MARK HELLINGER'S BROADWAY

FROM THE 1940s

Mark Hellinger

2017

Contents

Introduction

1: Throwback

2: The Jest Supreme

3: Perfect (!) Alibi

4: Inside Information

5: College Ingrate

6: Changing World

7: Recommendation

8: Lesson De Luxe

9: Failure in Romance

10: Last Chance

11: Parting

12: Success Formula

13: Blind Benefactor

14: Family Pride

15: Bitter Secret

16: The Weak Spot

17: All Through The Years

18: Once a Chump

19: Lucky Willie

20: Takes a Thief

21: Tale of Success

22: Problem In Love

23: Wedding At Last

24: Careless

25: The Old Homestead

26: A Maid's Mail

27: Raspberries

28: Another Day

29: Confession of Guilt

30: After Twelve Long Years

31: Words of Wisdom

32: The Final Touch

33: Debt Repaid

34: Pay envelope!

35: Vignette

36: Study In Tragedy

37: The Nice Feller

38: A Question Of Method

39: Legacy for One

40: A Father's Return

41: Accident

42: One Man's Monument

43: The Lady Squawks

44: Dividend for Faith

45: One Man's Failing

46: Fakes and Pains

47: Won Her Ambition

48: Good Time Twins

49: Just Once Too Often

50: Ties That Bind

51: Joke on Anna

52: Sacrifice DeLuxe

53: Some Are Experts

54: Gamblers In Session

55: We Two Alone

56: Burden Of Guilt

57: Sacrifice in Vain

58: Labour of Love

59: Advice From The Heart

60: Gamblers Know Best

61: Study in Grief

62: Pete The Dreamer

63: Salvation

64: First Love

65: Some Men Worry

66: Example

67: One Man's Curse

68: Love's Sweet Song

69: The Reformation

70: Easy Stages

71: Hard Win Victory

72: The New Man

73: Masterpiece

74: Suicide

75: Final Message

76: The Last Gesture

77: Found Guilty

78: The Greater Sin

79: A Trifle Too Good

80: Man In The Middle

81: Boomerang!

82: Man Who Remembered

83: Pearls of Wisdom

84: The Tightest Alibi

85: Man of Vision

86: Spotlight

87: The Model

88: Gold Standard

89: Time and Tied

90: In the Cards

91: Misunderstanding

92: Farewell to Fame

93: Moment of Decision

94: Fearless

95: Hollywood Break

96: The Final Word

97: Road to Romance

98: The Wedding

99: The Bond Eternal

100: Not a Woman To Talk

________________

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.

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 are from those published in several Australian newspapers in the period 1940-1944, and never before collected.

_________

1: Throwback

ALL around the trees were big, and dark, and friendly. The two kids sat by the dim light of the dashboard in the car and vowed eternal love.

'Do you really want to marry me, Larry?' she asked.

It was a foolish question, because she already knew the answer. And the answer came without a second's hesitation.

'More than anything else in the world,' said the man simply. He shook his head. 'But have I the right to think of it this way, Martha? Would it work out? Would the world poke fun at you for marrying your mother's chauffeur?'

The girl hungered toward him. She looked deep into his eyes. 'I don't care what the world thinks,' she murmured. 'What difference does that make? I know that I love you— and that's enough for me.'

Later, the car moved down the road and raced through towns and villages until it came to a sign that read 'Justice of the Peace.' There the two stepped out. Larry left his chauffeur's cap in the back seat. They knocked on the door— and the Justice said it would cost them two dollars extra for rousing him from his God-given sleep. Larry borrowed the money from Martha ?

They went to Europe. This story happened in the days when you could still go to Europe. It was a front-page story, and a juicy one. 'Madcap Heiress Weds Mother's Chauffeur.' Mamma fainted every hour, on the hour— and papa fired three of his best tellers in the bank because he was so angry. Reporters followed the two kids everywhere— and Larry kept repeating the simple truth. 'I married Martha,' he declared, 'because I loved her, and she married me for the same reason. If the Graham family thinks I'm going to sponge on them, they're crazy. My wife has every intention of living in the servants' quarters with me. If they fire me, I'll get another job. And I don't mean in old man Graham's bank, either.'

It made a swell story ....

AS SOON as they returned to America, Martha raced to see her mother. And mamma clutched Martha to her ample bosom. 'Oh, my darling,' she cried, 'why did you do this to us? My poor lamb! He must have hypnotised you. 'Hadn't mother told you a thousand times to keep away from common people? Happiness can never come from such a union. Oh, well— never mind, baby. Your father will take care of that— that person.'

Martha giggled. 'He's fun, mom.' She shrugged. 'But maybe you're right. I am getting a little tired of him.'

THE LAWYER wagged a finger at Larry. 'The main point,' he stated pompously, 'is that a child is expected. If that issue hadn't arisen. Miss Graham— er, your wife— would sue for divorce without further ado. But the expected baby complicates matters. Miss Graham wants that baby. If you will sign this document, in which you promise never to make any claim on the child, Mr. Graham will give you a large sum of money that?'

The lawyer's voice trailed off as Larry looked at him. 'I want two things from Graham,' was Larry's statement. 'One, that the baby will enjoy every right as an heir to the Graham money. Two, that the baby will enjoy every affection and devotion. With those guarantees. I will sign. Otherwise not.'

The attorney beamed. 'You will have those guarantees,' he promised. 'Sign here, please,' he told Larry. Larry signed. Then he looked up. 'I'll never see my baby,' he said quietly. 'But, for the child's sake, I think I am doing the right thing.

'As for any, money that Graham might want to give me, tell him he knows exactly what he can do with it.'

The baby, Millicent, was born in France. As soon as possible Martha caught the Rome express for a social function— and left the child in the care of a nurse. During the holidays. Martha dropped in to kiss her and then hurried off to marry a count. Millicent grew up to be a sensitive child, always nervous and always close to tears. Her mother stopped in one afternoon to introduce her to her newest daddy— a wasp-waisted man with a waxed moustache. Millicent curtsied and when the man moved closer to kiss her the child shied away. Martha called her an ungrateful brat and left hurriedly. Millicent cried all night

WHEN MILLICENT was sixteen she wrote her mother that she would like to come to America. She had never seen America, she said, and she wanted so much to go there. It was a tough spot for Martha. She had become the darling of cafe society, and she didn't care to remind the world that she had a grown daughter. So she wrote a sweet note to Millicent. and enclosed a sweet cheque. The note said 'Next time darling.'

TWO YEARS later, Martha was in her home at West Palm. Beach when a cable arrived from Switzerland— 'Daughter Millicent in automobile accident, with young man,' it read. 'Both killed instantly. What arrangements do you wish made?'

Everybody who was anybody called to pay their final respects. Martha, becomingly attired, held a dainty handkerchief to her mouth and sobbed.

'I gave her everything,' Martha moaned tearfully. 'I spent every spare moment by her side. I lavished a mother's care and devotion upon her— and I warned her at thousand times against going out with boys.

'And now, this is the thanks I get.' The tears rolled down her cheeks. 'She had to turn out like her father— ungrateful, and low, and common.'

_________________

2: The Jest Supreme

YOU'VE met a girl like Mamie Smith. You must have. There's a Mamie in every large office in any city of the world. You know the type of woman. Not too pretty. Looks older than she is. A good worker, but a dull character.

Well, let's forget the Mamies you know for a moment and consider the one in this particular story. This girl was probably the most superstitious person you have ever encountered. When the girls in the office sat around during a lunch hour, you could always depend on Mamie for an observation that would bring a howl from her co-workers. It made no difference about what they were talking. If one girl said she had seen George Raft on Broadway, or another asserted that the new shade would undoubtedly be maroon, Mamie would slip into the conversation.

'On the way to the office this morning,' she would say, 'I saw an awful thing. There was a man painting a sign over that Greek restaurant on the corner, and I saw two men walk right under the ladder as though it didn't mean a thing. I hope nothing too terrible happens to them.'

That was Mamie.

ETHEL was the office comedian. You'll find dopes such as her around practically any office, too. And it's a toss-up which is the worst pest, the Mamie or the Ethel.

Ethel enjoyed all kinds of practical jokes. She was full of alleged wisecracks, and the things she said about the bosses had the other girls in hysterics. It was only natural, I suppose, that Mamie looked up to Ethel as if the latter girl was something of a goddess. Seen through her eyes, Ethel was the very essence of everything that was witty and gay. She was so alive, so keen-witted, so pretty. She had everything, in other words, that Mamie lacked.

One bright morning Ethel hit upon a plan. A brilliant thing, really, and one that would permit them to have any amount of fun at Mamie's expense. She took two or three of her pals into her confidence.

'Look,' she explained. 'Mamie is absolutely nuts about anything that has to do with superstition. I've got an idea that will make her fall easily. And well have more laughs with her than we ever had.

'I've got a friend who'll be only too glad to pose as a fortune-teller for us. She looks kind of weird, and it'll be easy for her to put a shawl around her head and pose as a gipsy.

'While we're all sitting around we'll have her tell Mamie all about herself. We'll tell her all about it, of course, before we ever bring Mamie into the room. But Mamie won't know that. She'll think she's really listening to something wonderful.

'Tell you what else we'll do. We can carry , the joke on indefinitely by throwing a real scare into her. We can have the gipsy-fortune-teller advise her that somebody she knows well is going to die soon. Or something like that. I'll figure it all out. How does it sound to you?'

Two of the girls weren't so hot about the idea. They pointed out that Mamie was, such a harmless kid that it seemed a shame to hurt her. But Ethel— good old Ethel— laughed away their qualms.

In a few days everything was arranged. A few of the girls, including Ethel and Mamie, sat in front of the 'fortune teller,' who had made up for the occasion. All fortune-tellers are phoney, of course. But this one looked just a little sillier than the rest. But how was Mamie to know that? The girl was getting pretty much of a thrill. This wonderful gipsy woman was telling her things that very few people knew. Finally came the big kick of the evening.  The fortune-teller leaned forward and gazed into a gilt ball that Ethel had bought in the five-and-ten that afternoon.

'Mamie Smith,' she murmured. 'I tell you | this because it is best for you to be forewarned. I see in the sacred crystal that someone close to you will die very soon. Only by one continued action can you avoid this death. Every morning when you get to your office you must read the obituary notices. This you must do without fail. Because, on the first day you miss, that will be the day on which the death will occur. Do you understand?'

Mamie begged for more information. Who would it be? Her father? Her mother? Her older brother? Who? But the fortune-teller would say no more. And. the girls left. Most of them felt that that death thing was a little too strong. But once again Ethel told them not to be silly. 'Just watch her every morning in the office from now on,' she laughed. 'We'll have plenty of fun...'

AND THEY did, too. Mamie was a panic. She would hurry to her desk and reach for the obituary column.

She would read through It without a stop and then put it down with an expression of relief. Best of all, it was a joke that could go on indefinitely. But Mamie was growing thinner. This thing was preying on her mind. She was obsessed with the thought that someone close to her was going to die, and that the dreaded event would happen unless she read the obituaries faithfully every morning.

Finally one of the more sensible girls around the office went to Mamie. She told her frankly that the entire thing was a joke and that Mamie should stop worrying.

But Mamie would not have it that way. 'I know what you're doing,' she said. 'You're just trying to be nice to me. But please don't. I know that fortune-teller was telling the truth.'

ABOUT a month later Mamie failed to arrive at the office. Ethel was in early, and, for a laugh, she went through Mamie's usual routine. She mimicked Mamie's rather halting walk, strolled to Mamie's desk, and opened the paper to the obituary news. It was all very funny.

A moment later Ethel fell to the floor in a faint. Mamie wouldn't read the death notices that morning. Because in the column was the name of Mamie Smith.

__________________

3: Perfect (!) Alibi

JOHNNY Parvo always did a little hurry-up drinking after he left the office. At the dot of five he skidded into an elevator, and at the dot of 5.2 he was standing against the bar of Geller's saloon.

This night Clem Daggart drank beside Johnny. Clem never displayed haste.

Johnny regarded his companion curiously. 'How do you do it?' he asked.

'How do I do. what?' Clem was short and thin and dark and wrinkled like a bobby pin.

'How,' Johnny persisted, 'do you get away with getting home so late for dinner?'

Clem downed his dose and ordered another.

'It's all due to an accident, ' he replied. 'My Mabel used to raise the roof— just like your wife does— every time I barged in late. Of course. I always had an excuse, but none of them was particularly hot.

'Right after Pearl Harbour, though, I got a lucky break. I went home late and told Mabel I had met Harry Walker, an old school pal of mine. I said that poor Harry had just joined the Navy, and was about to go off to win the war. So naturally, I pointed out I had to have a few drinks with Harry.'

'And that worked, huh?' Johnny asked, taking a nervous squint at the clock on the wall.

'Like a charm.' Clem nodded. 'She wanted lo know all about Harry Walker. I told her, and I used a lot of sob stuff about how the kids from the old neighbourhood were marching, off for Old Glory. She agreed, and she almost busted out crying over poor Harry.' Clem grinned. 'So I've been using that same dodge ever since.'

Johnny laughed. 'I suppose,' he ventured, 'that you've used the old gag about Harry being on furlough? '

'I've used 'em all,' returned Clem happily. 'And all in correct order, too. I've even used the one about stopping in to see his old mother.

'The trick is in the way you pull it. Don't do it too often and it's gotta work.'

'Not for me, it wouldn't.' Johnny sighed. 'Holy smokes! See you later, Clem!'

Clem had a few more leisurely drinks— and then, half high, went home.

Mabel was waiting. She was round, warm, and as appetising as an apple dumpling. 'What kept you, dear?' she asked.

Clem shook his head sadly. 'It's Harry Walker,' he said softly. 'He's been reported missing in action.'

Mabel stifled a gasp with her hand.

'In the Pacific,' Clem went on, 'submarine action.'

'Oh, my,' Mabel whispered. 'Oh, my.'

'I feel sorry for his mother,' Clem said.

'You ought to go to see her,' his wife exclaimed. 'Maybe I will.' Clem murmured. 'After work, to-morrow night.'

But thereafter Clem became lost for additional excuses. He racked his brain and came up with the notion that good old Harry had just been heard from— 'turned up in a Jap prison camp in Formosa.'

And then a few nights later he told Mabel he had been delayed because he was taking up a collection to send warm clothing and food to good old Harry.

Johnny Parvo met Clem a couple of evenings in Geller's saloon, and marvelled that the guy was still getting away with his thin lies.

'You ought to quit, while you're still ahead of the game. ' he counselled.

'Nothing doing.' Clem retorted. 'I stumbled on this gadget by accident, and I'm working it until it's worn out.'

And he did. He worked every angle of the thing until Mabel felt she knew the entire tragic history of poor old Harry Walker— from the day he skinned his knee on a desk in the third grade until the night he was hung by the thumbs by his Jap captors, who wanted to know the name of his submarine.

Secretly. Johnny envied Clem. He just didn't have the nerve to try a gag like that on his wife. He knew she wouldn't go for it more than once. And, accordingly, it was not worth using.

ONE NIGHT Johnny scurried into Geller's saloon and found Clem, as usual, dreaming over a drink. 'Well,' he said, 'how's our dear friend, Harry Walker, making out?'

Clem scowled. 'Don't mention that name,' he said.

'Oh oh!' Johnny cried, 'Oh oh!'

Clem said nothing.

Johnny had his drink. He poured himself another and looked quickly up at the clock.

'How is Mabel these days?' Johnny asked.

Once again Clem said nothing. Johnny's eyes grew large. 'I asked you a question, Clem,' Johnny insisted. 'I said to you, how is Mabel these days?'

'Mabel,' replied Clem slowly, 'left me this morning at exactly 2 a.m. Permanently.'

Johnny whistled. 'Fight?' he inquired,

'Yeah,' Clem admitted. 'Big scene, too. She found out about Harry Walker.'

'Wow!' Johnny leaned closer, 'Somebody snitch? '

Clem turned on a tired smile.

'Nope,' he explained softly. 'Nobody knew about it except you. It's just that I got home late last night— and there on the table was an invitation on a postcard from Harry Walker. He was inviting me and my wife to a party, because he had been called up.'

________________

4: Inside Information

BILL BAKER was the man's name. Bill Baker, race-track character and book-maker for many a long year. Bill ate, slept, and drank horses. Horses were the only thing for which he lived. He could name instantly the winner of any Derby for the last 25 years, and he could tell you the handle of a nag's grand-daddy by the way the pony rolled its eyes.

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 staff 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.

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, He just began making strange statements and hand out a little money without checking it carefully. His friends grew worries and had him examined

The nut house was the result.

Bill wasn't greatly worried about his surroundings food was fair enough and nobody seemed to bother him particularly. There was but one bad feature. 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 carefully around him and seeing and so many crazy people all over the place, so many he figured that there all 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 it. 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 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 had any money with which to bet. And money, as some of us have found out, is rather important round the horses. But problem. He gathered up a few hundred little white pebbles. And to each player 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 his 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 how much he was ahead. If a player went broke. Bill would advance a few more of the red pebbles. 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, came up to the daffy bookmaker, 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 his brought hands around. In them was a red rock. He placed it on the ground and looked Bill squarely in the eyes.

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

The bookie looked down at him 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 that big a bet, you must have some inside information!"

________________

5: College Ingrate

SHE WAS a smart-looking woman. She stood on the train platform, back a little from the edge, as the early evening train for New York rolled in. She wasn't young, and she wasn't old. Meaning that she was still attractive enough to rate a second, pausing look. She wore a silver fox, hip length coat, with a black cossack hat perched rakishly over one brow. A cigarette hung red-tipped between red-tipped fingernails.

As the train stopped, she walked to the front coach. A brakeman smiled and helped, her aboard. She walked through the dimly lighted baggage compartment into the butter-yellow light of the smoking car. She chose a seat alongside a woman who was looking out into the blackness of the night. As the train started, she sat down. She opened her coat a trifle and blew blue smoke at the lights in the ceiling.

"Have you ever hated a daughter?" she asked softly. The woman at the window turned. She was a little younger. And a little less smart.

"Were you talking to me?" she said, smiling vaguely.

The smart woman never changed her expression. "That's precisely what I was doing, and I thought I'd tell you that I'm beginning to hate my own daughter. She has grown into a hateful person."

The other woman looked at her squarely for a moment.

"You don't mean a word of that," she said. "But anyhow, since you spoke to me, I'll tell you that my name is Gaylord. I'll also tell you that you won't like this, but I think you've lost your temper."

"Not at all." The smart woman shrugged. "I'm Laura Marshall, Mrs. Gaylord, and I'm glad I spoke to you. Because I'm mad clean through."

"How old is she?'" asked Mrs. Gaylord.

"Alice?" (as if the other woman knew her). "Nineteen."

"She hurt you deeply, didn't she?"

"Horribly." Mrs. Marshall closed her eves. "She practically turned me out. Did it brutally, too. I'd be happier if I could cry."

