've got a book in the station-house we want you to read. It's a copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales."

Mickey was innocent. You and I know that, but who was going to prove it? The restaurant man? Well, he was only too happy to see one hoodlum less in the neighborhood. Dan, the man to whom he had been talking? Well, Dan's record extended from here to Boston, and if he testified he'd probably do more harm than good.

In due time, Mickey went on trial. The storekeeper persisted in his identification. The accused youth, because of his past, didn't stand a chance. He was convicted and sentenced to forty years in jail.

BACK IN JAIL that he detested with all his heart and soul, Mickey went screwy for fair. It was bad enough when he was compelled to serve time for his misdeeds— but to be shoved in for forty years when he had done nothing was torture of the worst type. He informed the warden that he was going to serve his sentence exactly as he pleased. He didn't care what they did to him now and he was never going to care again. Suppose he was thrown into solitary confinement most of the time?

In forty years, he stated coldly, a man needs little diversion Thus, for six months, Mickey just went in and out of solitary. Suddenly came the big news. The crook who had really held up that storekeeper was picked up and identified for at least a dozen jobs. If the judge was lenient, this particular crook figured on getting about ninety years.

So he promptly confessed to the crime for which Mickey had been imprisoned. It wasn't that he was being charitable. He merely thought that, with ninety years staring him in the kisser, the extra forty wouldn't make any particular difference. And I imagine he was correct.

Within a few days, Mickey was taken from the jail and brought into court. He was placed beside the man who had confessed, and the storekeeper looked carefully at both of them. A sheepish expression crossed his face as he admitted that it was the other fellow, and not Mickey, who had held him up.

"I guess I made a little mistake," was his silly explanation, "and I'm sorry. The man who confessed is the man who did the job."

Mickey was discharged. Once again he was free to try and stay straight. On his way from the courtroom the storekeeper stepped up to him. "I think I owe you an apology," he said, "but you know how it is when a man's excited. That's why I'm apologising now."

Mickey stood still, and just looked. His eyes narrowed and his lips formed one straight line. "So you think you owe me an apology, do you? Well, if that ain't nice."

His left hand shot out and gripped the storekeeper's tie. He yanked it towards him.

"You clip six months off my life," he muttered, "and you want me to take apologies. Well, here's the way I accept it."

Before the court attendants could interfere Mickey was slugging the other man all over the rear of the courtroom. And as soon as the man fell Mickey began kicking him in spots where it would do the least good. When the excitement finally died down Mickey was back in the Tombs.

Exactly one month later he was back in jail again. They had given him five years for assaulting the storekeeper.

_______________

91: Drunk Tale

A MOTION picture director— and he's one of  the very best in the business— had been hitting the bottle rather heavily in Hollywood. His company didn't want to give him the air because they knew that any one of three rival concerns would grab him in a moment.

"But they couldn't find a way to remedy the situation. When the director was on one of his periodic bats, he was absolutely no good to anyone. And when he was sober, he was liable to go off on a stew at any time. So what to do? The big shots sat around one of those mahogany tables and mournfully discussed the status of this great director.

"We must use him on that new picture," said one executive. "He's the only one in the business who can do the job as it should be done. "He should go into a conference with the author immediately. But what good will anything be if he goes off on a bat?"

The others nodded sadly. They discussed ways and means, and some of the world's most fantastic suggestions came to light. Finally, after an hour or so, one of the wise men popped out with an idea that sounded like something.

"I think," he stated, "that this Hollywood atmosphere is what is doing the most harm to Steve. Everybody knows that he's the greatest of all directors, and they're forever toasting him on that fact. Small wonder that Steve goes off on toots.

"He's no dope. Far from it. He knows he's hurting himself and that he's liable to chuck his career in the ash can if he keeps this up. But the man doesn't really care.

"He's in a spot now where he can command as much money as anybody in the business— and as long as he can have a good time while he's doing it, he's going to keep it up.

"Now I think that we should get Steve out of Hollywood for this story conference. Let him meet the author in some other spot— say, halfway across the continent. They could get together there, and they wouldn't have any Hollywood parties to go to. "We could send a watcher along with Steve to see that he doesn't get out of hand while he's working— and that would be an additional precaution. How does it strike you?"

It struck the executive splendidly, it seems, because they all agreed that the plan should be put into effect at once. What might happen after Steve returned to Hollywood to direct the picture failed to occur to them. After all, why should it? Weren't they picture executives?

ABOUT five days later, Steve was registered in an hotel in Detroit, Michigan. His author was coming from New York, and was due on the morrow. A guard was with the director constantly, and a phoney name had been used on the hotel books. They weren't even taking the chance of having a newspaperman slip him a drink and starting him off.

Well, you know what happened. Steve is a highly artistic soul— and all this caging was getting on this nerves. More than that, he hadn't had a drink in a week, and he was developing a terrible yen. When the guard was certain that his charge was asleep, he threw himself on a couch for forty winks. He hadn't gone through ten of the winks when Steve was already in the: lobby.

WE'LL DRAW a merciful curtain over the next few days and raise it again to find Steve in an hotel room in Cleveland. How he got there from Detroit, and what happened to him in the interim, he still hasn't the slightest notion. But there he was with a terrible headache. And, to make matters worse, a thinly-clad damsel was sitting on a chair and looking at him. The director blinked at her. And as he blinked, he shuddered.

She was a strange-looking woman, and she had a face that would have stopped every clock in the Paramount Building.

"Oh, my head," moaned the director. "It's killing me. I'm going to die, I tell you."

The woman arose.

"There, there, sweet feller," she cooed. "Just you rest quietly. 'You're goin' to be all right because I'm goin' to take good care of you." Steve looked into her face and shivered again. His artistic sense — his great love for beauty — was triumphing over his illness.

"Listen, lady," he muttered, "you can believe me when I tell you that I don't know who you are or what you're doing here. Will you please go away and permit me to die in peace?"

The woman shook her head. "Not a chance, pardner," she stated. "I like you. Maybe your memory is not so good, but we've been travellin' around Cleveland for a coupla days now. I've taken pretty good care of you, pardner, and I'm not goin to leave you in the lurch when you're feelin' like you are."