"Keep your makeup on until later," Mrs. Gaylord advised. "Live in New York?"

Mrs. Marshall nodded and stamped her cigarette out under her pretty foot.

The train rolled on, stopping occasionally to pant rhythmically into a station and then to start wearily once again. The other woman was still appraising her when Mrs. Marshall picked up the conversation.

"Yes." she said, "she's nineteen. And of course they know it all at that age. You can't tell them anything-and anything you do for them is. taken for granted." She sighed heavily. "Oh, I suppose I should have written in advance that I was coming. But after all, my own daughter

"I'm beginning to see what you mean," Mrs. Gaylord interrupted. "She was just too busy to see you. Boys. I suppose."

"I guess that's the answer." Mrs. Marshall reached into her bag and drew out a gold cigarette case. She lighted a cigarette with a practiced hand and exhaled slowly. "Let me tell you the whole story:

"Alice has been at school since September and I undertook this three-hour train trip to spend the week end with her. Now, normally, she's a charming, intelligent person. But when she saw me at the school, she seemed more than surprised. In fact, she seemed offended.

"'Why, mother,' she said, 'at least you could have wired me. I mean. mother?' (she was mimicking the girl now) '?after all, there are certain social formalities... ' I looked at her and said: 'The devil with your social formalities. Don't you want me up here?'

"Believe it or not, she hesitated a moment. And then she said: "Of course, darling. Naturally I want you up here. The only trouble is that I have a dance tonight, a football game tomorrow, and a heavy date tomorrow night with a perfectly insane right guard.' "

Mrs. Gaylord laughed mirthlessly. "And so," she observed. "the little girl had no time, as they say in the movies, for her poor, old mom."

"Old mommie, my hat!" ejaculated Mrs. Marshall. "My precious daughter thought for a while. Then she announced she was going to church Sunday morning with the handsome leader of the school orchestra? but that she'd be able to spare me an hour after services. '

"That last crack did it. I told her to give the hour to God with my compliments. And I took the next train out."

Mrs. Gaylord shook her head. "You should have acted differently," she said. "You weren't cool enough. Your mistake was in losing your head."

The other woman chuckled sardonically. "After all I've done for that girl," she cried, "I am very possibly entitled to lose my head. Maybe you'll feel the same way when I tell you her father died when she was a baby and left us both penniless.

"So I went to work to bring her up, I deliberately set out for the nicest, wealthiest man I could find? and I married him. He lavished everything on that child, which was about the only thing I asked from life. I was hungry for romance. But I chose this man for the child's sake.

"He got her an expensive governess. He bought her the finest clothes. He sent her to the best schools and now he's putting her through college." She smiled bitterly. "And what is my reward?

"She tells me she can possibly spare me an hour, on Sunday morning."

This time Mrs. Gaylord was honestly sympathetic.

"I'm sorry," she stated. "You were right to lose your head. I think I'd have killed her."

Mrs. Marshall gazed into space.

"I don't really hate her you know. I really don't. I just said that."

"Of course you don't hate her," observed Mrs. Gaylord warmly. "There's nothing wrong with your daughter that a little kicking in the panties can't cure!"

They rode on in silence for a while: There seemed to be, nothing more to say. Mrs. Gaylord made a mental note to tell her husband all about this. it would make interesting table conversation. ,

"Do you have a daughter?" asked Mrs. Marshall suddenly.

"No, we have two boys," Mrs. Gaylord replied proudly. "They're absolute maniacs."

"Boys are wonderful," murmured Mrs. Marshall. "It hurts inside when I think I have only an ungrateful daughter."

"Oh, well," the other woman soothed, "she may come to her senses yet."

"Maybe," replied Mrs. Marshall doubtfully. "But when I think 'of all we've done— and then to have her offer me one hour— Good Lord, it's like putting her mother on an appointment pad!"

When was the last time you saw her before this?" asked Mrs. Gaylord idly.'

Mrs. Marshal rubbed her chin. "Well," she returned defensively, "it was quite some time. My husband and I had dreadful trouble getting home from the French Riviera, and we went directly to South America for relaxation.

"I'd say it was about six years."

___________________

6: Changing World

I'VE been writing these alleged short stories for more than 13 years. When I first started people looked, at me, shook their heads, and said : 'My, my! I don't see how you do it!"

Since those early days, as nearly as I can figure it, I've banged out some six thousand of these little yarns. There was a long period when I did one of them every day in the week, and then pounded out an extra one for Sunday. That made eight short stories a week, and one just about as bad as another.

But people forgot the quality of my stories in their sheer amazement at the quantity. I'd never get the chance to explain the reason for some particularly atrocious plot. The minute I'd begin to apologise they'd cut me short with: — 'My, my! I don't see how you do it!'

To-day my only writing chore is this and films. After all these years of practice, the job is not extremely difficult. Six days of the week, I'm in the business of producing motion pictures. On the seventh day, I sit myself in the sun, place a cold drink of lemonade or something beside me, forget the movie, business for a few hours, and knock out stuff like this. Honestly, it's relaxation— and I'm not kidding, either.

But when I tell people that the work isn't hard and that I enjoy doing it, they pay no more attention than they did sixteen years ago. They simply look at me with big eyes, shake their heads, and say— 'My, my! I don't see how you do It !'

Well, for those people who still think this job isn't a complete cinch, here's what happened this morning:—

I was in the barber's chair. Sam was shaving me. Sam has been a whisker remover for the motion picture set for so long that he himself, is something of a motion picture. With the voice of a Ned Sparks, the head of hair of a Guy Kibbee, the eyes of a Boris Karloff, and the feet of a Greta Garbo, Sam is really a combination of stars, all by himself. He is also the only barber in the world who can singe your hair and phone in a bet on Porter's Cap at the same time. My eyes were closed— I always keep my eyes closed when Sam is shaving me- There are two reasons: One, I find it very restful. Two, I don't have to look at Sam.

'Sam,' I said, 'I must write a short story this afternoon. But I'm not particularly happy with the ideas I have. I could write one about a cop who— '

'You've done too many cop stories,' Sam grunted.

'Maybe you're right,' I agreed. 'I could do one about a chorus girl who— '

'You've done too many chorus girl stories,' Sam interrupted.

I opened one eye cautiously. 'Since you are so wise,' I said, 'perhaps you will be good enough to tell me a story that might be a little different. Vat getting— '

'I'll be glad to,' Sam interrupted again. 'The customer who was in the chair before you just told it to me- And if it isn't better than any plot you've had in a year, you don't have to give me any tip— next Christmas— Listen.'

I listened. And here's the story that Sam told. It's absolutely true. And it's very simple. And— well, now you listen:—

Some five years ago, one of the major film companies released a film that starred one of its most popular players. The picture was not what you would term a sensation, but it did very well in the United States— and then proceeded to do even better abroad. The foreign market really meant something in those days, and the picture hit some nice grosses in various lands.

In due time, the film played throughout Hungary. And there it ran into trouble. A Hungarian author— and we'll call him Paul for the sake of clarity— claimed that the story was his. The claim was the usual thing. He had submitted this same idea, he said, some years before. And it had been returned to him from America. And he hadn't been paid. And now, here was his brainchild on the screen. And he wanted money. So he sued.

YES, he sued the film company for a huge sum. In due time Paul's case was brought to trial in Budapest. It ran on for some five weeks. Paul presented his side of the claim; the film concern insisted that this author had no claims at all. And the Hungarian judge sat on the bench and listened carefully to all the evidence. I do not offer the merits of the case. Paul may have had a just claim. I wouldn't know, because Sam couldn't tell me much about that angle. All I can report is that the judge didn't think much of Paul's case. After listening to all the evidence throughout the five weeks, the judge finally threw the entire case out The film company had won, and Paul received nothing for his trouble

We now skip some four and a half years, and we find Paul in America. With Hitler ever growing in power, and with Hungary practically a German ally, a number of refugees hastened to America from that little nation. Paul was one who was permitted to enter.

Now there is some law or other that permits such people as Paul to sue a second time even though a case was lost in their native land So Paul, still feeling he was right and the film company wrong, sued all over again— this time in the city of New York.

Nothing much the picture concern could do about the situation. The suit had to be defended just as carefully as It had been in Hungary the first time. But the American attorneys had one thing in their favour: They could send to Budapest for the records of the old trial— and that would save them great time and trouble.

WHICH is precisely what they did. They cabled the original lawyers in Hungary, and, after a long delay, the records were sent. Thus, about two weeks ago, some three or four fat volumes of testimony— all in Hungarian— arrived at the offices of the film company's attorneys in New York. Nothing unusual so far, is there?

But wait a minute. I told you this type of column was a cinch, and I was on the level. Listen to the payoff:— It would be simple enough to prepare a defence in this case. Paul couldn't possibly offer anything new, so all the film lawyers had to do was examine the records of the old trial. All they needed was to have the testimony translated from Hungarian into English.

From their splendid offices in Radio City, the picture attorneys phoned for a translator. And pretty soon, a little old guy— seventy years or so of age— hobbled into the legal offices. A member of the firm handed the first volume to the little man, who was to earn twenty or thirty dollars for the job.

'We want this case translated from Hungarian into English in its entirety,' said the lawyer. 'There are about five volumes altogether. How long do you think it will take you ?'

The little man looked into the first volume. 'Not very long,' he replied.

The attorney frowned.

'Not very long?' he echoed. 'What sort of answer is that? Why won't the job take long?'

The little guy smiled a sad kind of smile. 'Because I am quite familiar with it, sir,' he replied softly. 'You see, in my better days, I was the judge in this case.'

___________________

7: Recommendation

ROY BROWN walked up, and down the room, with his hands deep in his pockets. He needed a climax for that second scene.

It had to be something new; something different. It had to be a twist in the old formula— and Roy couldn't hit it. He wooed the elusive notion in vain.

"All right," he told himself, out loud. "So we'll try it again. What situation have we here? It's the case of the smart-alecky husband whose wife is over-friendly with his best pal— only the husband doesn't know it. He's so smart he can't see what's going on under his very nose.

"Now then— what happens? Husband can't just walk in and catch wife and best friend. That's too old. The club wouldn't stand for it. They'd throw my play out! — and me with it.

"All right, then. Lets say he doesn't walk in and catch them. So what? Wife and best pal carry on their romance through the whole three acts. Then what? The wife confesses; the husband forgives; the lover shoots himself; and the curtain comes down."

He stopped in awe. "Gawd," he murmured. "Is that awful!"

ROY BROWN walked to the table and poured himself a stiff hooker. He swallowed the drink, snorted heavily, shivered, and stood erect. "Where was I. now?" he asked himself, speaking more loudly this time.

"Oh, yes, Well, let's say the husband walks in and catches them. He gets very dramatic and draws himself up with great dignity. He orders them both from the house, then suddenly, upstairs, the baby—

"Oh, nuts. I can't bring a baby this thing. I'll have to think some other way. But what? How? When?"

At this point the bell rang. He decided to ignore it. The bell rang gain.

"There's nobody home!" he screamed. It had no effect; the bell rang again. So this time he answered it.

"Yes?" he said to the man outside.

"Are you Roy Brown?" the man asked.

"That's right. But I'm very busy right now. What can I do for you?"

"I'm from the Happy Home Furniture Company. Credit Department."

"Don't want any," said Mr Brown decisively. "My home is too happy right now."

"Oh. I'm not selling anything." cried the furniture man. "I just came to ask you about the credit of George Wilson, your next door neighbour."

"George Wilson?" echoed Roy Brown. "Why, he's the best guy in the world. Absolutely the best! You can't go wrong on him. Come on in a minute— "

The furniture man followed Roy Brown into the living room.

Brown wheeled suddenly.

"Now, listen," he commanded. "You're a husband, see? You come home one night, and you learn your wife is being too familiar with your best friend. What do you do?"

"What do I do?" The furniture man was aghast. "See here Mr Brown, if you're referring to my wife, I— "

"Now, now, wait a minute." said Roy Brown, soothingly. "Don't get, sore. I asked you that because of a play I'm writing. I write plays as a hobby. You know for my clubs, and my lodge, and so on For fun, see?

"Now the point is that I'm in the middle of a play, and I need a climax. Think, man, think! Chump hubby catches his wife in another man's arms. What does he do? What does he say?"

The furniture man waved a hand. "Look here. Mr Brown." he asserted. "I appreciate your problems. I know that, as a playwright, you have your troubles. But, as a credit man for our company, I have my troubles, too. So I wonder if you wouldn't - answer my simple question and let me get out of here.

"Just tell me this, Mr Brown: What about George Wilson's credit?"

Roy Brown pulled at his hair. "You're getting me crazy!" he almost shouted. "I have to get a climax for my big scene— and you're asking me about George Wilson's credit.

"He's a grand guy. What else do you want me to tell you? He's absolutely A-1. He's my best friend, and his word is his bond. He's always trying to help the other guy out. He's a honey, a pip, and a lulu. Can I say anything more?"

"Yes. Mr Brown," returned the other man promptly, "Just one thing more. Would you say he's good for a hundred and nineteen dollars?"

"A hundred and nineteen!" Roy Brown almost choked. "Say, that's a laugh. He's good for a million. Why, haven't I just told you— ?"

"I know," nodded the furniture man "But we have to be very careful these days. People move out of town on you."

"George Wilson won't, said Roy Brown emphatically. He isn't that kind of a guy."

He tried to sit down for a moment but he arose again immediately.

"Listen, mister, I'm going to give you an idea of just how swell George Wilson is. I'll tell you this, and then you'll have to go. 'Cause I gotta get back to my play.

"My regular business takes me out of town a lot, see? I'm sometimes gone for two or three weeks. And while I'm away, he comes over to the house and takes Mrs Brown to the movies, or a night club maybe. Just to keep her from getting lonesome, see?

"Well, sir, George Wilson is so modest that he never even mentioned it to me. I found out from other people. That's the kind of a feller he is. You don't hear about the good things he does. Not from him, anyhow. You hear about it from other people. Why, without him, my wife would go nuts while I'm away."

"He must be a nice guy," observed the furniture man.

"Nice?" repeated Roy Brown. "You're insulting him. He's doggone near perfect!"

Mr Brown pounded the table. "Yes, sir," he went on, "I can't even think of all the nice things he's done for me— He seems to know what you want before you know yourself.

"Take, for instance, the time I came home plastered. I don't drink much, see. But when I do, I go haywire. I came home drunk— and, naturally, I wanted to sneak in without the missus finding out.

"I must have fumbled for my key for about ten minutes. I couldn't find it in any pocket, and I was stuck. And then, along comes George. And you know what? One look at me and he understood my predicament.

"He came right up, whipped a key out of his pocket, and opened my door. You get it? He's such a swell guy that he secretly had a key made to fit my door in case I ever lost mine!"

Roy Brown looked angrily at the other man.

"That's why I'm so sore about your interruption," he cried. "I'm wracking my brains to get a new twist for the husband-wife-lover situation— and you annoy me to ask if a grand guy like George Wilson is good for a hundred and nineteen dollars!"

__________________

8: Lesson De Luxe

THE express roared on through the night. The passengers jogged rhythmically back and forth in their seats as the cars swayed. Mr Walter Blevin was riding backwards. He was a smallish, bald-headed man with a pink face He looked well-fed. He had just awakened from a doze when another man from the other end of the carriage sauntered in.

Looking over the passengers. He studied Mr Walter Blevin for a moment. Then he walked up he aisle and tapped Mr Blevin on the shoulder.

"You look a regular guy," he said affably. He extended his hand. "My name is John Gordon."

The other man stared at him hard Then he slowly put out a limp hand. "Blevin is my name." he said cautiously. "Walter Blevin."

"Glad to know you, Blevin," cried Gordon. "It's a long train ride that doesn't do somebody some good. So we decided to get up a little poker game in the smoking car and— '

"Sorry," interrupted Blevin. "I'm not interested."

The jolly man waved a hand. "Wait a minute." he said, smiling jovially. "This isn't for money, old man. It's strictly small change. Why, you won't be able to lose more than five or ten dollars in a whole night of our game.

"It's just that three of us are back there and we nm need a fourth for any kind of a session. I went through all these cars, looking for a regular guy, and the minute I saw you, Blevin, I new you'd be— "

His voice trailed off as Blevin regarded him quietly. "I told you once and I'm telling you again." said Blevin evenly. "I'm not interested."

The jolly man straightened up. His mile faded.

"You're the doctor," he said. He saluted mockingly, and left,

IN the other seat, the passenger facing Walter Blevin had heard the entire conversation.

"Card sharp?" he asked.

Blevin shrugged. "Of course," the stranger went on."You can't always tell. Maybe that feller wasn't really a card sharp. Maybe it was just a quiet little game to pass the time away."

"He was a sharp all right." said Blevin. "I can spot those kind of guys a mile away." His lip curled bitterly. "I ought to be able to spot 'em. Those babies ruined me once."

The stranger leaned forward. "Izzat so?" he encouraged. "They ruined you.

Walter Blevin smiled out of the corner of his mouth. "It was 15 years ago," he said. "I had a nice little manufacturing plant near Sacandaga. New York.

"It wasn't much to look at, but it was going along fine. I made dough. Good dough. Orders were coming in so fast that I had to double my force. And that's when the sharps got me— just 15 years ago."

"...and the trip was important," he was saying. "It meant plenty of orders and maybe a branch in Chicago if I could find the right spot. The train ride was tedious, just as this one is? when a chap came in and said they were having a little game in the club car. Would I care to join?"

He sighed heavily. "I joined them he went on, "and I guess I was just about the easiest fish they hooked. We started off with nickels and dimes as our limit, and I won very nicely. Then they asked for a chance to get their pennies back; and I said okay.

"After all, what did I have lose? I was winning. And my mind was fm of orders, and business, and branch plants. So we played no limit for a while, and then the other men to get lucky. I continued to hold good hands, but theirs were always just a little better.

"I lost plenty. Soon I was recklessly trying to win back what I'd lost. It wasn't long before I was in so deep that I simply had to win a big haul to get out. I put up I.O.U.'s that couldn't pay on. And I lost those." He sighed and gestured helplessly. "No use boring you with too many details.

"One of those gamblers came back to my plant and stuck around until I sold it. They let me keep two thousand out of what I got in the sale."

The stranger's eyes were popping. "Why didn't you tell them to blazes?" he cried.

Walter Blevin shook his head "I'm no welsher," he said. "I thought at the time that I had lost honestly, so I paid. But about three months later, I picked up a paper— and one of the gamblers had his picture m the front page. The story said the four men had been arrested for cheating at cards.

"I Went to the town in which they were in gaol. I put in a claim for my dough, but didn't stand a chance. They went to gaol— but my money and business were gone."

The stranger clenched his fist. He was really excited. "They should have been tarred and feathered!" he exclaimed. "Boy oh boy! That sure teaches me a lesson I'll never forget. If ever I get tempted to step into a game with strangers I'll think of your story— and you can bet that'll hold me back. By the way mister, what kind of manufacturing business did you have?"