Every time the woman used the word "pardner," Steve winced perceptibly. He moved a weak hand and pointed to his trousers.

"Lady," he moaned, "you're going to drive me daffy. You'll excuse me, I know, when I tell you that I can't look at you. Now listen: Over there, in my trousers, you'll find money. There must be money there. Take all or any part of it, and just go away. Please, please, go away."

No luck. The woman merely smiled.

"No chance, pardner," was all she said.

Steve twisted about in his bed. He must get rid of this horrible woman. His head was splitting, and it would never get better while her face was staggering his artistic senses. Where was he? In Cleveland, the woman had said. Not such a soft town, from all he had heard and bead. An idea hit him. He faced the woman.

"You've got to leave," he cried dramatically. "If you don't, you'll be in terrible trouble."

His unwanted guest rocked back and forth.

"Go back to sleep, feller," she said, "or you'll be havin' the D.T.'s all over again."

"But you don't understand," Steve went on. "The police are liable to be in here any minute."

The woman looked startled for the first time.

"Yeah?" she cried. "What for?"

The director made his supreme effort. "While I was away from you last night," he lied, "I got into a fight with a man, and they had to take him to the hospital."

The woman leaned back and rocked more furiously than ever.

"Hell, pardner," she murmured, "that's nothin'. I killed a guy here over three weeks ago— and they haven't even bothered me yet!"

__________________

92: A Wise Woman

The mother stared at her son. Stared hard. This tall feeble-chinned young man was her own. Her flesh and blood. Her life. Her world. And he had just finished telling her he was going to marry.

He wasn't going to marry a debutante. No, indeed. He didn't care for girls of his own social strata. The fact that he carried a great social name meant nothing to him. The 400, so far as George De Cardiller was concerned, was something of a pain in the spine. He was going to marry a waitress! Yes, a little, blonde waitress. A girl who was honest and sincere. A girl who grew up the hard way, and now slung hash for a living. A girl whose name was Mary, and whose father was a plumber.

"My son," his mother said sadly, "you are young. You know very little about women. Women can make or break a man. They can build him up swiftly. They can tear him down even more swiftly.

"You don't know women, George. You think this girl— this waitress— loves you. Perhaps she does in a way, but it's not because you're you.

"She likes you because of your proud name. Because you represent money, and a life of ease. That's her love, my boy.

"Marry her, and, in time, she'll wreck you. Mark my words, George. She'll ruin your life."

A week later, George married Mary They were happy. They laughed, and played, and had fights, and made up. Like any newlyweds. They planned, and saved, and paid very little attention to mamma.

Mrs. De Cardiller tried to break it up in many ways. She cut her son's allowance. She knew there was little he could do to earn a living. And she figured the girl would leave him as soon as the going grew tough. But Mary didn't. The kid stuck by her man, and George grew to love, her more and more. Mamma never went to see them, and she refused to allow Mary in the family mansion.

George, however, visited his mother now and then. And when he did, mamma invariably sang the same old song:

"I am an old woman, and I know females. If you don't get rid of this Mary person she'll ruin your life. Mark my words, son. A woman can wreck your life easily."

George never argued, because he was too happy. He was too happy for more than a year.

And then he arrived home one evening to find his wife gone. There was a note on the kitchen table.

"It is better this way," Mary had written. "I am not the woman for you, George. You'll be happier without me. Good-bye."

He wept like a child. And being a grown-up child, he ran home to his mother.

That Grand Old Lady smiled and stroked his hair compassionately. "Don't cry, George," she said softly. "You should be glad it happened at this time. Forget that terrible woman. You are still young, and you have plenty of time left to remould your life."

Apparently, there wasn't time. George grew morose. He sulked a lot. His mother arranged parties and teas, but George kept to his room. Nothing interested him. At first he hired detectives to trace Mary. There was no trace. Her own people knew, nothing. George dismissed the detectives.

Years went by.

Slowly. George grew older, greyer. He seldom spoke to anyone. Sometimes, in the loneliness of his room, he wept bitterly. Sometimes he got himself very drunk— and stayed that way for days at a time. His only sign of emotion was in the love of his mother. It grew greater and greater. He never tired of admitting she had been right about Mary. And he cursed himself for not having listened to her in the beginning.

Came the day that his mother died. Her pain was slight and quick. Her son— now a bitter, sodden wreck— stood over her bed at the end. He gazed at what was left, and shook his head sadly.

"You, too?" he murmured.

He walked into the lawyer's office. His eyes were bleary, his breath boozy. He sat down like one very tired. The lawyer was extremely cordial.

"The reading of the will won't take long," he said. "Your mother did things simply and well. She was a very wonderful woman."

"Yes," sighed the wreck. "She certainly was." The attorney hesitated. He tapped his pencil. "It's not the nicest thing in the world to mention," he asserted, "but I know I you won't mind. You certainly owed your dear mother a great deal for what she did about that terrible woman you married."

The wreck sat bolt upright. He blinked stupidly. "What she did?" he repeated vaguely.

"What do you mean?" The lawyer smiled pityingly. "Didn't you know?" he said. "Why, it was your dear mother who forced your wife to leave. She told Mary you were very unhappy— and that, unless she stepped out of your life, you would be completely disinherited."

The attorney nodded wisely at the shaking wreck before him.

"Yes," he continued, "you're a very lucky man. Because, in time, that girl would have wrecked you!"

______________

93: Daffy Tale

ARNOLD J. Pipplepotter was— to put it politely— a screwball. He was a simple little man with a head like a shoe button , and just as bald. He was mild, and, altogether harmless. But, ladies and gentleman, was he crazy!

He was 45 when the authorities sent him to the "College" on the hill. There, among numerous Napoleons and Caesars, he frolicked happily. The doctors asked him profound questions, tapped his skull, and flashed lights in his eyes.

Yes, the doctors paid marked attention to this man. For Arnold Pipplepotter, it seems, was a rare case. In his saner moments, the man was almost brilliant. But he had a solitary mania that defied all reason: He liked to hypnotise his thumb!