Walter Blevin smiled reminiscently "It was a fine business," he returned. "I used to own the Top-Notch Playing Card Company."

The stranger shook his head sympathetically. Walter Blevin kept on chuckling sardonically as he spoke. The train roared through a tunnel, and his words were lost until the train emerged on the other side.

________________

9: Failure in Romance

GERTRUDE sat down. She always thought better when she was sitting down, and now she wanted to think very clearly, indeed. Because she was about to leave her husband.

Of course, the actual decision had been made earlier in the day. Everything was packed, and there was nothing to do but wait for Al to come home. And yet she didn't mind thinking just a little more; just a little harder.

She looked out at the night through the screened window. It was a soft, deep blue night. Quiet. Almost romantic. You could hear footsteps on the pavement below. And now and then, high, thin laughter.

It was on such a night that she first met Al, back in 1931. It was a blind date. Mazie was going out with her fat boy friend, Pete— and Pete had a friend named Al who had no girl. So Gertrude had gone along with a what- have- I-got- to- lose attitude.

She liked Al right away. He was crude, in a manner of speaking, but he was tall, and he had coal black hair. And, more important, he had a way of making a girl feel that she belonged on a pedestal He liked her, too. That night, when he brought her home, he stood in the doorway and said: 'I'm in love with you, Gertrude. I can tell, because I've never felt this way before, I don't want to rush you, but I'm pretty sure that you're going to be my wife one of these days.

'Only one trouble, and that is you're too good for me. I'm a mug. Born a. mug, and still a mug. But I've been round, and I'm going to be a good boy from now on. And I need a good girl to be good with.'

Did Gert go for that speech? Did you ever see a hungry rabbit go for lettuce?

PRETTY soon they were going out together all the time. She fell for Al so hard that she had to put the hydraulics on to keep from showing it. Gertrude didn't think it was ladylike to show a man that you loved him.

Al was always evasive about what he did for a living, so Gertrude had the feeling all along that it must be something shady. She kept insisting that he tell her, and one night he did. He said he was a beer collector. For a big racket name.

Gertrude was shocked. She demanded to know who the big name was.

Al finally told her in a whisper, and Gertrude almost fainted. Because that name was the biggest mobster name of the day.

Whereupon Al did a great deal of explaining. He said the big guy was really a sweetheart— yes, actually a softie. He kept a lot of old has-beens on the payroll, because he couldn't bear to see them starve. It was those awful newspapers that made the big guy look like a killer. In reality, he had a heart of gold, and wouldn't harm a gnat.

Gertrude and Al talked all night about the situation. And in the end. Gertrude asked him to swear a mighty vow. Al swore it.

AFTER THAT they became engaged. Al sent her flowers every day. Big baskets of them. Gertrude's little flat began to look like a wake without a casket. He sent her coats, too. Rich, soft, furry things. She rubbed her cheek against them, purring. Life was a pretty sweet proposition— and it wasn't long before they were man and wife.

For a while life went on very placidly. It probably would have gone on just as nicely for a long, long time. But a few years ago Gertrude exercised a prerogative that most women seem to enjoy too much. She began to grow suspicious. He no longer talked about his business and, whenever the subject came up, he complained of a toothache. Or he suggested a movie. Or, most suspicious of all, he asked her very sweetly why she didn't buy herself a new dress.

As time went on, the suspicion deepened. Al began to leave early in the morning and come home late at night. Very late. Sometimes it was 3 or 4 in the morning. She'd hear the spring lock click, and he'd tiptoe into the bedroom without turning on a light. She'd hear him grunt as he tried to take off his shoes without making any noise.

Then his old pal, fat Pete, began to come round. Gertrude didn't like Pete. She had him pegged for a crook if ever she saw one— and she had seen a few. Pete was as fat as ever, and he tried very hard to be friendly. But Gert put the freeze on the minute he lumbered through the door.

Pete and Al talked privately. They sat in the living room, whispering. But when Gert walked into the room, they suddenly talked loudly about the weather. Or a good horse in the fifth at Belmont. Or did Pete think it was true that George Raft was gonna buy a football team?

But they weren't kidding Gert. Not for a second. She knew it was all bunk; that they were merely making a conversation so that she wouldn't know what they were actually discussing.

Several times, when they were alone, Gertrude reminded Al quite bluntly about his promise. And in each case he practically pleaded with her. 'Look, hon,' he cried, 'I'm trying to be a good husband. Trying hard. Everything I do I do for you. I used to think that maybe I'd grow out of this feeling I have for you, but it just isn't happening. I'm more nuts about you now than I ever was.

'I don't care about me any more. You're all that matters. And if I do something that isn't exactly in line with the promise I made you— well, you gotta forgive me. 'Cause I'm only doing it for your sake.'

She accepted that, as any woman might have done. But then, one evening, when Al and Pete were talking in the living room, she sneaked close— also as any woman might have done.

She listened. And she heard Pete mention guns. And shells. And suckers. That ended everything. Right then and here. The minute that Pete and Al left the house Gertrude began to pack. So that now— to get back to the first paragraph of this alleged story— everything was ready for the big blowoff. On a soft, deep blue night. The same as the night on which she had first met AL On a blind date.

HE CAME in an hour later. She was sitting in the dark, near the window. He switched on the living-room light. When he saw her hat and coat on, and the suitcases at her feet, he looked frightened.

'Where you going, baby?' he asked.

'Away from you,' she replied curtly. 'For good.'

He threw his hat over a lampshade. 'Aw,' he whined, 'now what did I go and do?'

He came towards her with arms outstretched. 'You lied to me,' she said acidly. 'You took an oath— and you didn't keep it.'

He begged for another chance. He started to babble.

She cut him short abruptly.

'We're through I say,' she announced bluntly. 'When I married you, you were a big shot racketeer. You swore to me that I'd have clothes, diamonds, and a swell apartment.

'But what happened? When prohibition went out, you got soft. So after what I heard tonight, I'm through. You stick with Pete— and keep on running your cheesy little shooting gallery down in Coney Island!'

______________________

10: Last Chance

HE was a pathetic figure. The cane, the gloves, the belted coat were relics of a past grandeur, and only accentuated his shabbiness. His voice trembled with eagerness as he spoke.

'I got your call, Phil. You got something for me?'

The man behind the desk lowered his feet and removed the cigar from his teeth.

'Yon,' he said slowly. 'I can book you for eight weeks.' He shook his head, 'But I dunno. I gotta be sure everything's gonna be all right. Tom.'

'Listen.' Tom was twisting his hands together nervously. 'I'm better now than I ever was. You know what I can do. Phil. As for that other business,' his voice trailed away quietly, 'that's all over.'

'You sure? ' Phil rapped out the words.

'Sure!' Tom's voice was firmer now. 'Don't you worry about me. I'm cured of that stuff. I haven't touched a drop in months. I guess maybe the war and all has brought me around. 'It ain't been easy, I'll tell the world. But I learned my lesson. You know what booze does to me. It ruined everything for me, that's what. But no more. It'll never spoil another chance for me.

'I'm gonna make a real comeback this time. Phil. Just gimme the chance.'

If you had known the man ten years ago you wouldn't have believed that he could speak so humbly. Ten years, a short space of time. But it had been practically a lifetime for Tom B.

Ten years ago. he had a featured spot in a Broadway musical show. He could sing fairly well, but it was his dancing that put him over. True, he wasn't nearly as good as he believed. But he had a good chance at a successful future— a chance he tossed away because of a weakness he developed.

It was a common enough weakness. Liquor. There were so many people to buy him drinks then. So many parties. And always enough money to indulge himself. After the show closed, the next booking wasn't so easy. Agents and producers were a little afraid of Tom.

It was then that he began to hit the skids. Up to that time he had been a pretty good hoofer. Now he was merely another hoofer.

Alice was a most extraordinary wife. She didn't nag or weep or walk out when the going was tough. She stuck with Tom and tried to help him over the rough spots. She pointed out gently that he was ruining his career. She begged him to get a grip on himself.

But by this time it was too late. There were a few engagements in the cheaper sort of joints. A few weeks now and then in what passed for vaudeville.

'It won't be for long,' Tom promised Alice. 'Listen, kid, they'll wake up on Broadway one of these days, and well be riding high again.'

'Not while you keep on hitting the booze,' his wife returned sorrowfully. 'Oh, Tom dear, can't you see you're letting it spoil our whole lives?'

Tom laughed good-naturedly.

'You're crazy.' he stated. 'We're just having a little run of tough luck. My break'll come soon.'

It did. Sooner than either of them expected.

A producer who still had a little faith in Tom gave him another chance in a musical. Forgotten were the lean days and the debts. There was a flashy roadster— an imported job— that Tom simply had to have. The show was scheduled to open in Philadelphia. Tom and Alice drove down in the new car. The man had been drinking heavier than usual that night. As the car tore along the road, Alice begged him to let up a bit on the speed. Tom laughed at her drunkenly. The laugh died in his throat and became a terrific gurgle.

There was a horrible, sickening swerve, the sound of smashing glass, and a woman's shriek. Alice was dead when they dragged her from beneath the wreck.

IN THE YEAR that followed, there was scarcely a sober moment for Tom. But no matter how heavily he drank, there was one thing he couldn't blot out of his consciousness. That was the sound of Alice's scream.

Just what caused the man to decide to change his habits, I have no way of knowing. It wasn't easy. It wasn't easy, either, to get another chance to prove that he was entirely in earnest. But now Phil was offering him eight weeks in the minor picture houses. An opportunity for a comeback. Provided, of course, that he'd keep away from the booze.

'You try me and see,' Tom promised. 'It'll never ruin another chance for me.'

He swore that to himself over and over as he left the office. He wasn't a complete fool. Liquor had ruined everything he'd ever had. It had ruined his chances of success.' It had been responsible for Alice's death.:

He placed his hand to his head. For a moment, he had felt dizzy. Regular meals hadn't been a habit with Tom during the past few months. But he'd been too proud to ask Phil for an advance. He stepped from the sidewalk, trying to fight off a spell of weakness. A horn shrilled suddenly, but he didn't jump in time. Brakes shrieked, too late. The figure of the man lay huddled in the gutter.

THEY told Tom at the hospital that he would never dance again. His left leg had been crushed under the weight of a truck. It was doubtful if he would ever walk, except with the aid of crutches.

Phil came, because he and Tom had been good friends once.

'Tough part of it is,' he stated. 'You ain't even got a chance for a suit. You stepped right into the path of the truck. They might be willing to settle for a few dollars, though, rather than let it go to court.'

Tom asked him a question. The other man sighed.

'A firm of liquor distributors,' Phil replied. 'It was a distillery truck that hit you.'

_________________

11: Parting

THE woman knelt beside the little boy. She made a pretence of smoothing the collar of his blouse and straightening his cap. But anyone could see that it was merely a pretence. It was just an excuse to caress him, to touch him, to delay a bit more the moment of departure.

"Be a good boy, Billy, " she whispered. "You must be a good boy— even though mother isn't there. He was tiny chap, possibly five or six years of age. He had eyes that were big and round, and he seemed to sense the solemnity of what was happening

"I'll try, mummie." It was obvious that he was trying to hold back the tears. "I'll try very hard."

The man extended a hand to the boy.

"You're only making it tougher, Hilda." he said to the woman. His voice was more impatient than unkind.

"Come on, Billy. Say goodbye to your mother. We've got to be going."

The woman looked up at him. "Just a minute, she begged. "Just one little minute more. That isn't too much to ask."

Her lips quivered as she clutched the boy in her arms. Tears welled in her eyes. The man was growing impatient. He frowned as he looked down at her, kneeling beside her son.

He was not an unsympathetic man. He knew how heavy this woman's heart must be, and he tried to be as patient as possible But he had been waiting a long time now— and he was in a hurry.

"You know we talked this thing out, completely. Hilda," he said, more gently. "You agreed that it had to be, didn't you? There were no arguments about it. You were entirely sensible, even when we discussed it last night."

"I know." The woman arose slowly. "I know how right you re. George." She was very young, and her tousled hair made her appear all the younger. "I'm trying to be sensible," she said tiredly. "I know I agreed to everything. I understand that it has to be done. But I didn't think it would ever be quite as hard as this." She touched the boy's head lingeringly.

The man shrugged. "This isn't going to help, I tell you." he said. "You're only making it more and more difficult, Hilda."

"Maybe so." The mood refused o be stifled. "I keep thinking of so many things. How the nurse brought him in and placed him in my arms. The first time he smiled up at me... The first tiny pair of shoes.... How he'd hold out his arms for me to pick him up and place him in his high chair. How— "

"Hilda!" The man's voice was sharp now. "Stop it, will you!"

"But, George. I can't help it, I tell you!" The tears appeared again. "I just can't help thinking him as he was then. And now— he isn't going to be my baby any more."

The man moved over. He put arm around the boy and drew him toward the door. "We've got to go, Hilda." It was obvious that he wasn't waiting any longer now. "You're doing nothing but making it all more complicated. If I thought it would help matters any, I'd be only too happy to have him stay a bit longer. But I know that's not the case.

"Use your common sense. Realise that you can't keep him with you. Naturally, you'll miss him at first— but you'll get used to it. And after a while it won't be nearly so hard."

She shook her head and smiled sadly. Then suddenly she clasped the child again.

"Just let me kiss him once more," she begged. "Just once." She touched the boy's face and poke to him tenderly, "

"I'm sorry mother acted this way darling," she said. "You must go now. Be a good boy— and try not to be lonesome for mummie. Remember that she'll always love you."

The boy's voice was thin.

"Goodbye," he said shakily "Goodbye, mummie."

The man said nothing more in Hilda. He didn't even look at her again. His arm around the boy, they walked from the house together. As the door closed, the woman's face became more tragic than ever. She stood there for a moment. trying vainly to steady her quivering mouth. Then she ran to the window in the living room She pushed the lace curtains aside and looked out.

Billy was climbing into the front seat of the automobile beside his father. But Hilda hardly realised that her husband was in the picture. All she saw was that little boy in the new suit and the small round cap.

"It's all true," she whispered mournfully. "It's all happened at last. He isn't going to be my baby any longer." She turned and walked slowly through the quiet rooms of the

She was trying not to cry again, but it was very difficult. Did all mothers, she wondered dismally, feel like this the first their children went off to school?

______________

12: Success Formula

THIS is one of those stories that just happen to have happened. It concerns a famous New York physician who is nationally recognised as one of America's foremost doctors.

I can think of no other man who is more highly respected in medical circles. But, boys and girls, 'twas not always thus. As a matter of strict fact, this man had a terrific struggle before he landed at the top. His record was never easy. In his early youth he worked at odd jobs. When it came time for medical college It was necessary— very necessary— for him to work his, way through. To get tuition fees he had to take a job as a waiter in a summer hotel. And that's where the story really begins...

THE DOCTOR — we'll call him Peter in this yarn— was employed by an hotel in Atlantic City. Shortly after his arrival Peter confided in the head waiter.

'My entire future depends upon the tips I get this summer,' said the boy. 'I need about 150 dollars to continue my medical studies, and I can't get along without that much. I figure that one good table might do the trick for me. I know I couldn't get my tuition fee out of that one table, but I'd break my back to give every possible service. Then, too, maybe I'd get a chance to tell the family of my situation, and maybe they'd help out a little. See what I mean?'

The head waiter smiled: he liked the boy. 'All right, Peter,' he replied. 'I'll do the best I can for you. I have one family in mind right now, people by the name of Jordan. There's a father, mother, and three children— and I hear Jordan is rolling in dough.

'I'll see that you get Jordan's table. And the rest, of course, is up to you.'

Well, the Jordan family was at that hotel for the entire summer, and Peter did everything for them that was humanly possible. He found Jordan to be rather a grouchy individual, but that didn't bother Peter. He knew he was doing a good job, and something told him he would receive adequate recompense when the summer was over.

Two months went by. and it was time for the Jordan family to return to New York. Peter had received no tip as yet, but that cheered rather than worried him. Better a lump sum than small weekly tips that he might be tempted to spend.

At the conclusion of the final meal Jordan summoned the young waiter to his table. He removed a sealed envelope from his pocket. 'Young man,' he announced, 'my family and I have found you to be an excellent waiter throughout this entire summer. In return I want you to take this envelope.' Peter accepted the envelope with nervous fingers. He had no way of knowing how much had been given, but he felt it was very large. His entire medical future was in this envelope!

He tried to stammer his thanks. 'Gee. Mr. Jordan, this is— this is wonderful of you. I mean, well — well, it's just wonderful.' The youth raced back into the kitchen. With his heart pounding wildly, he opened the envelope. Inside was a five-dollar bill... It's tough finding a word to describe how that boy felt. He felt as though he had been bitterly cheated. As though the bottom had-dropped out of his life. He felt— well, what's the use of saying any more? I know you understand.

WE NOW skip plenty of years and carry our story into late 1940. The success angle is no mystery. By my very first paragraph you know that Peter made good in spectacular fashion. Well, a few months ago fate provided an ending to the story that had been interrupted by time.

Peter, now a world-famed medico, was called in on a case that required his type of service immediately. He was told beforehand that the patient had once been extremely wealthy, but now had very little left. Would Doctor Peter examine the patient just the same? Of course he would. He had been that kind of guy all his life.

You know, I'm sure, that the patient was Mr. Jordan. The moment he walked into the house Peter recognised the family. They had been planted too deeply in his memory for him ever to forget them. But none of them recognised him. He might have looked vaguely familiar to the eldest of the children, but that was all. Too many years had vanished in the interim.

Dr. Peter did nothing to refresh their recollections. He uttered no word about that old hotel in Atlantic City and the manner in which he had once served them to the best of his ability. Instead, he was strictly professional. He examined the ailing Mr. Jordan and found the old man to be dangerously ill. He ordered an immediate operation. And then he announced that he himself would perform said operation.

That operation saved Mr. Jordan. How long he would linger in life was, of course, problematical. But he was saved from death by this surgeon's master hands. And none knew better than Mr. Jordan's family.

The family grew to love this doctor; they grew almost to worship him. They were worried about his bill, and the doctor knew that, too. It was the elderly Mr. Jordan who requested the bill one night when Dr. Peter dropped in to see him.

In his weak voice he told the doctor that he knew he owed him his life— and now he wanted to pay. As he spoke he kissed the doctor's hand. It was a sad little touch, but the emotion was an honest one. This was the doctor's opportunity for revenge. His price could have been anything he wished to make it— a thousand, two thousand, five thousand dollars. He had saved his patient's life. Will there ever be any standard fee for such a service?

Two days later Dr. Peter's bill arrived at Mr. Jordan's home. It read as follows: 'My total charge is fifty dollars. For the operation and my services you owe me nothing. But the fifty dollars represents the tip you will finally pay to a waiter who served you in Atlantic City hotel a long, long time ago.'