I mean it. Arnold would stick his right thumb upward, and stare at it. With the other hand, he made soft, soothing gestures. He'd stare at that thumb until beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead. Then the thumb would start to wilt. It would bend at the knuckle and droop. Whereupon Arnold would relax and smile triumphantly. His thumb was hypnotised! And the doctors would scratch their heads, and wonder...

In due time, Dr. Penelope entered the situation. In case you do not know Dr. Penelope, I might tell you that he is a very famous medico indeed. Dr. Penelope was not summoned, on the Pipplepotter case. He was visiting another patient, and he merely stumbled upon the strange man who hypnotised his thumb. He examined Mr. Pipplepotter very thoroughly. And when he left him, he was a very happy man.

Difficult to explain a doctor's happiness. You may be suffering with a broken leg— and your doctor will cry: "Beautiful!. I have never seen such a. beautiful break!" Or you may be groaning under a painful boil— even as your physician summons his assistant and cries, "Look at this boil, Charlie. Did you ever see anything more perfect?"

So it was with Dr. Penelope.

Wealthy patients were clamoring for his attention. He had all the work he could handle, and more. Yet, after one look at Arnold J. Pipplepotter, he decided that his one aim in life at the moment would be to cure this man. He went Immediately to the head physician of the institution, and made known his intention. "The Pipplepotter case," he asserted, "intrigues me mightily. I— Dr. Algernon Penelope― will devote a portion of my time to this man until I have cured him. And cure him I will!"

"Wonderful!" enthused the other medico. "You are the one man in the world to do it, Dr. Penelope. How do you intend to proceed?"

Dr. Penelope drummed the desk. "I am not yet certain," he returned. "I will determine a course later in the day. Of one thing, however, I am certain. Arnold J. Pipplepotter must never know that I am a doctor who is working on him.

"When I examined him just now, I did it as a casual visitor — and not as a physician. My status must remain that way. If he learns I am a doctor, my entire plan might fail."

The other doctor nodded understandingly. "It shall be as you wish, doctor," he said grandly. "We will all cooperate with you. And I have a feeling that you will make medical history with the Pipplepotter case!"

From that moment on, Dr. Penelope was with Pipplepotter at every opportunity. It was his problem to take the man's mind from hypnotising his thumb. And he did it slowly but surely with tricks and games!

Yes, with tricks and games.

Dr. Penelope would sit with his patient and tell him jokes. He would make up unusual limericks. He would bring from his pockets little games to amuse the thumb hypnotiser. He would learn tricks with eggs, and matches, and coins. He would master them. And then he would race to perform them for an amazed Mr. Pipplepotter; who would sit and watch him.

It took the better part of a year— but Dr. Penelope finally accomplished his objective. With his tricks, and his games, and his ' riddles, he returned Arnold J. Pipplepotter to normality. The patient no longer stared at his thumb, and he never dreamed of hypnotising it.

Dr. Penelope called in other doctors to examine the man. They looked at the patient. They spoke to him. And they all left with the same positive opinion: Pipplepotter was completely cured!

On the day he was to be released, Pipplepotter sat with Dr. Penelope for the last time. He grasped the hand of his benefactor. "I don't know who you are," he said, "because you, never offered, to tell me. But I do know that you've been swell during the past year. Without you, I don't think I could have stood the monotony."

Dr. Penelope bowed his head modestly. There were tears in his eyes. This was a doctor's greatest reward.

"Before I leave, though," Mr. Pipplepotter went on, "I want to give you a little advice. If you don't stop playing those childish games— and doing those silly tricks— they'll never let you out of this joint!"

___________

94: The Hero

THE INTERMISSION was just about half over. Outside, the audience was beginning to file back to its seats. It was a Saturday matinee, and the theatre was crowded for the first time since the opening night.

Backstage there was trouble. a fire had broken out. Not much of a fire, praise be to Cain; a wicker basket, loaded with costumes, had smouldered— and suddenly burst into flames. A fireman and an electrician had grabbed the burning mass and chucked it into the alleyway. A moment later they were busy picking up the smoking pieces of cloth that remained backstage. It wasn't even necessary to turn in an alarm.

But the manager couldn't help himself. It was his nature to grow excited— and a fire meant as much to him as a bomb in your hallway might mean to you. He broke into perspiration. His hands shook. His head bounced like that of a marionette. He ran around, looking for someone— anyone. Suddenly his eyes fell upon the Ham.

The Ham was an old Shakespearean actor. In short, he was verbose and grandiose. In this play, he had nothing , to do but carry a tray on and off the stage. But no tray was ever carried with more authenticity, more art, than the manner in which the Ham carried his. Before this the manager had never deigned to talk to the Ham. But now— with a fire in the background— it was a matter of necessity. He knew the Ham could talk so beautifully about nothing that it actually sounded like something. So he grabbed the old boy by the shoulders— and he pleaded with him like a friend.

"Listen," he cried, "we've just had a little fire back here. Nothing serious. Just a couple of old rags. But some smoke may drift out front. And the slightest suspicion that something is wrong can send an audience into a panic.

"So I want you to do me a great favor. I know that you're a very convincing talker. You're really great, they tell me. So I want you to step in front of the curtain immediately and deliver a speech to the audience. The third act curtain may be delayed for a few minutes, so take all the time you wish.

"Go to it, old boy. Kid them along. Make them laugh— or make them cry. Do anything you' wish, only keep their minds occupied until we clear the smoke from backstage. You understand?"

The Ham raised a solitary eyebrow. "With your permission," he murmured, "I will wow them!"

The Ham stepped before the asbestos curtain. His hand slipped inside his coat in a Napoleonic gesture.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he roared, "I crave your kind indulgence for a few moments. I am not here to make a collection; I ant not here to bore you. But I' do have a few words that might impress you. And if those in the rear will kindly resume their seats, I am quite, certain that they will not be sorry." Slowly the audience filtered back to its seats.

The Ham held both hands aloft.

"First," he orated, "permit me to introduce myself. I am Roger McRoger. I play only a minor role in the opus you are witnessing. But back in the days when the drama was really the drama I trod the boards of the finest theatres. At my side marched the Booths, the Barretts, and those precocious children, the Barrymores."