________________

13: Blind Benefactor

IT was back in the early part of the century that Elmer McBoon paid his first? and? last visit to a fortune teller. The alleged fortune teller gave out the usual business. Elmer was to become wealthy at a vague date in the future. There was a dark-haired woman. And all the rest of the stock prophecies.

Elmer, however, was not completely satisfied. Having paid his fifty cents, he desired a few more details. So he persisted in asking the fortune teller question after question. 'How,' he inquired, 'am I gonna go about gettin' rich? How'm I gonna do it?— Can you tell me that?'

The woman nodded. 'You're going to invent something,' she informed him. 'I can see that very plainly. I don't know what it Is, but I can tell you that, in size, it is something small. I would say it is a household appliance of some sort.

'Something,' she went on, warming up in speedy fashion, 'that will make your name known in every home. Yes Mr. McBoon, you will invent something that will take the drudgery out of house work. Your invention will be a great thing for all womankind.'

FROM THAT moment on Elmer was good for nothing except an endless puttering around with tools and makeshift machinery. Elmer was no different from thousands of other men. He had a small paying job, a wife, and, in time, four children. It would have been an extremely difficult matter, though, to convince the man that he wasn't far above the ordinary run of mortals. In his dreams he saw himself as a great inventor. He was the man the fortune teller had described; the saviour and friend of all womankind. 'Look. Myrtle.' he would hold forth to his wife. 'In all businesses and professions a man's work has been made easier by science and machinery. Science ain't done much for the woman in the kitchen, though. She has to work like a slave, and it ain't right.

'What I'm aiming to do is to fix things so's a woman won't have to work so hard. How'll you feel to have me known all over the world as the man who did so much for women?'

Myrtle replied absent-mindedly. Probably, at that moment, she was thinking she'd prefer to have her husband known as the man who paid his grocery bills. He seldom managed to hold a job for more than a few months at a time. Elmer never seemed to mind that very much, though. Periods of idleness gave him a chance to putter around with tools at greater length. More time to dream of his ambition. Better still, more time to talk about it. When he wasn't engaged in any of those pursuits he was trailing Myrtle around the kitchen while she did her housework. Looking for ideas, he explained. Now and then he would actually hit upon something. They all ended with exactly the same results

THE YEARS passed by. There were any number of labour-saving devices on the market now that Elmer might have thought of first— and didn't. But Elmer never became discouraged.

Unfortunately the bills also were just as numerous. The periods when Elmer was out of work were more frequent. With four children to take care of, it was a definite problem to make ends meet. Elmer was nearing sixty, and still babbling about his invention when a rude reality interrupted his dreams.

Myrtle died suddenly.

The shock left her husband dazed and speechless for a short space of time. He remembered vaguely that Myrtle had said something about not feeling well, but he had been too busy to listen at any length.

After a few days of conscience-stricken remorse, his brain returned to normal. The habit of years was strong upon him. He began to think again about his invention. It was on that subject that he spoke to the family physician,

'Poor Myrtle,' he mourned, 'if only she could have lived long enough to see my invention come out. Did I tell you about it, doc? I ain't got it quite figured out yet, but it's gonna be a great thing. A great thing for the womenfolk. It's gonna take a good deal of the hard work out of their lives.'

He paused for a moment. Then his thoughts returned to Myrtle.

'I dunno yet what, happened.' he confessed. 'She seemed well enough until just lately. Up to the time I lost my last job and she went out working around in people's houses so's we could get along. Just what would you say it was, doc?'

The doctor stared at him disapprovingly.

'I could give you a long medical term for it,' he said brusquely, 'and that would probably make you feel better. But for once in your life you ought to face the truth. Your wife died from overwork.'

______________

14: Family Pride

IT was evening, and there was a sense of autumn in the apple green sky. The wind freshened and shook the dying leaves from the trees and whirled them through the street in a mad dance.

In the centre of the street a group of kids played with an old, sagging football. They ran, and shouted, and dragged one another down. Off to the left, grimy and overworked, two men on a coal truck were delivering a last load before calling it a day.

Up from the station walked two middle-aged men. The one nearest the kerb was short and fat, and he had a round face that smiled easily. Seeing him for the first lime, you'd bet he was a pretty nice guy— and that, if he had any kids, they'd love him half to death.

The other man was tall, and he carried himself in a dignified manner. He seemed nice, too. only he looked like a worrier. A chronic worrier. A man who would work himself into a fever if the boss didn't say 'good morning,' or who wouldn't be able to sleep if his wife said she had a headache. A good guy, as the saying goes. But a worrier.

These men were old friends. They had lived in the same tenement twenty-seven years before, and they had both known abject poverty and misery. Their wives had been good friends, too, borrowing cups of sugar, and blueing on wash days, and helping each other when babies were expected. Yes, they were old friends all right, but they hadn't seen each other in ten years— and now, after a chance meeting at the station, they were trying to bridge those ten years as though it had been ten days.

'Yes,' said the little man, 'the wife and I settled out this way about three weeks ago. Funny we didn't see each other until just now. How long you been living out here, Joe?'

'Two years.' returned the big man. 'It'll be two years on September 15th. Mildred and I bought a little place up on Einfeld Boulevard.'

The statement was made with honest pride.

'You bought a house?' The little man beamed. 'Say, that's fine, Joe. Stella and I haven't reached the buying stage yet, although we've been doing pretty well of late. You've got to invite us up some time to see your house.'

Joe nodded rapidly. 'Sure thing,' he said. 'Mildred will be tickled pink to see you and Stella again. She's missed you both, and you'd be surprised how often we speak about you.'

He paused a moment. 'We got in with a nice class of people here. Frank,' he went on. 'We have a little dough in the bank— the house is bought and paid for— we have our own car and a garden— '

'Holy smoke!' Frank whistled. 'You people are real society. By the way, how is Annabelle?'

Joe stopped abruptly. He placed a hand on his old friend's shoulder.

'Look, Frank.' he said sincerely, 'I'm going to ask you a favour. Don't ever mention Annabelle again. None of our new friends know about her, and we figure it's none of their business. You understand what I mean?'

'Oh, sure.' Frank wagged his head. 'I understand. I'll explain it to Stella before we go over to your house. Sure I understand, Joe.'

They walked on again.

Frank remembered, years ago, when little Annabelle had run off and married an eccentric and elderly millionaire. The papers had played it up big at the time as one of those 'May-December' things. Joe and Mildred were so sore about it that they almost went daffy.

'No harm talking to you about it,' said Joe suddenly. 'After Annabelle left us, things went very bad for Mildred and me. During Christmas week, I was out of work and the landlord wouldn't listen to any more excuses. He was going to dispossess us. 'Then, on the day before Christmas we received a cheque from Annabelle in the mail. Boy, did that come in handy! We paid the back rent, and I hurried out to the butcher shop and bought a turkey, and— well, it was a real Christmas. Frank.'

Frank didn't know what to say. 'That was nice,' he murmured vaguely.

'Well, sir,' Joe rumbled on, 'it wasn't long before we were up against it once again. Mildred wasn't feeling well. She needed a doctor's care badly, and I was crazy trying to find work. When things looked blackest, along came another cheque from Annabelle. 'You can imagine how quickly I acted then, Frank. I paid up all our bills and took Mildred to a doctor. He examined her carefully and brought me to one side. And he gave me the news that, unless Mildred had an operation on her eyes, she'd so blind.'

'Say,' exclaimed the little man. 'You were in a tough spot. what did you do?'

'What could I do?' replied Joe. 'The operation would cost seven hundred bucks, and I didn't have seven hundred cents. I worried until I thought I'd go nuts— and then, on Mildred's birthday, another cheque came from Annabelle. It was for a thousand bucks!

'I want to tell you that I cried like a baby. I couldn't believe it. A thousand dollars! I sat up almost all night just looking at the cheque. And it sure did the trick, too. Mildred had her operation, and her eyes are almost as good as new. Except that she has to wear glasses, of course.'

'I'm glad to hear it, Joe. She's a fine woman.'

'You bet,' Joe smiled complacently. 'Anyhow, the cheques started to come in regularly after that, and pretty soon I didn't have to look for work. I haven't worked since — and that was nine years ago. We get a cheque from her once a month for five hundred.'

Such sums seemed to be staggering Frank. All he could do was look at Joe with big eyes.

'Yes, sir,' said Joe, 'we bought the house on it, and we live fine. We've been out to the coast twice on vacations, and last summer we went to Europe. Didn't care as much about it as I do this country. 'But I always wanted to take a look at it— and I finally did.'

The two men reached a corner. They stopped for a moment.

'Well, Joe,' said Frank, 'all I can say is that I'm very happy for you. Thanks for confiding in me, and you can bet we won't mention anything about Annabelle when we come to see you. But, by the way, does she ever step by and visit you folks?'

Joe drew himself up.

'What?' he cried indignantly. 'Why, we wouldn't permit it. We don't even write to her. After the awful thing Annabelle did, we've always regarded her as being dead!'

______________

15: Bitter Secret

JERRY had bumped into Crazy Blackie, and now he sat sipping green whisky with him in a cheap dive. Jerry tried— but he found it hard to talk to his old pal. It wasn't that time had created a gulf between them, and it wasn't the fact that they once worked for rival mobs. And it certainly couldn't be because they were bashful. No, it was none of these. It was simply that Jerry did not have the nerve to ask Crazy Blackie something that had been whispered round. And that something was the strange rumor that Blackie was now a real honest-to-goodness, law-abiding citizen.

Oh, they talked of this and that— but it was small talk for them. Minor reminiscing. They spoke of the time that Crazy Blackie hi-jacked a load of booze and then set fire to the empty truck in front of police headquarters. And the time he sent word to the Bischoff mob that he would meet any two of them alone out in the park at any time. And that little set-to with the police when the detective-sergeant happened to step in front of a bullet from Crazy Blackie's gun.

Then, suddenly, Blackie said it. Very quietly he said it, as though it wasn't important at all.

'I've gone legit,' he murmured. And boom— it was out! Jerry didn't have to ask the question any more. The ice was broken.

'Yes,' repeated Blackie, in that monotone he always used in the old days when he was saying something deadly important. 'Yes, Jerry. I've gone legit.'

So the amazing rumor was a fact! Jerry looked at Blackie with big eyes.

'I heard about it,' he said. 'I ran into Joey Flint.'

'Yeah? How is Joey? I ain't seen him in a coupla months.'

'He went daffy,' was Jerry's easy reply. 'Too much stir drove him nuts. They got him in some asylum now.'

'Too bad. Yep, that's too bad,' Blackie studied the bar. 'Well, Jerry, I ain't never gonna get like that. All that stuff's behind me. The cops don't worry me, I gotta nice little job— and I don't jump outa my pants when a car backfires, neither.'

'That's nice,' said Jerry tonelessly. 'I guess there comes a time when all guys oughta wise up and quit. Like fighters do.'

'That's right,' Blackie agreed. 'Like fighters. When your timin' is gone, and they're tagging' you with wallops you used ta duck. That's right, Jerry. That's when it's time to quit.'

Jerry looked at the other man. Crazy Blackie— toughest of the tough— talking this way!

'You all squared up with the law?' he asked. Blackie nodded. 'Six years ago. I'm all squared up now— and I'm tellin' you that, even if I had a cop's badge, I wouldn't take an apple from a fruit-stand.''

Jerry drummed the bar. Crazy Blackie looked worried. There were deep furrows in his brow, and his face looked long and tired.

'Say, Blackie,' asked Jerry cautiously, 'you ain't married, are you?'

Crazy Blackie looked up. The furrows faded, and his face squeezed itself into the proportions of a smile.

'That's right,' he informed. 'I got myself hooked up to the swellest dame in the world. And, what's more,' he added darkly, 'I'll kick the head offen anybody thinks she ain't!'

'That's fine,' said Jerry hastily. 'That's swell. Now I know you mean it about bein' on the level.'

The barman brought new drinks, and they watched him set them down on the oily bar.

'She knows about you, huh?' inquired Jerry.

Blackie shook his head. The furrows appeared again.

'Nope. I didn't tell her.'

'No kiddin'!' Jerry was genuinely surprised.

'I mean it,' said Blackie. 'I think she'd walk out on me if ever she found out. And if she did that, I guess I'd go right back to the old way. I couldn't stand it— without her.'

'She must be swell'

'She is.' Blackie shrugged. 'But I don't think she'll ever find out. No reason why she should. I behave myself now— and nobody bothers me.'

Jerry raised his glass.

'Well,' he smiled, 'here's hopin' she never finds out.'

Crazy Blackie raised his glass and - clicked it against Jerry's. 'Here's hopin',' he said. Down went the drink, and Crazy Blackie wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Then he began to talk about his wife, and he claimed she was one woman in a million. She was quiet, he said, and sensible. And she didn't get sore when, a man dropped ashes on the rug. She could cook like a honey, and she did all her own washing, because she didn't like the way the laundries did it.

'Well,' said Jerry admiringly, 'you sure got yourself a woman all right. And I'm certainly glad to hear it. Last time I remember you with a woman was that blonde in Youngstown. Big Nellie, wasn't it? I remember how— '

'Shut up!' said Blackie.

'Sure, sure,' said Jerry quickly. 'I was only rememberin'.'

They sat in silence for a while. Jerry tried to buy him another drink, but Crazy Blackie said he never took more than three.

'Three don't hurt a guy,' he stated wisely. 'And four makes a guy thirsty. So I take three. The missus says three is just about right'

'Boy, oh boy!' said Jerry enthusiastically. 'Like you said, she sure is one in a million.'

'Yep, she is wonderful.' Blackie rubbed his chin. 'There is only one thing wrong with her.'

Jerry almost dropped his bridgework. 'What's that?'

'She's got a temper,' said Blackie. 'A terrible temper.'

'Well, whaddaya know!'

'I ain't worried so much, about her findin' out about the past,' Blackie went on. 'But if she finds out about somethin' that's goin' on right now, I'm sunk.'

Jerry looked in amazement at the toughest man he had ever known.

'Yeah, Blackie?' he said. 'What's that?'

Crazy Blackie looked very tired again. 'Well,' he said, morosely, 'when I married her I told her I was makin' six bucks a week. My salary is five-fifteen. And if she ever asks for them extra and don't get 'em, she'll knock my ears apart!'

______________

16: The Weak Spot

IT started one day, a long time ago. The snow had stopped and the kids crunched down Juneville's main street looking for snowball fights.

They saw several boys hiding behind Lehman's butcher shop, and they saw the snowballs freshly dipped in ice water— and the battle was on. George Wesley led the gang that had gone out looking for the fight. He was tall and awkward and fine. He was the son of the local banker, and everyone liked him.

The leader of the boys behind Lehman's butcher shop was Fred Keane. He was poor— and hypersensitive. When Fred tossed his snowballs and they hit George Wesley he screamed with glee. But when one of George's hit him Fred got sore. He ran across the street to 'smack that rich kid down.'

George laughed and tried to be friendly. But Fred swung. Whereupon George parried the punch easily and hit Fred and sent him sprawling into the gutter.

That's how it all started.

George promptly forgot it— but Fred wasn't built that way. He vowed he'd set even with the rich kid some day. He meant it. And he never forgot it.

GEORGE Wesley was a clerk in his father's bank when Fred Keane was sent away to reform school. Fred had broken into a house and stolen a gun and a railroad watch. George saw Fred before the trial and offered to appear as a character witness. After that Fred hated him all the more.

By the time Fred served the minimum term George Wesley was cashier of the bank and an important young man in town. He went to the parole board and said he had a job for Fred. And on that basis Fred Keane was freed.

When he got back to town. Fred was in no mood to accept favours from George Wesley But there wasn't much he could do about it at the moment. If he didn't accept these favours, he'd go back to gaol.

In the bank he spent a lot of time trying to figure ways of crippling the banker's son for all time. Why? Don't ask me. You'd figure that, as time rolled by such hatred would disappear— especially since George had done so much for the other man. But there was some deep rooted psychosis here, and the passing of time only served to increase the hatred.

Soon, George wasn't the banker's son any longer. He was the banker. George married. He modernised his father's house on the hill and settled down to happiness. Three days after Pearl Harbour he tried to enlist. And when they rejected him he learned for the first time that that occasional pain in his stomach was an ulcer.

Thus, since he was out of the war as an active combatant, he did his best in other directions. In the bank, he promoted Fred Keane from clerk to assistant teller. He assured Fred that he had a great future in the bank and told him he was to forget the past completely. Fred showed his teeth in a smile. He said nothing.

From day to day, Fred tried to figure some way to get the man who had been so kind to him. But it was a difficult task. The young bank president led a blameless home life, and he was faultless in his handling of other people's money at the bank.

One evening. as the bank was about to close, Fred Keane saw his big chance. George had his hat and coat on, and was walking out of his office with a grey canvas bag.

'Good evening.' said Fred politely. 'Petty cash?'

'Hello, Fred,' George smiled. 'Yeah, and I've got to take it down to the vault. There's sixteen hundred dollars here that has to be put away. But some day I'm going to figure out why somebody else can't put it away each night.'

Fred held out his hand. 'You go ahead,' he said. 'I'll be only too glad to lock it up for you, George.'

George beamed. Fred Keane took the bag. He smiled all the way down to the vault. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, swung the vault door shut, turned the bolts, and spun the dials. The vault was now locked. And the canvas bag with sixteen dollars was in his hand.

At midnight, he was outside the Wesley home on the hill. All he had to do was to put the canvas bag with the sixteen hundred dollars in George's car. In the morning, when the bag was reported missing. George would say he gave it to Fred. And Fred would insist he had done nothing of the kind.

Fred would then hint that a search of the premises of each party might be in order. When the dough was found in George's car the young banker's career would be pretty close to the finish. He'd never go to gaol, of course. But as long as George lived there would always be the suspicion that he stole the sixteen hundred dollars— and then tried to pin it on a poor kid with a past.

The lock on the garage was child's play. He reached for the door handle— and a flashlight suddenly bathed him in white.

Fred wheeled. Behind the light was George Wesley with a gun.

Fred sweated and talked. And pleaded. In the end he even told the truth. He told George he had always hated him, and he was doing this only for revenge. But nothing did any good.

'You're lying, Fred,' George cried. 'How can you talk about revenge when I've done nothing but help you all your life?

'The simple truth is that you stole that money and you planned to steal my car for the getaway. You can stop whining. Because I'm calling the police.'

He did. And Fred Keane was hauled off to gaol. For a long time.

George Wesley finally got back to bed. His wife was extremely nervous. George kept talking to her. He was sorry now, he said, that he had ever tried to help Fred Keane. Because the man was obviously the criminal type.

'It's funny, though,' he murmured. 'I mean— how I happened to hear him at the garage. Truth is, I've been worried that someone would get in there and find those two cases of vegetable soup we didn't declare when rationing began....'

____________________

17: All Through The Years

AFTER you passed the freight-siding where the farmers shipped their produce to the city, you drove about two miles over flat, dry land that was scorched by countless suns. Then you came to an isolated house that stared mournfully through large windows at the ruin around it. The brown paint had faded to an earthy tan. Here and there it had scaled off and blown away. The front steps sagged in the middle, and the gabled roof no longer struggled against the rain. In the rear a small truck farm flourished. But around it, acres of weeds stood tall and silent where there had been a fine, fat farm. It was afternoon and Emma Norton sat on the rolling porch. She rocked herself, and the chair creaked rhythmically as it teetered back: and forth. Her skin was furrowed mahogany. And her pale, eyes squinted from having spent many, many years in the sun.

Tomorrow was her birthday. She would be sixty-four years of age then— and all but the first seventeen of those years had been spent on this lonely farm. Not all of those years had been lonely. Only Emma Norton knew the true hell of those last ten...

She had married Abner Norton when she was seventeen. Abner was thirty-one, and he owned his own farm. This very farm. He was a tall, big-handed man who had quit school as soon as he had learned to write his name. He was frugal. In good years, he hired a man at harvest time. But in other years, Emma had to help with the farming from early Spring until late Fall. Then the children began to arrive.

A boy... A girl... A boy. Another boy. And it was up to her alone to care for all of them— without neglecting her farm work. Emma sent them all to school. Abner Norton said it was darn foolishness; they should be helping their father on the farm. But she sent them to school just the same, one after the other. She knew that schooling was important, and nobody was going to tell her differently.

The week that her oldest son graduated from high school, Abner Norton died. At the grave she cried once— long and hard. Then she took a long chance and sent the oldest boy to college with the insurance money. Four years later that boy graduated from college. Then he came to her with his eyes shining.

'Mom,' he blurted, 'I'm going to the city. I've been offered a clerkship in a good law firm. Isn't that wonderful?

'Think of what it means, Mom. No more farm— no more dull people— no more small town stupidity. Of course. Mom, I'll miss you. But isn't it really swell?' He left her.

And then there were three .

Irene— that was the only daughter— was sent to the academy of Arts and Sciences. Emma dug up the money from here and there. But by the time that Irene graduated as a dress designer, the youngest boys were freshmen— and Emma found that almost all the farm work was on her shoulders. Still she plodded on. And it was only a few weeks later that Irene made her announcement.'

'I hate to leave. Mom,' she said. 'Really I do, I know it's hard for you, and I know I should stay around for a while in order to help you out. But I have to think of myself in this case, too. After all, I have my own life to live.

'I'm a dress designer now, and they say I have a future. What chance would I have on a farm? Who am I going to design for— myself? Or you? No, Mom. I simply must leave.'

So she left. And then there were two.

By that time, Emma knew it was never going to be any different. These two who were left they would leave her, too. And that's the way it happened. The two boys graduated and then they told Emma their plans. They hated to leave. They appreciated all she had done.... They'd write very often, and Emma was not to worry about them.

The next day Emma was alone.

On her birthday the children sent cards. On Christmas, each one sent a gift. And, of course, Emma sent them gifts, too. In the summer each of the children managed to spend a weekend with her. And by the time they kissed her goodbye, the extra work had her exhausted.

Then, one day, old Frank Jennings came up from his farm near the watershed. He wasted no time coming to the point.

'Emma,' he said. 'I've known you all my life. Mary's been dead more'n eight years, and I'm lonely. So I thought that maybe we might sort of team up for the little time that's left to us.

'We'd make a go of it, Emma. I know we would. Why should we go on bein' so lonesome?'

Emma didn't love old Frank. But she liked him. He was an old friend, and there was a chance that her life might, be brighter if she married him. So she wrote to her children and told them about it. She asked them if they'd mind if she married Frank Jennings.

Three days later, in the city, the four children met again. They met in the home of the oldest son. with their mates and their own children. And when the oldest son spoke about the situation, he summed up the attitude of all of them.

'Ordinarily,' he said, 'we wouldn't mind Mom getting married. If she wants to forget a wonderful man like Pop, that's her business.

'But when you stop to consider that this Frank Jennings— a perfect stranger— will inherit the farm should Mom die before him, then we say the whole idea is very unfair to us. Mom hasn't the right to be that selfish!'

_______________

18: Once a Chump

THE CLOCK pointed to four o'clock. The last patron had just left the small gambling room. Old Man Swift, proprietor of the establishment, motioned to his manager.

"Walk down to my room with me, Max,' he said. 'I want to have a little talk with you.'

The two men walked through the narrow corridor and entered the boss's private room.

Max flung himself into a chair and yawned mightily. Old Man Swift produced a bottle of his special rye and poured two drinks. He raised his glass.

'Good luck, Max,' he said.

'Good luck, boss,' said Max. They both drank. Swift put down his glass, sat himself in another chair, and smiled at his manager.

The latter regarded him curiously. 'What's up, boss?' he asked.

'Something on your mind?'

Swift nodded.

'Yes, Max, there is. Let me see. You've been with me now about five years— and all you know about me is the fact that I pay you your salary for managing my little gambling room. Is that correct?'

The manager shook his head. 'Not Quite, boss,' he replied. 'I know more than that. I know that you're square and decent and honest, and that you're the best boss I've ever worked for.'

Swift reached out and tapped the other man's knee.

'Good of you to say that, Max. Swell. Especially in view of the fact that I have paid you your last salary.'

Max straightened with a start. 'What's that?' he cried. 'You mean— you mean I'm fired?'

Swift grinned.

'In a way, Max. You're not working for me any longer. I suppose that, in that direction, you are fired. But in another you are far better off. Because you are now working for yourself. I am giving you this place as a present. From the moment I leave this morning you are the new owner.'

The other man blinked in amazement. 'Am I going nuts, boss? I— I don't understand.'

Swift said nothing more for a moment. He reached out. poured two more drinks, raised his glass in a silent toast— and both men drank. Then?

'Max,' said Swift, 'I was never cut out for this kind of work. It was more of an accident than anything else that drove me into it. Perhaps you might say that I got into it because I'm such a chump. Because that's what I am. Max— a chump. Always was, and always will be.

'About ten years ago, when I was forty-five, I was the proud possessor of some 25,000 dollars in cash. I hadn't found any of this money, and I certainly hadn't inherited it. As a matter of fact I had worked doggone hard to earn it. But the game was worth the candle. The cash, coupled with a few lucky investments left me sitting in a pretty sweet spot.'

He paused to light a cigarette. Max leaned forward, intensely interested.

'I met two friends,' Swift went on. 'No use going into details about how I met them. Enough to tell you that they seemed to be regular fellows and that we pot along fine together. I hadn't played much in my life, and they seemed to know all the ropes. They took me to spots that I never knew existed And I thought I was having a grand time.

'After a few weeks the three of us moved into one apartment. One of my pals brought a roulette wheel, and, while I didn't like the idea at first. I soon grew accustomed to it. A number of friends would come up to play, and there was always a same of some sort going on. You can imagine what that meant to a chump like me.

'Well, it was the old, old story. It wasn't long before I was playing the wheel myself for small sums. I won steadily. But when my bets grew larger I began to lose. Then I plunged. And inside of two weeks— aside from a few hundred dollars — I was broke. 'I can tell you, Max. that I was heartbroken. I had planned to play for the rest of my days— and now I only had enough left for my Immediate needs. You don't know what that meant. Max, and I hope you'll never know.

'My two 'friends, of course, disappeared as soon as I told them all my money was gone. But I wasn't suspicious. I was chump enough to believe that I had simply been unlucky, and that my friends had merely gone away for a short vacation.

'I didn't know I had been cheated until an old pal of mine examined the roulette wheel a few days later. And he told me then that even though the wheel was crooked the crooks could have taken me over without going to that trouble. The wheel, he explained patiently to me, always gives the banker seven per cent, the best of it. And all they had to do was to chisel along and take seven per cent of my big bets until I was broke.

'Well, what could I do? I couldn't call the police, because I was probably just as guilty as the others. So I began to figure things out. Why not get a roulette wheel of my own? That seven per cent angle sounded like a good business proposition. In fact, I knew of nothing better. I was fortunate enough to be able to borrow enough money to open a little place of my own, and it wasn't long before I was making money. No fortunes, of course, but enough to keep going.

'Within five years I was making enough to hire a manager. You came along— and you brought me luck by the carload. I have plenty of dough now; enough to last me in comfort until I die. And all because I was such a chump in the first place.

'And that's all there is to it, Max. You've worked hard and I appreciate it. So the place is yours from top to bottom— and I wish you all the luck in the world.'

Max said he understood. He thanked Swift in a thousand different directions. But he was vehement in his denial of one statement that Swift had made.

'You're not a chump, boss,' he cried. 'You've got to stop saying that. No chump could make the money you've made.'

Old Man Swift leaned back in his chair. He smiled softly. 'That's where you're wrong, Max.' he murmured. 'And I see that I'll have to prove it to you.

'That wheel inside is the same one that cost me all my money ten years ago. And, chump that I am, I've never been able to set it to run honestly!'

____________________

19: Lucky Willie

THEY hadn't always called him Lucky Willie. That came later. For years he was just plain Willie White— and, around the race tracks, he had about as much distinction as the sparrows around the stables. He was there, but it didn't mean anything. He ran a small book for the chauffeurs and employees around the courses. He had no licence to book, but there he was. If your bet wasn't too big he'd take it.

Sometimes he made a little money, but never anything important. If he ever had a family, no one ever knew about it. Willie lived by himself in a small flat on the upper West Side, and he spent most of his evenings in the pool parlours near his home. When you first met him you'd think he was the type of chap who'd never amount to anything. But when you grew to know him better— then you were sure of it!

Well, very suddenly and completely unexpectedly, Willie White's life changed. The whole business just turned upside down, and fate made Willie a pretty robin among the sparrows. The change turned him into a big shot; a man everybody wanted to say hello to on the street.

What caused the change will probably hand you a snicker. But I'm a man who must tell the truth, so here it is: He had his fortune told! Yes, boys and girls, that's all that happened.

He got himself nice and plastered one night, and a lad from the pool room took him to see Madame Zaza. And Madame Zaza changed his entire life. At first it didn't go so well, because Willie White didn't believe in fortune-telling. But Madame Zaza was patient and said that she saw all, knew all, and would unveil the future for him.

Willie regarded her sceptically and told her to go ahead. She told him she could see a trip across the water, and Willie said it was probably the ferry to Jersey. When she said there was a dark woman in his life Willie laughed and told her it was probably the landlady. Madame Zaza burned plenty. She wanted to call this customer's a number of names that never turn up in a crystal ball, but she wanted his money even more. So she muttered on in her mysterious fashion, and wound up the session by telling him his lucky number was 230.

Willie tossed her a coin and staggered out of the joint. He knew he had been clipped, and that was the end of it. He forgot all his future— until the next morning. At that time he was in a drug store. He was mixing himself a juicy headache potion, at the fountain, when the clerk became conversational.

'I'm the unluckiest guy in the world,' said the clerk to Willie. 'Whatever do you think happened to me. Mr. White? I've been playing the numbers for two years, and every day the same number.

'Yesterday I get very busy, and I forget to play my number. So what happens? Sure. My number comes out! Can you beat that for tough luck?'

Willie smiled.

'Kid,' he stated affably, 'don't be a chump all your life. You can't win at numbers and rackets like that. They're rigged up for suckers like you. Just save your pennies instead, boy. You'll be much better off that way.'

The clerk shook his head.

'Not me,' he returned. 'I appreciate the advice. Mr. White— but I'm gonna keep on playin' 'em. If you guess the right number, you get 540 to I. So I'm keepin' right on, 'cause I'm bound to hit it some day.'

Willie stopped smiling. That woman had said his lucky number was 230. Well, what could he lose? He dug into his pocket. 'Kid,' he said, 'you may be right. Here, take this two bob and play it for me on number 230. I may be screwy, but I got a hunch.'

Willie walked out, and the clerk laughed loudly. But when he saw the newspaper late that night he almost fainted. For 230 was the winner and Willie White was $54 richer.

After that there was no holding Willie. And that's when the gamblers around town began calling him Lucky Willie. Within six months nobody remembered his last name. He was Lucky Willie to everyone. Around the track the money fairly rolled in to Willie. When the racing season eased off he opened a neat apartment fronting on Central Park. It was ah easy place to find. All you had to do was remember to go to apartment 230. That was Willie's.

In that apartment you could indulge in practically any form of gambling that appealed to you. But Willie was something of an eccentric now; he had several rules and regulations that made his gambling spot different from any other. When you began to play, for example, you had to buy one chip for 230 dollars. You didn't have to use it, and you could cash it in at the end of your play. But that 230 dollar chip had to go in with any stack you purchased. There were many other oddities in that gaming house. All cheques issued by Lucky Willie carried the one number— '230.' When hat checks were issued they called for '230 A,' '230 B,' and so on.

It was all very strange, but Lucky Willie wasn't taking any chances. He was sticking as closely as possible to the number that had brought him all his fortune.

Then, one morning an old lady was on her way to church in Brooklyn. Why it had to be an old lady— and more especially Brooklyn— I do not know. But that's the way it happened, and that's the way I'm passing it on to you. She was going to church, and the sun wasn't quite up yet. A faint light spread out fanwise in the East, and down at the horizon it brightened to canary yellow. The old lady hurried because it was cold, and her breath made white plumes in the air as the went across the vacant lot. At first she wasn't sure, so she went back a few steps to make sure. Then a little frightened sound came out of her, and she ran to the corner to look for a cop.

She found one trying to keep warm in a grocery store doorway, and she told him she had seen a man propped against a signboard in the lot. He had looked very dead, she said.

Within an hour the lot was full of cops, some with gold shields. A couple of photographers took pictures, and they cursed the cold, and the body, and the old lady who had found it so early.

So that, I needn't tell you, was the end of Lucky Willie. They carted his body, away, and that was that.

Who killed him is none of my business— and. I sincerely trust, none of your business either. There has never been an arrest made on the crime, and I don't suppose there ever will be. Whoever killed Lucky Willie had a bad eye, though. Because the first shot went right through that swell watch he wore— and the watch stopped at the same moment his heart did. At exactly 2.30.

__________________

20: Takes a Thief

SYLVESTER GILL trudged into the factory. Behind the tracks the sun was coming up, pale and young.

Sylvester trooped heavily inside, pulled himself up by banister to the third floor offices, walked through a door— and stole his morning package of cigarettes.

Sylvester hated to steal. He was essentially honest, but he was poor. And he was poor twice over, because he had a wife who had a positive yen for nice things. By Monday morning his $5 a week had usually disappeared. And there was never anything left for a package of cigarettes. All of which was most unfortunate, because cigarettes were something of a vice with Sylvester. He had tried very often to break himself of the habit. He had tried weaning himself; four today, three tomorrow, two the next day, and so on. But it was laughable. By the time the day was over he was smoking more than ever.

So Sylvester stole. Stole from his protector, John Franklin Murphy. Mr. Murphy was head cashier in Brixton and Company. And a very swell egg, too. It was Mr. Murphy who found this job for Sylvester Gill. It was Mr. Murphy who sometimes gave him shirts that were practically new. And ties, too. And Mr. Murphy once gave hint a pair of tickets to a good show. But Mr. Murphy was the only man in the office who always had cigarettes in his desk. And Sylvester stole. He stole a pack each day— cursing himself at the same time for being a weakling. And a betrayer. And a man unfit to associate with other men. Yes, Sylvester told himself, he was just a common, petty thief.

THE HANDS of the clock pointed to three minutes to nine. The factory belting was already whirring around, the busy machines and girls were tending the noisy monsters. Then John Franklin Murphy came in. All the watching foremen shouted their good mornings. And Mr. Murphy nodded curtly. He was a big man, this Mr. Murphy, and a busy one. He handed his coat and hat to his secretary. He stacked the envelopes on his desk in one fist, and began to deal them before him. Then he shrugged, swept them aside for his secretary to read, and sat down.

Huge, and with iron-grey hair, he was the type you usually see in the movies as a police commissioner. He was stern and extremely forthright, and all the employees knew he tolerated no nonsense. To get along with Mr. Murphy a man had to be on his toes and on the level.

And, with all that, do you know what Murphy was doing as he sat there? He was worrying. He was sitting there and mentally beating his chest. Because he was a thief! He had a fine job at $1500 a year. He had a fine home; a fine family. But with all that, he had stolen from J. B. Brixton, head of Brixton and Company— and the man who trusted him most. Yes, he had stolen from this man. This man who had given him his first job, this man who had promoted him to a position of trust, this man who had boosted his salary from £300 to £1500 a year, this man who had been best man at his wedding, and who had been godfather to his first son.

Naturally, Murphy hadn't meant to steal from J. B. Brixton. For Murphy was essentially honest, like poor Sylvester Gill. But Mrs. Murphy wanted a new car every year, and she liked clothes, and she loved to entertain. They lived in a $4000 neighbourhood on a $1500 salary.

It was the old, old story. When Murphy took his first hundred ,he promised himself that he'd return it at the rate of $5 a week. But when new and bigger bills loomed in front of him, he stopped kidding himself. He began to steal methodically, week after week. Sometimes it was only a twenty; sometimes it went as high as a hundred. And he always covered himself with trick ledger entries that no one could decipher.

No one, that is, but a bank examiner.

Now he was in deep. Very deep. And now he sat , at his desk and worried, while his secretary digested the morning mail. Strangely enough, he didn't worry about going to gaol. And the disgrace itself didn't sear too deeply into his consciousness. What appalled Mr. Murphy was the thought of J. B. Brixton actually learning what he had done. He could see the astonishment on J.B.'s face. And then the scorn, the contempt, the loathing look. Mr. Murphy felt himself to be just what he was : A common thief.

IMOGENE pressed her fingers deeply into the waves on the side of her head and opened the door.

The man came in, glancing furtively through the rooms.

'Nobody home?' he asked. His voice was anxious.

'Nobody, except little me,' Imogene cooed. 'Come on in.' They sat down on the divan, and she threw her arms around him. He tried to disengage himself gracefully. He reached for something in his inside pocket, and she had to take her arms away.

'Why, J.B.,' she exclaimed. 'What's the matter?'

The man hesitated for a moment. 'It's just that I may not be able to come here as often as I used to,' he asserted. 'It's getting more and more dangerous. Twice last, week, while I was here, my wife called me at the office.'

Imogene's eyes widened. 'You think she's wise?' she asked.

The man shrugged. 'I don't know. All I know is that she's suspicious, and she may be trailing me. Here.'

He took something out of his pocket. 'Here's a little cash. Be careful how you spend it. And, above all, don't do anything to excite your husband's suspicions.'

'Thanks, J.B.,' she said quietly. She stuffed the bills into her bosom. He arose, and she hugged him fiercely. 'If you can't come here very often,' she said, 'perhaps we can arrange to meet somewhere else. You know how much you mean to me.'

He regarded her searchingly. Then he nodded. 'Yes,' he returned. 'Yes, I know. And you know how much you mean to me. too.'