Scattered applause came from his listeners. They didn't know what it was all about, but they were willing to be polite to an old-timer. And the Ham, encouraged now, marched right on.

"Unfortunately," he continued ominously, "the war left its scar upon all of us. But we went through it in the old stage tradition that the show must go on! You hear me, my friends? The show must go on!"

He held a finger aloft in gesture 2C, and his audience applauded again.

"That tradition," he said softly, "has always been peculiar to the American theatre. Right from the top of the ladder," he went on, thumping his chest, "to the lowliest chorus girl, we have always felt that the show must go on. And it always has!"

On went the Ham, saying nothing at all, but making it sound very important. By this time the manager was in the wings, trying desperately to attract the Ham's attention and get him off the stage.

But the Ham knew this was his one great chance. Nothing was going to stop him now.

"During the war," he bellowed, "our soldier boys were our greatest actors. They were the actors in Life's Greatest Drama. Each time they went over the top they knew they might not come back. But did that stop them? No! A thousand times no!

"And why? I'll tell you why, ladies and gentlemen!" His face was purple now, and he was screaming. "Because they realised that the show must go on!"

The applause was deafening. The words meant nothing, but they sounded well. The Ham took four bows. He walked to the side of the stage— and he should have gone off.

But the chance was too great. He couldn't resist the temptation to electrify his audience just a little more. He held up his hands for silence.

"Even now," he shrieked, "the show will go on. It will go on, even though there is a raging fire backstage— and, any minute, we may all be burned to a crisp!"

_________________

95: What's Fair For One

THE MAN removed his hat and coat and tie and collar. The attendant hung them up carefully. Then the man walked over to the huge mirror and made a face at himself. He patted his hair and rubbed his beard. The barber smiled briefly.

"Trim?"

The man settled into the big deep chair luxuriously. "No," he said quietly. "Shoot the works."

The barber worked quietly and efficiently. The comb made quick, upward strokes around the round skull. The scissors chattered. A razor cut neat pathways in the snowy lather.

And all this time the man was thinking. He lay back deep in the chair, congratulating himself.

"Not bad, Pinkey," his mind was saying. "Not bad at all. After five years in a lousy jail, look at you now! Here you sit, being waited on like a king. You have two thousand dollars in your pocket and you haven't been out of the clink five hours yet.

"Not bad, Pinkey. Not bad at all."

It wasn't bad, at that.

Pinkey Walker was doing quite well for himself. That very morning he had completed a five-year stretch. He had come out of prison with a shabby suit of clothes, 18 dollars, and the friendship of a guy named Rogers. A sweet, trusting soul named Rogers.

Rogers liked Pinkey Walker, liked him very much. Five years they had spent together in the penitentiary. And it took all that time for Rogers really to learn to trust Pinkey. Two days before, after great hesitation, Rogers had spilled the dope to Pinkey.

"I gotta wife and two kids, see?" Rogers had finally said. "I ain't very good on talking, but I need a guy like you to help me, I need help bad, Pinkey.

"See, I was sent to the can for putting the snatch on two grand. I ain't much good, I guess. They got me neatly. But I hid the dough. As insurance, sort of. I hadda think of the wife and kids.

"Now, all this time the missus been coming up here, I didn't say a word about that two grand, I was afraid to. Soon as she tries to get it, the dicks might grab her. I couldn't stand that angle. So I didn't say nothing about the two grand.

"Pinkey, you're the only man in this whole cockeyed world that can help me. I'll tell you where the dough is, and all I ask Is for you to take it to Mamie for me.

"Take a pair of 100-dollar notes for yourself. And give the eighteen hundred to my missus "

Pinkey was a pal. He said he'd do a pal a favor. He'd take the dough to Mrs. Rogers. No trouble at all. And he didn't even want two hundred for himself. He'd be satisfied with fifty. Rogers nearly cried when he bade his pal good-bye. He thanked Pinkey for the thousandth time. He said he'd never forget Pinkey. Pinkey was. sure he wouldn't.

After the tonsorial treat, Pinkey left. He walked out, free as air, and grinned happily at the world. The thought that Rogers would eventually find out his perfidy didn't annoy Pinkey. What could Rogers do about it? Nothing. The man still had six months to do. What could his wife do about it? Even less.

IT WAS TWO weeks later that Mrs. Rogers went to see her husband. She sat in the visiting-room, speaking to him over the vertical-board table. He was nervous. Worried. She talked about the children. About her job. About the landlord. About the high cost of everything. Rogers sat there, nodding vacantly. He was too scared to ask her about the money. He knew that if a man had walked In and given her money, she'd have mentioned it. And if the man didn't, what was the use of telling her?

He couldn't believe that Pinkey had double-crossed him. He sat perfectly still, fidgeting with his hands, and staring at her. He wondered if she was saving the big news for the last. Surely Pinkey wouldn't do a thing like this. Not Pinkey. Because Pinkey was the only man in the world that Rogers had ever learned to trust. Pinkey simply wasn't a rat. The guy was a sweet guy. On the level.

Rogers perspired. "Anything else new?" he said quietly, after a while.

Mamie shrugged.

"Things mostly about the same," she said, just as quietly.

"Any friends of mine come around?"

"Friends? None that I know of. Somebody supposed to?"

"Naw," Rogers tried to shrug it off. "A guy told me he might stop around to say hello. But I guess he forgot."

"Nobody been around that, I know of. Who was he?"

"Old frienda mine. He Just happened to be getting out and I ast him to see that you was fixed all right. It's nothing. He Just said he might stop around and throw you a little money. Nobody stopped by, hah, Mame?"

She shook her head. And Rogers knew the worst then. Knew that the struggle that Mamie had kept up all these years would have to be kept up for another six months. If Pinkey had been honest— what a laugh!— if Pinkey had been honest, Mamie would have had a nice, easy time of it until Rogers got out.

"Well," he said casually, "that's the way them things go, Mame. He seemed to be an okay guy, and maybe he'll come through yet. In case he remembers to stop around, hell give you a chunk of change. So keep it in the back of your head."

Mamie grinned. She bent just a little closer. "' keep it there," she said sweetly, "but it won't mean nothin'. If he does come around with some money I won't take it from him."