He kissed her quickly. In a moment he was gone

He hurried to his car and drove to his big factory. And as he drove he cursed himself for being a wife thief. He promised himself that he would never see Imogene again. But he had promised himself that before— and he had never kept his word. For T. B. Brixton was a crook in his heart, and he knew it. He only hoped that Imogene's husband, little Sylvester Gill, would never find out.

YES, Sylvester told himself, he was just a common, petty thief.

_______________

21: Tale of Success

THE rain gossiped on the bank windows. Donald Wilkens turned the little brass sign on his desk so that he could read it. It spoke a solitary word: President. He turned it back again and glanced at the window. Rain. He hated rain. It ruined his clothes, and, more important, it spoiled his golf dates.

Besides, Mrs. Wilkens always got the blues when it rained. He couldn't stand her when she got that way. She cried too much. He sat there, wishing the bank board would vote him a larger bonus this year. Last year he got a measly $3500. Coffee-and-cake money, really. Friends of his were getting twice that much by merely clipping coupons.

His secretary walked in. 'A Mr. Henderson to see you.'

'What does he want?'

'He won't say. Just insists he wants to see the bank president.'

'Oh, my.' Donald Wilkens looked very annoyed. 'Send him in. It's a thrift account surer than blazes. We computed the interest wrong. He should get 8.9 instead of 8.8. Well, don't stand there like a dummy. Send him in!'

The man came in. He was thin as a movie director's panting promises, and he wore a beak as sharp as a bread-knife. He smiled toothlessly.

'You the president?' he asked.

Donald Wilkens nodded wearily. 'What can I do for you, Mr. Henderson.

Mr. Henderson felt the texture of Mr. Wilkens' suit, walking half-way round the desk to do so. 'Nice piece of goods,' said Mr. Henderson. 'What did you pay for it, if I'm not too personal?'

'You are,' returned Mr. Wilkens, icily. 'Would you mind sitting down and explaining your business?'

Mr. Henderson sat. 'It's still a nice piece of goods,' he murmured, 'but if you don't want to mention the price, it's all right with me. Reason I came here is because I have $6000 to invest, and?'

Mr. Wilkens straightened in his chair. 'My dear, dear Mr. Henderson,' he smiled, 'this suit cost me $25. I thought you were just jesting when you asked the price. Please go on.'

Mr. Henderson frowned. 'That suit.' he asserted, 'ain't worth one penny over $12. You was taken in. but that's your funeral. Anyhow. I got this $6000 to invest, and I asked myself where I could invest it. Myself said I should try a bank. So here I am. 'I'm looking for $4 or may be $5 a week interest on my money. If you could set me that five I'd sure appreciate it. That's all I'd ask.'

Mr. Wilkens drummed his desk.

'What you're asking,' he said, with a proper banking grin, 'is a bit high these days. But we'll do our best. At least, when you ask for $4 a week you have a goal. Most people want me to invest their money and return a thousand per cent, within a year.'

Mr Henderson shook his head. 'If you can get four or five dollars a week, mister, I'm more than satisfied. I can't drive a car, and I don't live in no swell hotel, and a suit of clothes lasts me a whole year.

'I ain't married, and my only sport is to pitch horseshoes and chew a good plug of tobacco. And if you don't mind me saying so. I'd never buy no $12 suit for $25.'

In Mr. Wilkens' forehead the veins started to swell. But he kept his laws clamped tight. After all, he was telling himself mentally, this bank needs a slight transfusion— and $6000 wouldn't do the slightest harm whatever. So he spoke very, very sweetly.

'Do you live in town?' he cooed.

'Two-Oh-Nine Fellowes Place,' returned Mr. Henderson. 'But you can probably tell from my lingo that I came originally from Maine. People usually know it the minute I open my mouth. And yet— would you believe it?— I ain't been in Maine in twenty-seven years!'

'That's a long time,' said Mr. Wilkens. without knowing exactly what he was saying. 'Yes, sir— that's a very long time.'

'You betcha,' agreed Mr. Henderson. 'My ma and pop died of pneumonia, and I was brought up by my uncle. My uncle always said I should get outa that town. He said I should go where the millionaires are, because that's where the money could best be made.'

'So you came to the big city,' said Mr. Wilkens, studying the rain outside the pane and the pain within.

'Yep.' Mr. Henderson nodded vigorously 'Uncle said there wasn't ten loose dollars in the whole town, and that I wasn't gonna get no place there. So the minute I got a little stubble on my chin he bought me a railway ticket and said: "Git!" '

'Well, well, well,' said Mr. Wilkens. 'That's a remarkable story. Yes, sir. It's an amazing success story. If you don't mind my saying so.'

'Oh. Oh. I don't mind at all,' returned Mr. Henderson. I'm democratic. You can say anything you've a mind to. Point is that uncle wasn't a smart man in book ways, but he was shrewd in lots of other ways.

'There wasn't one person in that whole town ever thought of success the way uncle did. He had the sense to look around, and when he saw no money, he made me go where the money was. He was a powerful shrewd man!'

'Beyond a doubt.' Mr. Wilkens was beginning to wonder if this yokel was ever going to bring the wallet into daylight. 'And we must all admit now that your uncle was quite right in his opinions. He was wise enough to guide you on your way. If it hadn't been for him there's always a chance you might have lived in poverty in that small town.'

Mr. Henderson shrugged. 'Couldn't be any worse than it was here, ' he said. 'In all the years I've been here I ain't never had a steady job. And I've been hungry more often than not.'

Mr. Wilkens' eyes popped. 'But— but I don't understand,' he cried. 'You tell me you have $6000 to invest. If you never had a decent job, how did you amass that money?'

Mr. Henderson smiled happily. 'I didn't amass nothing,' he replied. 'Uncle amassed it in the feed and grain business in the little town he sent me away from to make money. He just died and left it to me...'

Mr. Henderson felt the texture of Mr. Wilkens' suit, walking half-way round the desk to it.

'Nice piece of goods,' he said. 'What did you pay for it, if I'm not too personal?'

__________

22: Problem In Love

THIS is a problem story. It isn't your problem, nor is it mine. It's the exclusive property of— well, let's call her Martha. She has never been able to solve the problem. And yet, ironically enough, she knows the answer. More, she has known it for many years.

In simple words, Martha married one man while intensely in love with another. And to make the thing a little more palatable we'll start the story in a small town. In a courtroom.

Martha walks in. She wears a close-fitting brown hat, a fur piece on her shoulders, and a brown dress. She has a round, sweet face— and that face still holds some of the beauty it owned thirty years before. The court is almost empty. The clock over the rostrum says 9.50. The sun slants in on the dusty pews. A court attendant comes out of chambers, whisks a paper from the rostrum, and hurries back inside. Martha sits down wearily.

She is no stranger to this court. She has been here, time and time again. And always for the same purpose... She sighs heavily.

Sitting here, waiting for court to convene, inevitably brings her back to the days when the problem first confronted her... She was eighteen at the time— and she had been going with Johnny Weal. Johnny was a grinning, tall kid whose parents were so poor that he had to hand in every half-penny he made. Martha loved Johnny— and it wasn't puppy love either. This was the real thing. They wanted to marry. As a matter of fact, they were going to marry— until Harry Douglas came along.

And then the whole situation turned into the story that is the oldest in the world and yet will always be new. Harry was daffy about Martha. And Harry's folks had money, and position, and a big house. So Martha's father and mother found Harry a far better candidate than Johnny for their daughter's hand. And they began to hound, and beg, and plead, and threaten, and insist.

Their arguments had some basis in fact. They said Johnny's old man was a drunk— and they were right. They said that Johnny's grandfather had been a drunk until he day he died— and that was right, too. They said that Johnny, himself, had been seen in saloons— and they were right there, too.

With many a pious look in the general direction of heaven they told her that— if she was such a fool as to marry Johnny— she'd regret the day she first met him. They said it had to happen when a young man had such a background.

In contrast, they pointed out that Harry Douglas came from fine people, and that he had brains and education, and a position in life. They said that many a young girl would gladly give her right eye for a husband such as Harry. And, sadly enough, they were correct there, too...

They were so correct in everything, and they hammered and hammered at her so deftly that she finally did something she never wanted to do at all. She told Johnny to go away; told him she was going to marry Harry. Johnny didn't say a word. He merely stood there for a long time, looking at her. Then he turned away. And Harry, unlike the gentlemen in story books, won the girl.

And now, as had happened so often before, she was sitting in court again. It shamed her to do it, because it would start tongues wagging again. But there was no way of keeping it secret. She didn't care much any more, though. At first it had humiliated her. But now, since she had appeared in this same court so many times over the years, it didn't really matter.

Through the years Martha had wondered if she could have made something out of Johnny Weal. All women like to dream of how they could have moulded other men, If only they hadn't married their present husbands. And Martha was no exception.

In spare moments, she'd sit in her great house and think of how she would have handled Johnny, and how she would have helped him to do better things in life, and how he would have risen higher and higher in this world. But naturally, as her hair whitened, her plans yellowed. She had never been happy with Harry.

Oh, he tried hard to please her. He had given her every luxury in life. But he couldn't provide the one thing that Johnny could have given her at no cost whatsoever: Love. Concerning her frequent appearances in court, her husband said very little. Once, in a mild way, he suggested that she send one of the servants with bail and fine money. But she said she'd rather do it herself— and Harry let the matter drop.

MARTHA looked up at the clock on the wall. It was ten o'clock now, and still the court hadn't convened. She sat near the front, snapping and unsnapping her purse nervously. The court attendant came out of chambers and waved to her. That was the ultimate in recognition...

The thought occurred to her that, even if Harry died now, she wouldn't marry Johnny. All these years Johnny Weal had remained a bachelor. But she wouldn't marry him now, if he asked her, because it was too late. The sands in the glass were mostly in the bottom half now. It was too, too late ...

The court attendant clapped his hands. The magistrate came in and sat on the rostrum. The court clerk called the case. Martha tried not to look. She kept her head down and she fumbled in her purse. But she saw him just the same. He tottered as the court attendant and the constable led him in between them. His coat was torn, and blood was clotted about the neckband of his shirt. His face was bruised. His hair was dishevelled, and he kept studying his shoes.

The magistrate listened to both the charge and the evidence. Then he read the prisoner the usual lecture on Intemperance, which everyone knew would do no good at all, and he set the fine at $5. Martha stood up with the notes in her hand and walked bravely towards the court office. The clerk smiled and said 'How-do' as he took the money.

'My car is outside,' she said. 'I'll take him with me.'

The clerk nodded. He counted the money and checked it on his blotter. Then Martha led the prisoner out.

'I'm sorry it had to happen again, Harry,' she said softly. 'How do you feel?'

'Awful,' muttered her husband. 'I'm no good, Martha. No good at all.'

Martha stole a hasty glance through the court door. But she turned swiftly away as she saw the magistrate, Johnny Weal, staring at her gravely.

__________________

23: Wedding At Last

THE wedding was exactly one hour and twenty-two minutes away, and Muriel had thousands of things to do. Yet she dallied in front of the vanity, applying rouge in a circular motion with a small puff. And she smiled as she thought back to the time she was so certain she'd never marry.

There had been reasons for that certainty. In the first place Muriel was sure she'd never fall in love. No man, from the era of Wally Reid to Clark Gable, had ever stirred her lethargic pulse.

That was sad all right, but this was sadder: Even if she did fall in love, marriage would have been an impossibility. Why? Because of mamma...

Mamma was a widow. Mamma was a frail, wispy character, subject to whining and sudden faints when crossed. But don't get her wrong. Mamma didn't exactly tell her Muriel not to take a husband. Not at all. As a matter of fact, mamma often told her daughter to go right ahead and marry.

'You're over thirty now,' mamma had said, 'and I suppose I know what to expect. You'll soon be meeting some nice young man, and running off and leaving your poor old mother to get on by her lonesome.' (Here would be placed a long sigh. A sigh that contained all the sadness the world has ever known. A martyr's sigh, If ever you heard one.)

'Well, my dear Muriel,' she'd continue, as soon as the sigh reached a moaning conclusion, 'I want you to know I understand. That's the way of the world. You must forget me altogether and think only of yourself.

'I— I— I'll get along somehow. And after all, what's the difference what becomes of your old mother? I've only a few years left on this earth, and it doesn't matter how I spend them.'

Know what always happened, don't you? Sure. Muriel would almost fracture her leg running over to mamma, and assuring her that she'd never, never marry as long as mamma lived. And furthermore, Muriel would declaim, she didn't like any man well enough to take a second look.

Whereupon mamma would look very tender.

'My own dear little girl,' she'd murmur, stroking Muriel's hair. 'My sweet precious wouldn't leave her poor old mother all alone in the world. I just knew it!'

Sure, mamma knew it— until one sunny day when her sweet precious met Bill Williams. Bill was a big slab of good-natured granite with a head to match. It was always ten-to-one that Bill couldn't think his way into a subway with a nickel, but he fell in love with Muriel and he wanted to marry her— and he didn't mean mamma.

It took a little time; five months to be exact. But at the end of that time Bill was able to say the words. He looked deep into Muriel's big eyes and told her he wanted her to be his wife.

It was Muriel's first proposal, and very wonderful it was to her, too. She sighed, and lowered her eyes, and smiled. 'I love you, Bill,' she murmured. 'I know it's love because I never felt this way before. I want to .spend the rest of my life with you.

'Yes, Bill, that's how I feel. But I'm afraid it's never going to work out. Never. I'm afraid its all just a dream.' And it was at that point that she told him all about mamma. She told him all there was to tell. She told him exactly what mamma had to say about marriage— and mamma's sudden sobs— and mamma's clutching of heart and keeling over.

'If I told her I was going to marry you,' said Muriel fervently, 'the shock might kill her. So I'm afraid, Bill, that happiness isn't for me. I must forget myself and think only of her.'

Bill ground his teeth and muttered strange syllables. Well-bred Muriel didn't mind them, because she was quite certain she had never heard any of them before. One thing Bill decided upon immediately: No mamma was going to slop him from marrying the girl he loved. He wanted to marry the girl: she wanted to marry him; and that was all that mattered...

MURIEL looked at the clock. One hour and three minutes remained before the ceremony. She got up from the vanity chair and smiled as he thought how really determined Bill had been. He went right to mamma and told her she was holding up the marriage.

Whereupon mamma had favoured Bill with one of the iciest stares in history. 'My daughter,' she stated flatly, 'is old enough to make up her own mind. I'm quite certain that, if she loves you, she'll marry you. I'm also certain that I've never done anything, nor will I ever do any thing, to hurt my daughter's happiness.

'All I can say is that I consider you impertinent and selfish. If Muriel is as smart as I think she is. she'll think it over several times before she marries anyone as cruelly stupid as you are.'

It was pretty much of a one-round kayo for mamma.

When Bill told her about it Muriel cried and told him to find another girl. But Bill growled that he loved her. And, what was more, he was going to marry her if he had to break her finger to get a ring on it!

That thrilled Muriel. But she kept right on worrying about mamma just the same. And now, as she primped up for the wedding, she was still worrying.

One of the bridesmaids came in and gushed about her gown. Muriel kept nodding and smiling through the recital— but most of her mind was on Bill. On Bill— and the way mamma acted.

When the last curl had been put inflexibly in place and the final dab of powder had been smoothed over the tip of the nose Muriel and the bridesmaids went downstairs. There they heard the ooh's and aah's of the older women who seemed to be able to talk with pins between their teeth.

Then the party stepped into the three cars and headed for the church. Muriel sat in a corner, close up to a window. She was thinking of her Bill— and of how much and how very deeply she loved him...

IT SEEMED only a minute later that the bridesmaids said the church was at hand. And they pointed to the crowd of friends, and the canopy, and the strange children fringing it, waiting for the bridal party. The bridegroom was in a nervous sweat as he walked up and down the church alley with his best man, puffing cigarettes and tugging at his tie. Muriel and the bridesmaids stepped out of their limousine and swept up the church steps. Under the canopy, the crowd parted. And Muriel went into the cool church vestibule where she stood waiting.

'Gee,' cried one of the kids, outside. 'She's a pretty bride, ain't she?'

'Shut up,' said his mother, cuffing him behind the ear. 'That's not the bride. That's an old maid, pining for a guy she sent away. The bride's her mother.'

_________________

24: Careless

CARELESS was slick-looking young man with educated fingers. He had a timid black moustache and his eyes were blue and disarming.

His attire was always rich as a birthday cake, and he had a way of never seeming excited.

Careless ran a gambling joint. In due time, as it must to all men, love came to him. Muriel Van Haven was the girl's name, and she was one of Careless's blue-blooded customers. She was young, and pretty, and a very nice person.

Careless proposed.

He was a little awkward about it, and she had to help him over the rougher spots— but he got through it very nicely.

"Social position isn't the point," she said. "I never cared about that, and I think you know it. But there is one hazard, and that is my dad.

"I don't want to sound old-timey, but I'll have to speak to him before I even think of marriage. You see, mom died when I was too tiny to remember. And since then, he's been, dad, mom, friend, confidant, and critic. I Just couldn't go against his wishes, Careless, I just couldn't."

Careless nodded.

"I understand, honey," he returned. "Whatever you say is all right with me-always."

MURIEL asked her father, and he wasn't too surprised. He had seen too many market crashes ever to be surprised at anything. He merely asked her to hold off until he had a chance to investigate the young man.

So Muriel held off. After weeks, her father strolled into the library with her one evening. They sat— and he talked.

"Now," he said casually, "about your young man. I've given him a good deal of attention, and I think you'll be interested in my findings."

She nodded nervously. "In the first place, no one knows where he came from. Eight years ago he came into town on a freight train. Did you know that?"

"No, I didn't," she replied. "Is it very important?"

"For some years, now, he has operated a gambling house? which you frequent? on Lesserman Lane. I made it my business to visit the place, and I find it is run with the secret knowledge and consent of corrupt officials. Your friend pays them for his immunity."

The girl said nothing. Her father drummed on the table.

"Accordingly," he continued, "you must admit he has an undesirable business, and an even more undesirable outlook. You must also admit that, by the very nature of his occupation, he is unable to promise you a future that holds much in the way of happiness.

"And, most Important of all, have you stopped to think of your own family?"

"I suppose I have," she said. "But I think that conditions to-day have changed all the old-fashioned conceptions of— "

"I wouldn't want this fellow as my son-in-law. I wouldn't want to meet him again at all, and it's not snobbishness on my part, either. Far from it.

"Lord, girl, I wouldn't care If you married a ditch-digger. As I long as he's honest, you have a chance for happiness. But this man isn't honest. He's a gambler. He's crooked. He makes his money by fleecing other people.

"No matter how you try, you can't point out one virtue in him. If you marry him, you can congratulate yourself on having married a thief. And, quite naturally, you and I would not be able to see each other again.

"I'm not being dramatic mind you. But I could never feel close to a daughter who thought so very little of her father."

Muriel said nothing for a long time. Then she stood up suddenly.

"All right dad," was all she said. "I'll never see Careless again."

LATER that night, she phoned Careless. She tried to explain it without breaking down. But she failed.