Rogers's eyes did a bit of popping. "You goin' nuts, Mame?" he cried. "Whaddya mean— you won't take It?"

She nodded. "You heard me," she said. "I won't take it. And why should I? I got enough dough now."

Rogers was a very suspicious man. His fists clenched. "How come you got dough?" he growled. "Lemme tell you something, Mamie Rogers. If you've been―"

Mamie waved a hand.

"Oh, shut up." she interrupted, still grinning. "Don't be so suspicious. I ain't been cheatin'. I've just been lucky, that's all.

"Last week I was at a dance, and I met up with a drunk. A roll fell outa his pocket— and right into mine. Almost nineteen hundred bucks, too. What a strike!

"The guy's name was Pinkey Walker. Just a dope."

_________________

96: The Farmer Stakes A Wife

BEN HICKS was a farmer. He never knew anything else. Like his father and grandfather before him, Ben had grown up on the land. Life to him was rain, and sunshine, and crops.

He married Bessie, a second cousin by marriage. She had hard hands. She, too, knew the farm— and little else. For twenty-one years they lived in happiness. There were no children. Only crops. They seldom saw mote than live dollars in cash at one time. But they were, content. Then they made a discovery on Ben Hicks's farm.

Oil!

OVERNIGHT, everything was changed. Men swarmed all over the farm. They ruined the crops with their machinery. Thin men arrived with fat papers. And Ben sat bewildered, and signed. The farm was no longer Ben's. Instead, he had a piece of paper. It had a lot of numbers on it, and it read: "Pay to the order of Ben Hicks."

Bessie packed all the belongings. She didn't want to go. She loved the farm— and she loved Ben. She loved the smell of the hickory fire at five in the morning— and she loved Katie, the sow, with her litter of eleven. Those things were near to her. Nearer than money— and the Big City.

But she buttoned her best shoes, laced up a corset, slapped on a dandelion hat, and followed Ben out to the road. It was a sunny day, and dusty. They walked a long time without a word. She kept glancing back, but she didn't cry. She permitted herself only one show of emotion. And that was when she said plaintively : "Ben, these shoes is killin' me."

The Big City didn't frighten Bessie. It just made her nervous. Ben liked it a great deal. He said it was life. He took the piece of paper to a bank, and three vice-presidents shook his hand. Ben was a rich man now, and money changed him. He found it could buy anything. He traded his .contentment for ecstasy. He bought a big car, ate the richest foods— and learned that some girls like rich men.

Little by little, Bessie was forgotten. Ben seldom asked her to go with him. He often gave her money, though. Then he'd laugh and tell her to go buy the Statue of Liberty. He didn't need Bessie, any longer. He didn't care that she saw him stagger home with a blonde on his arm.

Bessie was a farm woman. She wasn't given to scenes. She just sat quietly. Waiting. Wondering. Ben left the house one day and didn't return for two weeks. When he did come back, he told Bessie he wanted to marry another woman. He brought the woman in, and Bessie stared at her. She could see the things a man couldn't. Dissipation. Lack of character. Greed.

But Bessie made no scene. She asked what Ben wanted. Ben said he wanted a divorce. Bessie said all right. She wrote her brother. Ezra was a hard-headed farmer. He came to the city, and he told Ben plenty. He wanted to know whether Ben was going to provide for Bessie.

"Sure," said Ben. "Hadn't thought of it. But I'll take care of her all right. I'm a rich man."

That satisfied Ezra, and he went back home.

Bessie stayed a week longer. It broke her heart to leave Ben. But she knew, even better than he, that he'd never be Farmer Ben again. She knew that he now considered himself very much a part of the Big Town.

Ben was sheepish about saying goodbye. He fumbled, and he faltered. He said he was "kinda sorry about the way things turned out," But, he added, every man had a right to live his own life.

And so on.

Before she left he handed her a cheque.

"This will take care of you, Bessie," he said. "It's a heap of money."

She said good-bye very listlessly. Her mind was on oil, and all the unhappiness it had caused her. She walked down the hill to the elevator in the same button shoes; the same dandelion hat. In an hour she was looking out of a train window at blurred fields. And cows. And sows.

BEN was in high glee. He grabbed his hat and hailed a cab, He rushed to the faded blonde. He tried to kiss her, but she pushed him away.

"Did she go?" the blonde asked.

"Gone like the wind," said Ben, as he laughed heartily.

"Did she put up a squawk, or anythin'?"

Ben grinned. "Lissen," he cried, "that woman always done jes like I tole her— and she cain't ged rid of the habit. I said, 'scat!'— and she 'scut!' "

The blonde smiled sweetly.

"Give her any money?" she inquired. Ben laughed so that he found it difficult to talk.

"She thinks so," he finally chuckled. "But I fooled her, dad bust her hide. I gave her a no-good cheque!"

The blonde's eyes opened wide. "Why, Ben," she cooed, "that's wonderful. How did you do it?"

Ben threw out his chest. "Jest used m'head." he replied proudly. "I signed the cheque jest like it was legal. But she cain't get nothin' on it— 'cause I didn't mark in no amount!"

____________

97: The Kid

THE KID was at ease with the world. He leaned against the wall, a smile on his face. His eyes were bright with recollection. He smoked as he talked. And as he talked, he bragged..

"Y'know," he said softly, "It ain't right for a guy to go around, slap-pin' himself on the back. But sometimes, when you knock off a real swell piece of work, you feel you gotta tell somebody about it.

"Like me, for instance. I used to hang around New York a lot, but I wasn't gettin' no place. I used to pull small jobs. Not much. Little ones. Once I got grabbed for second degree burglary. But I was out in six months, so it wasn't much of a rap.

"So what happened? So I bummed around for maybe three years in New York— and all the time I knew I was an intelligent guy. I knew I could do somethin' better.

"Then came the break. A pal tells me one day about a town in the Middle West. Ookachoggle, it was. You know, one of them Indian names.

"He tells me about a factory they got out there where there's a payroll of maybe fifteen or sixteen grand. He'd pull the job himself, my pal says, only he's a little too hot right then.