"I'll always love you," she sobbed. "And if you're a crook, as dad says, I hope you're the best crook in the world."

The man's voice was very low.

"What I said once, dear," he murmured, "still goes. Whatever you say is all right with me— always."

Careless felt badly. He felt as badly as any young man in love. But he turned away from the phone and called his book-keeper.

"Remember Muriel's father?" he asked softly. "He was in a week ago and lost heavily."

The bookkeeper nodded.

"Well," said Careless slowly, "I want you to take those phony cheques he signed and tear them up. We won't need them."

______________

25: The Old Homestead

THERE'S something about the mention of a farm that makes most people give out with the sighs.

The farm always sounds swell, and it has never missed being a hit as the theme of a popular song. Mention the old homestead in a tavern and the man next to you is 10-to-1 to weep into his beer.

But Willie Gumbo was the exception to the rule. Willie had been born and brought up on a farm. Green pastures and plenty of blue sky. Hay, and horses, and hens, and all the rest of the barnyard paraphernalia. Cows grazing happily on sloping hillsides. Yes, Willie knew more about the rustic racket than most people, and you'll undoubtedly be shocked to learn that he couldn't see anything the least bit attractive in the simple life.

Frankly. it bored him. On Willie's farm, the cows were as contented as any you've ever met. But that didn't mean a thing to Willie. There was very little around the farm that interested Willie Gumbo. As a matter of fact, from the time he was old enough to shinny down the water pipe, Willie spent his evenings on the steps of the Commercial House.

There he would listen to the small-time travellers talk in a big-time way. Their stories of the big cities fascinated him. The more he heard of the gay life, the more disgusted he became with his own way of living. The regular chores around the farm were bad enough to Willie, but the one thing he detested most cordially was milking.

By the time he was sixteen, Willie Gumbo was heartily sick of the whole racket. It seemed to him that he had a personal hatred for every cow in the world. He swore to himself that, when the opportunity arrived, he'd take himself far away. He'd go to a spot where he'd never have to look on another drop of milk as long as he lived. That, to Willie, would be heaven

CAME his nineteenth birthday— and boom! Willie was in love! To make this story a little different, the girl was on the level, and returned his affections. And since things were dull at the moment. Willie and his girl decided to get married. About a week before the so-called happy day, the girl confided to Willie her dreams of their future.

'What I've always wanted to do, darling,' she said, 'is to own a real, up-to-date dairy. After we're married, maybe it will all come true. You'll take care of the outside work— milking the cows and all that — and I'll do the rest. Won't that be grand?'

With those words the lady stabbed her approaching marriage right through the heart of the ceremony. Willie slowly turned a sickly green, and hastily made his apologies. With her milky words ringing in his ears. Willie Gumbo rushed home from the house.

An hour later he 'phoned his bride- who- almost- was. And he told her their wedding was indefinitely postponed.

At his favourite hangout In front of the Commercial House next evening, Willie met a shady gentleman he knew only as Buck. Buck was a stranger in town, and Willie had a suspicion he was hiding from the cops for a few days. That, however, failed to worry Willie. He spent much of his time with the old man, catered to him, fed him a few drinks, and, in general, made his visit as agreeable as possible, a little while afterwards, when Buck went back to the city, Willie Gumbo went with him.

Six months went by, and Willie was a changed lad. He talked differently, dressed differently. In one respect, however, Willie had not changed at all. He still could not bear to have a drop of milk anywhere around him. The sight of a milk waggon would drive our Willie slightly daffy— and, unfortunately, Willie saw many a milk waggon on his way home after a riotous night.

And there were many riotous nights, because Willie was in the dough now. It was stolen dough— and you know the old saying: Easy come, easy blow. Yes. Willie was in with a mob of expert crooks. Once every three or four months they pulled a big job— and Willie had been with them ever since he had arrived in the big city. Willie didn't handle a gun during these stick-ups. It was his job to sit in the car and keep the motor running for the getaway. There was very little to it, really. After the money was split Willie would discover he had sufficient cash on which to live very neatly until the next stick-up. It was as easy as that.

And when he thought of life on the farm— oh, boy, what a laugh! There was simply no comparison.

But you're 'way ahead of me, even If Willie wasn't. Came the night that enters the lives of all Willies: the night that things didn't go well at all. The boys were holding up a warehouse, and Willie was sitting nonchalantly behind, the wheel of the getaway car. Suddenly there was the sound of shots— and the boys came rushing out a moment later.

'Step on it!' they shouted.

Willie didn't like this at all, at all.

'What— what,' he gurgled, 'what's the matter?'

'Pete shot the watchman. Step on it. you fool!'

IN THE days that followed Willie comforted himself with the thought that the police couldn't do a thing to him. He hadn't shot anyone. He hadn't even carried a gun. Why, he was a cinch to beat the rap! But, alas— Willie was kidding himself. The gang was rounded up, and Willie had to stand trial with the rest of them. And he soon found out that, in the eyes of the law, he was as guilty as the man who had fired the fatal bullet. They didn't give Willie Gumbo the gallows— but they did provide him with a stone seat that was to last him for from 20 years to life. There was a short train ride... the sound of big doors closing behind him... a number instead of a name.

And there was our Willie.

WILLIE had a chance to think now. He thought a great deal during his first month in prison. And his thoughts were none too charming. What a fool he had been! True, he had detested the farm, and the cows, and the milk. But surely it was better than this. At least, on the farm, he could have sailed through life in simple fashion; at least, he could have lived on the principle that one good churn deserved another. And now what? Now, at an age when most youths were first starting out in the world, Willie was finished. His future was to be nothing more than a succession of empty days and blank walls. And to think he had fallen into this because of a silly notion that he hated milk. Lord, what a fool he had been!

I'd like to ask you a question now, dear reader: Does it seem possible to you that the other prisoners would ever envy our Willie? Sounds silly, doesn't it? Yet that's exactly what happened. After two months on the rock-pile, Willie Gumbo was given one of the softest jobs in the institution. He was placed in the prison milk department!

_________

26: A Maid's Mail

ANNIE had come from the employment agency. She was thin and old, and she had a reedy voice.

'Come in,' said Mrs. Higby.

Annie had come in. And she seldom went out again. Annie wasn't a good maid. It took her half an hour to make a pot of tea and put crackers and jam on the table. And her dusting of tables and woodwork left nothing gleaming. But Mrs. Higby couldn't have fired her for anything.

Annie brooded a lot. Sometimes she rubbed her eyes with the back of her knuckles. One day she couldn't hold back any longer, and she told Mrs. Higby her story. Seemed that Annie and her husband had lived comfortably for many years. They owned their own home, and Annie was treasurer of the Ladies' Aid.

They had no children. So, when Annie's sister died and left little Clara an orphan they adopted the child. Clara had brightened their lives. But at nineteen Clara had eloped with a municipal surveyor and gone to live in another town. She forgot to come back to see the people who had raised her.

Next, Annie's husband had died, leaving her alone. She had $500 from the insurance company. And the house. She tried to write a letter to Clara, but her eyes were failing and she couldn't read what she had written.

One day, Annie continued, Clara and her husband came to see her. Annie hugged Clara and fussed, half blind, in the kitchen to get afternoon tea.

Clara was sweet to Annie. She said she and her husband had often intended to drop over. But they'd been so busy they just hadn't got around to it.

After that they visited Annie again and again. In time, she learned about their great happiness and all their petty sorrows. She also learned that, if Clara's husband only had a few hundred dollars he could start a paying business of his own. They told her that reluctantly— and within five weeks Annie had lent them almost all she had. They had promised, to pay it all back within a year. But they didn't pay her back. And Annie had lost her last shilling and her house, too.

'Funny,' added Annie, 'they never came back after that. And I couldn't get to see them. My eyesight got so bad I couldn't trust myself on the buses.

'I got to thinking that maybe Clara had a baby, and you know how they take up your time. Then I thought she'd write. But Clara never was much of a hand at writing.'

Mrs. Higby looked at Annie. She knew she would have to do something. A week later she brought home a blank envelope, with folded blank paper inside.

'Letter for you, Annie,' she said.

'Oh,' Annie cried, clasping and unclasping her hands, 'Thanks be to God. The agency must have given my Clara my new address.'

Mrs. Higby read the blank letter to Annie. She made up a fine letter as she went along. It said Clara hadn't written earlier because she's been ill for a long time. The letter apologised for not sending the money. But there had been a baby and heavy expenses. The baby had been baptised Annie

Annie began to eat and sleep better. So Mrs. Higby kept on with her little scheme. Every so often she brought home another blank letter. Reverently Annie placed each note back in its envelope, then put it in a drawer. After a while, the letters became a packet, tied with pink ribbon.

Then Mrs. Higby learned Annie's birthday was approaching. She put a $5 note in an envelope with the usual blank piece of paper.

'Another letter,' she said when she walked in. Then she read it, and showed Annie the $5— a present from Clara.

Annie cried great tears of happiness. Next morning Mrs. Higby told Annie she ought to buy something useful with that money.

'Oh, I will,' cried Annie. 'I will!'

It was late afternoon when Annie came in. She was aglow.

'What do you think, Mrs. Higby?' she babbled. 'I've seen one of those eye doctors. He said my eyes aren't really very bad, and he can fix them.

'So for the $5 Clara sent me I'm getting a pair of strong glasses. Then I'll be able to read Clara's letters all by myself!'

_____________

27: Raspberries

THE little man was extremely particular. He walked quietly into the office, removed his hat and wrapped it in paper before putting it in his locker. He draped his coat carefully on a hanger. Then he put on his office coat, and walked solemnly into the office of the Big Boss.

This office was elegantly furnished, on the right wall was a huge portrait— the face and figure of the Big Boss.

The little man stood and regarded that portrait for at least three minutes. Then suddenly he inserted his tongue between his lips and blew lustily. It was as complete and satisfying a raspberry as has ever been handed out in any land or clime.

Evidently the little man was satisfied, too. For he now smiled and went about his morning tasks with a highly contented air

THE LITTLE MAN'S name was Henry Harper. And while it might be, well, that his regular morning raspberry wasn't in the best of taste, Henry really had the best of reasons.

Thirty years before Henry and the Big Boss had been clerks. The Big Boss was then known as plain Jimmy Black. They were pals. Their taste in ladies must also run along similar lines. For shortly after Henry Harper had met Martha Jackson, his pal Jimmy Black had a date with her. Henry was very much in love with Martha, but he was colorless. He was a poor conversationalist. He had little experience In love-making, and— worst of all— he had no money.

Jimmy Black was a coupon from a different ration book. When his family bought an interest in the business be became general manager overnight.

Martha didn't hesitate for a split second. She married the Big Boss.

After the honeymoon Jimmy Black was no longer the Jimmy Black of old.

"Harper," he said stiffly, "I'm putting through a little reorganisation around here. From now on you will assist my assistant secretary. You will see that my papers are properly filed and my office kept clean. That will be all."

And that was all— for almost 20 years. The Big Boss made Henry Harper's life miserable.

Came the day. then, that the Big Boss brought in the oil portrait.

With great pride he had hung it in his office. And from that moment onward Henry Harper's only solace was in walking up to that frame every morning and emitting a luscious raspberry.

As time raced by the Big Boss seemed to take a keen delight In keeping Henry Harper In fear of his job. He never advanced him in the firm, never raised his salary. Why didn't Henry Harper quit? Simply because he had no-thing better, and this was the only work he knew.

One morning the Big Boss didn't show up. He had dropped dead on his way to the office.

A few weeks later the new Big Boss come in. His name was Frank, and he was the son of Jimmy Black and Martha. He was tall and awkward; he said very little. But he was likeable. And Henry Harper found himself doing his best to help the kid.

IN the fourth year, a week before the company had its annual dinner, Henry Harper told the Big Boss he was through. He said he had a few pennies saved up. Not much.

The kid tried to bluff him out of the idea by offering a raise and saying that Henry was still a young man. But Henry knew he was old.

On the night of the dinner, the kid announced it— Henry didn't expect the Big Boss to make it public like that, and when he was called upon to make a speech the old man refused nervously.

He knew that if he made the speech he wanted to, he would tell everybody what a pig the kid's father had been. He would tell how the woman he loved had been stolen from him. He would tell how the Big Boss had delighted ii keeping Henry in fear of his job.

He would tell of the only fun he ever had? emitting a raspberry at the portrait of the man he hated,

But the new Big Boss didn't realise. He kept urging the old man to speak. He cited the fact that Henry Harper had been with the company many many years. And he said that Henry was an old friend of his father's.

That got the old man. He made the speech. He didn't mean a word of it, but he had to please this kid.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am an exceedingly poor talker. And I have no wish to bore you with my years of experience in this company. When I was a young man I went into the business with Jimmy Black. He was my good friend.

"As time went on, and we grew older, we were more like brothers than boss and employee. We worked shoulder to shoulder every day, and when Jimmy passed on from this world something was taken from my life that can never be replaced.

"Now my time is up, and I'm quitting. Soon, perhaps, he and I will be together again. Thank you...."

The kid walked out from behind the speaker's table. There were tears in his eyes.

"Mr. Harper," he said brokenly, "I must confess that even I never realised how much you and Dad meant to each other. I had intended to give you a cheque as a retirement gift. But now I've changed my mind.

"l am going to give you. Mr. Harper, my most valued possession. To your home, tomorrow, will be delivered the portrait that hangs in my office— the portrait of my beloved father!"

_____________

28: Another Day

TRAGIC indeed is the story of Dennis McPearl.

Dennis was a kindly man, and a cheerful one. He never did a thing in his life that was very wrong, and he marched along with a song in his heart, and a smile on his kisser; McPearl's tragedy was in the fact that he was strictly a "tomorrow" man.

Seems almost as though Dennis McPearl was born with this failing. He didn't learn to walk until very late, because he would always crawl back to his crib. The lad got through public school— but how he did it, nobody knows.

"I don't mind the homework," he once explained, "but I always like to do it tomorrow instead of today. And what's the use of bothering about examinations? If I don't pass, them this year, then I can take them over again next year."

He was almost 18 when he graduated from public school. And they only let him out then because he was beginning to haunt the teachers. It took him a year to land a job— and he lost it the second day. Seems as though the boss gave him a package to deliver, and Dennis went home and went to bed.

When he was fired. Dennis was mildly puzzled. "You wouldn't think, would you." he observed, "that a boss would be so unreasonable? After, all, I was going to deliver' it tomorrow."

And so it went with job after job.

"Yes," agreed Irene tearfully, ."he was made the caretaker of an empty theatre that had been built years before by an eccentric millionaire. It was the one job that appealed to Dennis McPearl, and he was a howling success from the start. Everything could be put off until tomorrow, because there was nothing to do today.

Came the day when Dennis was due to step into the matrimonial seas. What made Irene fall for Dennis must remain one of those inexplicable things that only women know about. But I expect it had something. to do with the fact, when she was first willing to kiss Dennis McPearl, he said he'd rather let it go until tomorrow.

On his wedding day, as you probably know by this time, our hero didn't show up. It was Irene herself who raced from the church to Dennis' place of business-and practically dragged him to the altar.

Irene took Dennis for worse or for worse, and she never stopped trying ,to make a go of their marriage. For seven long years, she kept trying to cure him of his "tomorrow" complex.

"Dennis, " she would tell him, "we're getting nowhere in the world. I wish you'd look for, a new job, instead of that thing you've got now! Will you do it; Dennis, for me?"

"Sure, darling," was Mr. McPearl's inevitable reply, "I'll look around tomorrow."

And so the years moved on.

By saving every penny, Dennis And Irene finally managed to by a tiny house on the outskirts of New York. But things came to an end with a dramatic suddenness. Something went wrong, with the furnace, and Irene called in the repairman to see what the trouble was.

Dennis returned home just as the repairman was about to go to work— and he called him off immediately.

"No use working on that today," he stated. "It's not so cold now, and maybe it will work out by itself. If we need you, we'll call you in tomorrow."

Well, the repairman waited for a few days, and, having had no call, marched himself around to the McPearl homestead to see what was what. Mrs, McPearl answered the bell, and her eyes were red from weeping.

Mr. McPearl was dead. He had been fooling with the furnace when it exploded, killing him immediately.

The repairman did his best to console the poor widow.

"It's too bad," he observed.

"Yes," agreed Irene tearfully, "he was a grand man. I loved him so. And now it's all over."

"A shame," he sympathised. "A great shame. When will he be buried?"

Irene sighed heavily. "Tomorrow," was her reply.

_______________

29: Confession Of Guilt

THE bell sounded from in the old man's room, and Martin went swiftly up the stairs. He opened the door and saw that the room was dark as usual. The old man seemed almost lost in the shadows of the big bed.

Samuel Reynolds raised himself on the pillows. It was an effort, for this was an old man. A very tired old man.

'I just remembered,' he said, and his voice was tired, too. 'It's the first of the month again. Martin. Bring me my cheque book.'

Martin went to the desk in the corner of the room. He picked up a pen and the fat cheque book with the name 'Samuel Reynolds' printed on the cover. He brought them both to the bed, and the old man signed a cheque with a feeble nourish that was almost embarrassing watch.

'You fill in the amount, Martin,' he croaked. 'You know just what it should be. You fill it in.' He fell back on his pillow.

As he opened the door to leave, Martin turned. 'Anything else, Mr. Reynolds?' he inquired respectfully.

The old man nodded slowly. 'Yes. boy,' he replied weakly. 'Just want you to know that I appreciate all you're doing. Running this house for me, and all. Isn't anybody else I could trust.' He sighed heavily. 'Don't know what would happen to me if it wasn't for you. Just don't know.'

'Glad to do it,' Martin's voice was gruff. 'Don't, worry about anything. Just go on and gel well.'

Samuel Reynolds essayed a weak smile. 'That's a grim joke, Martin.' he quavered. 'I won't ever get well, and you know it. You know it very well.

'But never mind. Things are going all right. The servants are all satisfied. I hope. Give them raises, if you think they ought to have more money. It's a big job these days, keeping six or seven people happy downstairs. I leave it all to you, boy, All to you.'

'I'll watch it, Mr. Reynolds,' Martin said. 'Don't worry.'

He stepped from the room, closing the door softly behind him. Then he saw Mary. She had evidently come upstairs to clean the hall, but now she wasn't working. She was simply standing; there with the mop in her hand, staring at him accusingly.

Martin said nothing. There was nothing for him to say. He knew Mary had heard the old man's words about the other servants. And there were no other servants now. Only Martin and Mary

He walked past the girl and went downstairs to the kitchen. He picked up the luncheon dishes and prepared to clean them. And he pretended not to know that Mary had followed him.

'Martin!' He turned slowly now and looked at the girl. She regarded him coldly. 'I heard every word the old man said,' she cried. 'If I hadn't, I never would have believed it! Nice fellow you turned out to be!