"So I figger I'll pull the job. It sounds like a real break for a guy with my brains. I know the average crook is a dope. He goes out on a job without Iookin' the ground over, even.

"But I ain't like that. I gotta dome—and I use it reg'lar. So I pull off a little job in New York first. That finances the big job, see? It gives me a century or two to play with.

"Then I hop a rattler— and I'm off to Ookachoggle."

The kid slapped his knee. He laughed.

"Boy," he continued, "that was some town, what I mean! The main event was a little corkscrew road that wasn't even paved. Some town!

"Well, I got' myself a nice room in a boardin' house and passed the word around that my lungs was bad. That brought me lots of sympathy— plus the landlady's daughter. Not bad.

"I used to take long walks— and them walks always took me to the big factory on the hill. I must of walked around that joint a million times just Iookin' the ground over. Then I find out the night watchman is an old geezer named Nicky Burns. I find out he lives in a boardin' house down the street from me."

The kid winked wisely. "So you know what I done? Three guesses. I moved right into his boardin' house. I got a knockdown to him, and right away we hit it off like a coupla retired burlesque queens.

"Every afternoon, we used to play checkers. Natchally, I always let the old dope win. And In between moves, I'd pump him about his job. It wasn't a week before I knew his whole routine: what time he made his rounds, where the strong box was, and so on. It was a cinch, I can tell you.

"Now, get me straight. I ain't brag-gin'. But once in a while a guy pulls a job that stands out— and this was one for the book. Why, I even had that old guy callin' me 'Jimmy,' and worryin' about my health!

"Two weeks later, I was all set. It was a summer night, about nine o'clock, when I pulled the job. Still a little light in the sky. I went around to the back of the factory and he's sittin' on the steps, whittlin' a stick.

" 'Hello, Jimmy,' he says, casual-like. I pulled my rod and held it near his kisser. 'Drop that stick,' I says, 'and get inside.' The old buzzard looks scared, so I jab the gun in his puss again. He gets up, shakin'.

" 'Don't do this, Jimmy,' he says. 'Please don't.' "

The kid laughed again. He shook his head In mock sorrow. "That old turtle," he went on, "didn't know that this was gonna be my prize job. He didn't know the intelligence I put into it. So I pushed him into the safe room and buckled down to work. The safe was just an old tin can that Shoiley Temple coulda opened— without no trouble.

"Just when I got it clickin' in my ear, the old man gets nervous. I can hear his feet backin' up along the wall. Well, that ain't no time to hesitate. I stood up and pumped one shot right into his kisser. He falls flat and final.

"Now, maybe you're gonna sit there and say I made a fine job messy. But that ain't the angle. You gotta look at it this way:

"The guy was old. and he didn't have much further to go. A coupla years at the most. So what did I rob him of? Nothin'!

"As a matter of fact, I was doin' the old buzzard a favor, when you come to think of it. Suppose he had lived? He'd of been nothin' but a night watchman in disgrace. And that slug woulda made his face look funny. People woulda laughed at him.

"So you see my point, don'tcha? I ain't braggin'— but I say I done the job better'n any other guy in the racket coulda done it. Some fellers go through life without accomplishin' anythin'. But me— well, I can look back at a swell job and say: 'I did that!'

"See what I mean? I'm different from the other dopes in the racket"

And at that moment two guards and a priest walked into the death house cell.

"Come, son," the priest murmured. "It is time to go"

_________________

98: Irony De Luxe

MAYBE YOU'VE met a man like Morton. There are so very many like him in this world. Some Mortons are big. Some are small. Some are stout. Some are thin. There are Mortons in every village and every city in every part of the world.

Consider, then, this man of whom I write. They never gave him a chance in life. Better for him if he had never been born at all. He didn't ask to come— and when he arrived, nobody asked him to stay. His mother might have been kind to him, but Morton didn't know about that. She died before he was old enough to realise what kindness was.

This child reached the age of seven in an environment that would bring shivers to the most hardened of us all. A weak boy, the world was a terrifying  thing to him at a very early age. It was Morton's father, more than anyone else, who turned the child into the sad character he became. For the old man had never been anything but a poverty-stricken drunkard.

How he managed to pay his meagre rent and bring home a loaf of bread for Morton now and then nobody seemed to know.

The father came home one night even drunker than usual. The boy sat in a corner and watched him. The old man staggered to a window and throw it open. He fell through the window to the street below. And his life ended in a sickening thud. The following day, they put Morton in a big house with a lot of other boys and girls. Orphans were what they called them.

Most of us learn with age. Experience is just another name for past mistakes. What we do at twenty we laugh at when we're thirty. When we're forty we laugh at our mistakes at thirty. And when we're fifty, we wish we were back at twenty and making the same mistakes.

Basically, of course, Morton was no different from the next man. As the years flew by he learned many things.

He was able to forget many things, too. Practically everything, in fact— except the one thing he should have tossed from his mind— his father's death and horrible burial.

It finally became something of an obsession with the boy. He swore to himself that he would never end that way. That determination shaped his entire life. While the other boys were dreaming of adventure and planning great careers, Morton was looking for something that would give him enough to live on— and sufficient to die on.

One morning the had made up his mind. He picked a field in which his pay would advance with the years. He chose a type of work that would enable him to retire after so many years on the job. He picked one of the most underpaid and underestimated branches in the United States Government service. He became a letter carrier in the city of New York.

Tough job, that is. Very few people understand the work. In a city such as this, we accept the mailman as a matter of course. Lugging that heavy sack around, day after day and year after year. Walking the miles away— and getting no further than when they started. Carrying the secrets of the world— and never knowing what those secrets are. Plodding on so that they might eat and buy shoes that will enable them to plod on just a little longer. That was Morton.

But Morton didn't work at it as you or I might do. He was happy. As happy, that is, as he could ever be. He was working toward a goal. And each letter he delivered, each sack that he strapped on his shoulder, brought him just a little closer toward that goal.

But why go on along these lines?

Let me skip the years as only a hurrying columnist can do, and bring Morton to more recent times. Let me bring him to the greatest day of his life. He was about to be retired on a pension. He had never married. In the bank was the money he had been saving for years. Not much— as we think of money these days. But enough for the Morton of this story. With the pension that was to be his in a day or two, he knew he could live in peace— and die in peace. Very few millionaires can make the same boast.

A few of the boys gave him a little blowout in a restaurant near his post-office. About fifteen of them got together, and chipped in. Plenty of beer. Lots of sandwiches. Hard stuff for those who wanted it. Dancing with the proprietor's wife if you behaved yourself. Speeches.

They called on Morton. Good old Morton. He had drunk a lot of beer that night. With the boys. Almost over now. Why not?

He got up. He tried to talk. Suddenly the tears coursed from his eyes.

"Gee, fellers," he muttered, "I— I can't say nothin'. All I can say, fellers, is that— that, gee, I'm awful happy."

Soon it was time to leave. Morton went out alone first. Just to get a little air. He took a deep breath. His head felt strange. Going around. All topsy-turvy. He grinned. Silly for him to be that way. Drunk, of course.

He took a step. Another. Still another. A horn. A muttered curse. A shrill grinding of brakes. A dull, muffled sound. The driver of the truck leaped out and began to tug at the prostrate form in the rear. The crowd came from all sides.

A little later, the ambulance arrived. Much too late. It wasn't the truck-driver's fault at all, of course. The doctor said the man had died instantly. And perhaps it was just as well that Morton never lived to see that truck.

For on the sides were these three ironic words:—

"United States Mall."

__________

99: A Frightened Man

ANDY WATSON was a frightened man. He kept pacing back and forth in his cell. He kept pulling on his lower lip with his teeth. He kept cracking his knuckles. He kept running his hands through his hair. For the second time in his short life, he was in for murder

This man verged on hysteria. He wanted to scream, and shout, and pray. He wanted to pull at the bars until they bent double. He wanted to cry. And cringe. And confess. And yet, strangely enough, Andy Watson was not afraid to die. Not really. The chair didn't frighten him. He had a philosophy about such things. "When ya gotta go, ya gotta go." That covered everything.

It was the Death House that had him down. That neat, little brick structure off from the main prison. That exclusive little club of men who must die. Andy had been in that Death House. Two years ago. He had gone in on a murder, rap, and spent four months in the joint. Four months of silence, and shouts, and begging for mercy, and the soft voices of Men of God.

By some miracle, he had beaten that murder rap— but the Death House had done something to him. Even when his case was appealed: even when he got out; even when he was finally acquitted of the charge; the Death House was on his mind. It had made him tremble in the night. It had made him dream horrible things. It had made him terribly afraid.

He wouldn't mind if they convicted you and killed you. Like that. But those damnably clean walls! And that feeling that it's coming; it's coming; it's coming! That's what drives a man nuts. That terrible waiting in a place where dead men walk. And so, on his second murder rap, Andy Watson worried He worried— until he grew yellow.

HIS TRIAL was approaching. He knew he didn't stand a chance. So he squealed. Called for the district attorney, and made a deal.

"Look," he said pathetically. "You know as well as me that there was six of us in on the job. You nailed me— but there's five guys outside, free. Suppose I tell you where to get them guys? What do I get out of it?"

The D. A. called a stenographer, and the stenographer took a complete confession from Andy Watson. He told how he and five others had walked into the drug store that night. How they ordered the old man to open the till. How the old man had hesitated. How the gun went off. How the old man died. Andy knew that ratting was a cardinal sin— yet he slept better after that. He knew that the men he had condemned would never forgive him, but he didn't care.  He was avoiding that most terrible of places— the Death House.

The five were caught. Caught easily. Andy's complete directions took care of that. The five were tried together. Andy got a separate break. He pleaded guilty to second degree murder, and the judge gave him 20 years to life. The district attorney's office bungled the case against the five. The evidence was poorly presented. In the end, the jury refused to send five to die for the murder of one. They brought in a second-degree verdict.

The judge dismissed the jury without thanks. He made a statement that bristled with sarcasm. And then he gave the five the limit. Life.

All six went to the Big House on the same train. In the front end of the car, deputies surrounded the five. In the rear, two of them sat with Andy Watson.

Andy didn't worry any more. Strangely enough, he felt almost happy. Twenty years is a long, long time. But the others had been given life, which is ever so much longer. And, best of all, he didn't have to think about the Death House.

Some two hours later, he was marched into the warden's office by two guards. Andy nodded.

"Hello, warden," he said brightly. "Need a gardener?"

The warden didn't answer. He sat back and stared at Andy. Andy smiled crookedly at him, and then glanced nervously at the guards.

Finally the warden spoke. "I split your pals up," he said softly.

"Yeah? So what?"

"Frankie Quaw is in number one house. Joe Sears is going to work in my house. Shor is in number one building. Blair is in three. Talley is in two."

The prisoner licked his lips.

"So what?" he grunted. "For all I care, you can chuck 'em all in the river. They never done nothin' for me."

The warden studied his man coldly.

"I have reason to believe," he asserted, "that they don't like you very much. They're going to be here for a long, long time— and so are you. I want to keep all of you healthy."

Andy Watson made an attempt at bravado.

"So what?" he repeated contemptuously. "Am I supposed to be scared?"

The warden shook his head.

"No sonny," he said quietly. "I'm the one who's scared. So I have a cell and a job all ready for you— and nobody will get at you there. For the next twenty years or so you'll be assigned exclusively to the Death House. Take him away!"

__________________

100: The Reason

IT WAS shortly before curtain time of an evening performance. Tom glanced at his ticket rack and stifled a yawn. At least a third of the orchestra remained unsold. He had spotted the house very nicely.

He knew just how the theatre would look when he stepped inside. The customers were seated so that very few of them would realise how poor business really was. In a corner of the cage, the treasurer was poring over some figures. Tom, the assistant treasurer, looked in his direction.

"Pretty punk, Joe," he observed. "This show started out like a whirlwind, but it's certainly dropped off the last two weeks. There aren't 20 people in the balcony."

The treasurer nodded. "Same old story, Tom," he murmured. "Good notices and bad business."

Tom glanced at his watch.

"Five to nine," he observed. "Might as well get ready to close up."

The lobby door opened, and a young woman stepped in. A very pretty young woman. She walked to the window, and smiled at Tom.

"I don't suppose you'll have what I want," she said, "but it won't do any harm to try. Would it do any good to ask for two seats in front of the fourth row on the left side of the house?"

The assistant treasurer could have given her twenty seats in that particular section. But he didn't tell her that. Instead, he looked at his rack, ran his fingers through some tickets, and finally nodded.

"Yes, madam," he replied. "It certainly would. I have two here in the third row on the left side. Here you are."

The pretty little lady handed Tom a 20-dollar bill, and that young gentleman promptly returned the correct change to her.

"Thank you," she said. And then, instead of going to the ticket-taker, she hesitated for a moment.

"I wonder," she murmured, "if I might make a very unusual request of you?"

The assistant treasurer grinned affably.

"Why not, madam?" he said. "After all, I'm a box office man."

"Well," continued the woman, "if I gave you one of these tickets would you consent to sit next to me during the play?"

Tom gulped. This was something new.

"I— I—" he stammered.

"I know you'll think me very strange," she went on," but I really do want some company. Wouldn't you do me that favor?"

By this time, the treasurer was standing next to Tom. He took one look at the charming damsel and kicked his assistant very swiftly.

"Tell her yes, you dope," he whispered. "She's a pip."

So Tom nodded. "All right, madam," he chirped. "You leave the other seat here and I'll join you as soon as I've cleaned up my work."

Once more that sweet, soft smile from the lady. "Thank you so much. I'll be waiting for you."

As soon as she was through the door, Tom looked at the, treasurer in amazement.

"What the devil do you make of that, Joe?" he asked. The treasurer shrugged his shoulders.

"Trouble with you, Tom," he replied, "is that you're a little too innocent for this racket. You're a good looking guy. That dame probably saw you somewhere and took a liking to you."

"She figured a way to meet you. And this is the method she adopted. It's all a cinch and you're in luck. I'll finish up around here. You go ahead inside and be very nice to your new mamma."

A few minutes later Tom slipped into his seat. She sat close but said no word. In the first intermission, they strolled to the lobby together.

"Might I ask—" he began.

"My name?" she finished. "Just call me Muriel. I'd like you to call me by my first name, anyhow."

The second intermission was pretty much the same as the first. Muriel, it seemed, couldn't do quite enough for Tom. The boy couldn't quite figure the whole thing out. There was Joe's theory, of course, and it sounded pretty logical. But the girl seemed so sweet and so real—

"It's wonderful of you to keep me company," she was saying. "After the next act is over would you mind if I made you a little present?" Tom wrinkled his brow.

"Present?"

"Yes," said the girl. "I don't want to embarrass you, but would you take 50 dollars from me?".

The boy shook his head.

"No," he asserted. "I've enjoyed your company, too. Please don't mention anything about money."

"Well, then," the girl continued, "would you drop into my apartment after the show and have a drink with me? I'm sure you'd enjoy it."

It was then that Tom realised the treasurer had been right. The girl was exactly as Joe had stated. So what the devil! She was extremely pretty. Why not take advantage of the opportunity?

"All right, Muriel," he responded. "It's a go."

When the show was over Tom hailed a cab.

But Muriel stopped him. "Don't bother," she said. "I have my car here."

Up to the curb rolled a beautiful Minerva. She stepped in. So did Tom. The chauffeur tucked them beneath a costly robe. And they were driven to Muriel's home on Park Avenue.

Tom had never seen such a beautiful apartment. The closest he had ever been to such magnificence was in the Music Hall. And this place seemed almost as big to him. A butler took Tom's coat and hat. Another one served his drink. Muriel sat down beside him and they began to chat. They spoke of this and that. Tom had another drink. They spoke of that and this. Tom had another drink. An hour passed. Tom reached for Muriel's hand and attempted to draw her to him. She pulled her hand away.

"Don't be silly," she said. "Please remain a gentleman."

Tom had another drink. He was more puzzled now than ever.

"I guess I'd better go," he observed.

"I'd like you to wait just a few moments more," cried Muriel. "My husband will be coming in any minute."

"Husband?" muttered Tom. "I don't understand? What's the big idea of this whole thing? What's―"

"It's all very simple," explained the charming lady. "My husband took another woman to your theatre tonight. I wanted to make him jealous— so I sat right in front of him with you. When he comes home and finds you here, he'll be more jealous than ever! See?"

It happened about six weeks ago. But Tom, I think, is still running.

End

Table of Contents

- Introduction
- 1: Girl Who Loved A Writer
- 2: The Body In The Garage
- 3: Gentlemen of the Jury
- 4: The Charming Lord Dunberry
- 5: Wanted— A Job!
- 6: She Cried For A Lawyer
- 7: Mr. Lombardi Had A Friend
- 8: It Was Such A Perfect Plan
- 9: The Last Thought
- 10: A Fit Of Temper
- 11: The Man Who Stopped the Traffic
- 12: The Proposition
- 13: The Cheat
- 14: Manhattan Holiday
- 15: Reunion
- 16: The Ham
- 17: The March Of Time
- 18: The Double Cross
- 19: All's Well―!
- 20: The Greater Sin
- 21: The Girl Who Finally Changed
- 22: Story Without A Moral
- 23: Fright For A Purpose
- 25: Music On The Air
- 26: The Clean Up
- 27: School Days
- 28: Three Months To Live
- 29: Justice
- 30: The Breaking Point
- 31: The Endless Phrase
- 32: From Feinberg to Fitzroy
- 33: Two Who Are Gone
- 34:Killer Joe
- 35: The Tragedy Of Elvira
- 36: The Son's Revenge
- 37: The Fable Of Ambrose
- 38: The Anecdote
- 39: Tearful Tale Of Moses Rabinowitz
- 40: Useless Charlie
- 41: It's Fun To Be Fooled
- 42: He Wanted To Help Humanity
- 43: The Revenge Of Sydney Wilkens
- 44: Flirted Herself To Death
- 45: He Made The Couple Happy
- 46: Broadway Attorney
- 47: Gallant Lady And The Truth
- 48: Worker's Man
- 49: Superstition
- 50: Hail The Hero!