'Mr. Reynolds doesn't know there's nobody working here but you and me. He's been making out those cheques for all the staff, not knowing they were leaving, one by one. getting defence jobs and such. And you've been cashing his cheques and paying me my wages, and feeding only the two of us and putting the rest of the cash in your pocket.

'That's it, isn't it?'

Martin wiped his hands slowly.

'You heard what he said,' he admitted. 'Why pile it on? I've been fooling him all right. So what?'

'Nice going!' Mary shook her head in disgust. 'Boy, am I lucky to have found you out in time! I didn't leave with the rest, because I thought I was nuts about you— because I thought I loved you.'

She laughed shortly. 'And all the while you've been nothing but a cheap crook.

'Did I say cheap?' she shivered. 'I meant something stronger. What a cinch for you to rob a sick, old man! He won't let anybody but you into his room. And he trusts you completely.

'It's a pretty little racket. Martin. Taking the money for all those people— and telling me you couldn't get any other help, because of the conditions! And I, like a sap, doing the work of three people, just to help you out. Oh, boy, oh, boy, oh, boy!'

Martin stepped toward her. 'Look. Mary,' he pleaded, 'don't talk that way. You caught me all right, but— well, everything will work out. You know how I feel about you. We'll be getting married just as soon as— '

'Married?' she echoed shrilly. 'I wouldn't marry you now if you captured Hitler for a wedding present! What kind of a guy are you? Don't you remember telling me that he was almost a father to you?'

All of which was precisely true. Martin had been little more than a hobo when Samuel Reynolds took him in some fifteen years before. Martin had worked around the grounds at first. Then he became the old man's chauffeur. And for the past two years he had managed all of Reynolds' affairs.

'He paid you a fine salary,' Mary went on angrily. 'You didn't have to be that hungry for money. You didn't have to cheat him that way!'

Martin started to speak again, but he was interrupted when the front door buzzer sounded impatiently. He removed his apron hastily.

'That's the doctor,' he said. 'I'll have to go up with him. We'll talk about all this— just as soon as the doctor goes.'

But they didn't talk about it. Because as soon as Martin left, the kitchen, Mary went up the back stairs. She went to her room on the third floor and took her things out of the closet. Then she drew a worn travelling bag front beneath her bed and began to pack.

It wasn't so much the money, nor even the fact that Martin had lied to her. Mary had been around, and she well know that all isn't gold that wears a pair of pants. But in her eyes, ingratitude and disloyalty were cardinal sins. These she couldn't forgive.

She finished her packing. And then went out through the back door, while Martin and the doctor were still in the old man's room.

Martin remained in that room for some time. After the doctor left, Samuel Reynolds wanted to talk. He wanted to talk about the old days. And past glories. And the fortune and prestige that had once been his. Thus, he talked on and on— and it was too late when Martin returned to the kitchen. Mary was gone. And when Martin climbed the stairs and saw her empty room, he knew she would never return.

Well, Martin reflected gloomily, perhaps it was just as well for Mary's own sake. The old man might linger on for months. And Martin couldn't take care of the old man and a wife, too. Not if he wanted to keep on fooling them both. Because the money was getting low. Martin's money.

For more than six months now, there hadn't been a cent in the old man's cheque account.

__________________

30: After Twelve Long Years

AS far as Arthur Billings was concerned, money wasn't merely the most important thing in life; it was the only thing. To this man with moneymania, nothing else mattered. He dreamed money. He lived for it.

'All that sentimental nonsense about money not bringing happiness is just so much bunk,' he would set forth. 'How can you be happy if you're hungry? Money may not buy happiness, but it'll buy just about every thing else.'

Arthur hesitated a long time before he mustered up enough courage to tell Evelyn the truth. But when he did, he plunged immediately into his subject.

'You know I like you and all that,' he began. 'I hope you understand, Evelyn. It's just that I wouldn't have any chance of getting anywhere if I was married.

'I want money, Evelyn. I want it more than anything— more than marriage.'

The two parted shortly after that. The woman was tearful, but Arthur was merely impatient. 'I'll be rich some day,' he assured her by way of fond farewell. 'Maybe I'll come back and we can be friends again. Maybe you'll still like me then.'

'I'll never love anyone else,' Evelyn sobbed. 'Never!'

THE YEARS skipped by, almost a dozen of them. During those years Arthur worked hard, and his labour wasn't entirely without results. There had never been another woman after Evelyn. He thought more and more often of Evelyn. As he grew older, married life seemed more attractive. And so, in that frame of mind, Arthur made the journey back to the old neighbourhood.

Thus we find the man and his long lost sweetie surveying each other sadly over their beer and pretzels. Evelyn had changed, of course. But to Arthur she was more attractive than ever.

'You're not happy, are you, my dear?' he inquired softly. 'Don't deny it, Evelyn, I can tell that this marriage hasn't turned out right for you.'

'You're right, Arthur,' the woman sighed. 'I'm far from happy. You see, I— I married the wrong man. My husband is hardly what you'd call a successful figure. He's stodgy and dull. I know now that I made a frightful mistake.'

'Divorce?' he suggested.

'Henry would never consent,' Evelyn murmured. 'Though I know I can't go on much longer. I don't love him— never have. I'm afraid. Oh, Arthur!'

The man reached over and patted her hand. 'Things will come out right,' he told her.

ARTHUR returned to the city, and on the way he did some heavy thinking. Now that he knew Evelyn still loved him, nothing could keep them apart. And yet she was married to another man.

The meeting with Henry was easily arranged. He merely called up and requested an interview— alone. Then, when the two men were together in the shabby living-room of Henry's home, Arthur began his little speech.

Evelyn, he declared, loved another man. Her husband must have known that surely. If he would put no obstacles in the way of her divorce, there would be a little present for him.

Arthur slapped down the bills and smiled with satisfaction as the other man's eyes grew wide.

'It's too late to hope that you can hold her,' Arthur pointed out. 'In return for this money, the man she is going to marry hopes that you'll be agreeable in all matters pertaining to the divorce.'

Henry nodded rapidly. He counted the money eagerly, and tucked it away in his pocket.

'I'm merely working for the man in this case,' Arthur hastened to assure him. He reached for his hat nervously. There would be nothing gained, he figured, in starting any trouble right now.

As he reached the door, the other man began to speak again.

'I knew you wasn't,' he went on. 'I know the man all right. Yes, sir; I'm not as dumb as Evelyn took me for. I was wise to what was going on, all right.

'That's why I wasn't surprised at all when she packed up her things and ran away with him last night!'

_____________

31: Words of Wisdom

IT was sunny in the warden's office, and the warm, yellow shafts fell across the kid standing at the desk. The warden looked down at a card in his hand.

"Glen Johnson," he read, "21, Allgood Township, grand larceny, 1 to 3 years, County Court Spring Term."

The kid smiled. "Yes, sir," he said softly. "That's me, sir."

He moved back out of the sunlight and the fat warden could see the careless black hair, the apple cheeks and the shiny black eyes. He could also see a smile that perhaps even prison couldn't break. Perhaps.

Yes, the warden liked this kid. There was no reason to like a crook; even a crook with a personality. But this kid disarmed the warden and almost made him smile.

He caught himself in time and cleared his throat.

"Glen Johnson," he said gravely, "you are here, for a term of from one to three years. If you behave you will be treated fairly. If you don't behave, your face will be smashed until you understand us.

"For good behaviour you will get one-third off. It is possible, but not probable, that you'll get out of here in eight months, which is one third of the minimum sentence. You should keep that in mind when any of the prison trouble-makers try to win you over to their little schemes.

"I don't want you to come complaining to me about guards or food or quarters, I want you to work wherever you are assigned, and I don't want you pretending you're ill to get time off. The man standing outside this office is principal keeper Geller. He'll take care of you."

Then the warden permitted himself the most fleeting of smiles.

"Good luck, kid," he said.

THAT was the first day. The second day, the warden again had him in the office. He liked this kid without knowing why, and that made him angry. Now he hoped to learn something that would make him dislike Glen Johnson.

"What'd you steal, son?" the warden asked.

"A hundred smackers," was the prompt reply, and the grin broadened. "I was working in a plumbing shop, a sort of helper. I was alone. So, a customer walks in and asks where's the boss, and I tell him the boss is busy working on a flooded cellar job on Davis Street.

"Well, the customer says he's got no time to wait, but he owes the boss a hundred bucks for two months and will I take it I said sure. So I write him out a nice receipt and, when he walks out, I look at that little old hundred and put it right in my pocket."

The boy rapped his knuckles against the side of his head. "Stupid!" he cried. "Boy, oh boy, was that stupid! A week later the boss sends a nasty letter to this guy about this dough, and the guy gets sore and yanks out the receipt; and the first thing you know two cops are dragging me right out of that plumber shop into the clink."

The warden just stared at Glen Johnson, and the boy's enthusiasm began to wane. But he talked on, just the, same.

"Of course," he said, ''I still think one to three years for a hundred bucks is a pretty heavy jolt. The judge could of made me go out and get a job and pay it back. He didn't have to..."

"He should have made it five to ten," the warden interrupted acidly. "Then you wouldn't be so stupid the next time. Go back to your cell."

The kid left and the warden sat in silence. Then he picked up his brown fedora, jammed it on, went out and walked down the gravel path to the flower-framed house the State had built for him. His wife was in the living room when he entered.

'How would you like a new gardener?" he asked her.

"What's wrong with the one we've got now?" she returned.

"He's ruining everything in the garden," her husband snapped. "And he's lazy, too. I think it's time to make a switch."

His wife shrugged. "Funny you haven't mentioned this before," she said. "but it doesn't make much difference, I guess. Who did you have in mind "

"Oh," he replied nonchalantly. "a new kid. Glen something-or-other. A first offender, who stole a hundred dollars. I— er— I kind of like him."

So Glen Johnson got the gardening job. The warden began to spend more time about the house. On many occasions he asked Glen about stealing the money. And he drove home the lesson that the youngster had acquired a record for a measly hundred dollars.

Glen didn't have much to say. He merely listened and nodded his head as the warden drove home the lessons of honesty.

Then one day, the kid did a little talking on his own. "You've been awful good to me, warden," he said. "You've tried to show me how stupid I was, how cheaply I sold myself. Well, I've learned. Never again, warden? and I mean it. You have my word on it."

The warden grinned widely. "Now you're talking," he cried. "The best thing you can do when you get out of here is to forget what happened. Start fresh. Go to another town. Go far, away. I want to see you make good, Glen, and I have every faith that you will do just that."

Four months later, Glen Johnson was paroled. He was given a shiny suit, a few dollars, a railroad ticket, and a handshake. But behind the warden's eyes was a little more. There was the look a father might have bestowed on an errant son, it was worried— and yet sort of glad.

WEEKS went by. Now and then the warden wondered what Glen Johnson was doing, but he didn't worry much. He could tell, by the way the boy had reacted, that he knew he had made a mistake in going to jail for the taking of a hundred dollars.

Months went by. Six of them. And one morning the warden looked up from his desk. Glen was standing there, grinning boyishly. The warden glanced at the card in his hand. And then, despairingly he asked what had happened.

"Don't get sore, warden," Glen Johnson said, "I learned my lesson good from you. No more cheap stuff for me. No sir, I'm in here this time for a ten thousand dollar hold up!"

_______________

32: The Final Touch

THIS was the end of the road— the absolute finish. No sense kidding herself about it. There was no going back now. She regarded the clothes spread in elegant disarray on the living-room floor and two pigskin suitcases that rested on different chairs.

She regarded the various items, and she wished she wasn't alone. Then she could have said something without seeming silly to herself. She kept telling herself there was some sort of phrase to explain this emotion through which she was going. But it wouldn't come to her.

So she sighed heavily. Then she knelt down and began to shovel the clothes into the suitcases. Something was very wrong— and, in this case, the something was her marriage. Said marriage had very recently died, and the interment would take place within an hour. Said marriage had died one of those slow deaths during which she and Johnny both knew it, it would definitely expire. Yes, both knew— and each kept trying to fan the dying embers with kindness. The attempt didn't even get started. It was doomed from the beginning.

It hadn't always been like this. By no means, when she thought back to 1930, she remembered it had all been very different. Their great love at that time seemed hardy enough to live forever; hardy enough to stand the rigors of cold, and abuse, and neglect. Love was very alive then. Vitally alive. She had married Johnny because life seemed tremendously dull without him. And Johnny, I suppose, had married her for the same reason on the other side of the fence.

At the time he didn't have much of a job— but who cared? Other people got along on less. Much less. And besides, she'd keep her job until he got going. The furniture was cheap. (Don't know whether you realise it, but that statement has made more marriages than the most beautiful June moon you ever saw.) Oh, cheap furniture— how many marriages have come to pass in thy name! Love was young then. Like revolution and bread pudding, it thrived on poverty.

But did it last? Don't ask. After six months, which includes sixty-three days tossed in for good measure, she began to feel the gradual slowing up of ecstasy. Into paradise marched such mundane matters as grocer's bills, rent, milk bills, and lack of rent. And, as a sort of climax-topper, Johnny lost his job.

Why? Well, it was because he wanted it that way. He said he was wasting his talents on that silly job. He had a big brain, he stated— and he wanted a big job that was deserving of that brain.

Slowly, very slowly she began to understand what her parents had meant by their opposition to Johnny. He was a swell little guy; mannerly; affable, a ready wit. But he was insufferably lazy. Before the wedding her father had told her Johnny could never keep a job. Sooner or later, Pop had told her, Johnny always lost jobs because of laziness. She had laughed then— but now she was finding out.

Two months after he lost his first job he found another one. That one lasted fourteen months, and then he quit.

'The boss was a fool,' was his explanation.

He got another job, and quit that. And another. And another. She left him in disgust and went home to mother. For two days she listened to her mother whine 'I told you so'— and then she went back to Johnny.

He wept extensively and told her he had missed her so very much. He swore he'd get a good job so that she could quit work, and that she'd be very proud of him in the future. The next day he forgot all about it.

IN November of 1938 she tried it again. She told him that a man at her office was very much in love with her, and that this man was in a position to support her decently. Accordingly, she wanted a divorce.

Johnny immediately went into a weepskrieg. He fell to the floor on his knees and clutched at her and begged her not to leave him. He'd commit suicide, he said. He simply couldn't go on without her. She was the only happiness he'd ever had from life. She clamped her jaws and cried. 'I won't listen to you this time! I won't listen ever again. It's the same old lies all over again!'

But she did listen. And soon she was weeping, too. And she said she'd never leave him, and to please forgive her for mentioning it. To ease his mind, she even quit her job and took a new one. She felt it might embarrass Johnny if she continued to work in an office with a man who wanted to marry her. Her new job wasn't too hot; the hours were longer and the pay was less. But she felt it was the right thing to do.

THEN, little by little, she began to realise that it was useless. She had done everything in her power, but that wasn't enough. He'd always be the same old Johnny. No matter what happened, he'd always be lazy. And he'd always be weeping when retribution caught up with him. And he'd always be promising to get a job and keep it. And she'd always be giving in to him.

The furniture grew old and threadbare. The vanity mirror leaned a little more drunkenly. The bottle of iodine had long since been broken in the bathroom. And love, that brave little fellow who seemed immortal when they played the Wedding March, was on the ropes and gasping for breath.

Well, there it was. Now she knelt in the centre of the faded living- room, packing. Now she realised that this romance was dead and that nothing would ever revive it again. It had taken a long time to get to this stage, but it had finally arrived.

She was packing— but her mind wasn't on her work. Her brain kept popping pictures at her. Pictures a bit yellowed around the edges by time. Pictures that can be conjured up by any wife at any time. It was all over now. She'd never see Johnny again, except for a casual nod if they ever happened to pass on the street. Never again would she listen to his impassioned pleadings, nor heed his coursing tears. Everything was over.

And then, as she jammed the clothes into the suitcases she suddenly did a strange thing. She smiled. It wasn't a broad smile. It was one of those funny, crooked little smiles that often come to people in moments of sorrow. There was a reason for that smile.

For Johnny had asked her only this morning, for a divorce. He told her he wanted to marry a wealthy widow. And, as if that wasn't enough, she was now giving her marriage a final touch of irony. She was packing lazy Johnny's clothes for him!

_____________

33: Debt Repaid

DOTTIE toiled not, for it wasn't necessary. Not with Jenny on the scene. Because Jenny made up to twenty dollars a week doing plain and fancy laundering.

Two people, of course, can scarcely live in luxury on that amount of money. It's not exactly paradise for one person, either, but what fun there was to be had out of those twenty bucks Dottie enjoyed.

Which placed the lady known as Jenny fairly and squarely in a financial plot. Jenny never complained, however. Never had. Ever since the day that Dottie's mother died and she had taken the child Jenny had worked untiringly. She spoiled that kid from the very beginning.

When Dottie grew old enough to earn her own living, Jenny never suggested such a course. And you may be sure that Dottie never advanced any such thought, either. It was much more pleasant to lie in bed until noon and read movie magazines and love stories. The kind of yarn she enjoyed most was the story in which the poor but pure heroine marries the handsome and flashing millionaire on the last page. In movies her taste ran along similar lines. Because it just went to show you that such things could happen. Why, something like that might happen to Dottie herself!

Jenny, of course, had little time to read and no money for movies. So Dottie told her all about these things. She was generous in that one respect, was Dottie. And besides, it wasn't always easy to get anyone else to listen to her.

'You can't tell, Jen,' Dottie would say, over and over. 'It could happen to me, too.'

'Gee, it'd be great to get away from a dump like this! To have nice clothes and everything! Wouldn't it be wonderful if I could catch myself a millionaire?'

Jenny would straighten up painfully and agree that it would be very wonderful indeed. She had always believed that Dottie was different from other girls in the neighbourhood. Which would have been an excellent reason for rejoicing among the other girls.

Well, I realise there was no justice in the whole thing. I know Dottie should have been made to bend over just as many ironing boards as poor Jenny. I insist that's the way this story should end. But, alas, it didn't happen that way.

Quite the contrary, in fact. For Dottie met and married her rich man! How she turned the trick I have no idea. She met a rich man named Henry, and he fell in love with her. It was as simple as all that. Henry was a little simple, too, so that made it even all round.

Aside from his money, Henry was hardly what you might term a bargain. He wasn't very handsome, and he was plenty shop-worn. But Dottie was willing to overlook those things. As a matter of fact, as long as he had dough you could have lopped off his ears and Dottie would still have thought him beautiful.

When Dottie spilled the news to her, Jenny was very happy. Happy for Dottie, of course— and happy for herself, too. She was getting tired of the washboard and the iron. But just how tired she hadn't realised until now. when there seemed to be a chance she would get away from it all. But Dottie's next words didn't help any.

'Of course, Jenny,' the girl said, Henry doesn't know all about me. What I mean is. I couldn't tell him I lived in a terrible place like this. That's why I never brought him here.

'Why, if I did, he'd probably want to give me up. Naturally, he doesn't know about you. I just told him both my parents were dead.'

The girl looked rather proud of herself. 'I made up a pretty good story, too.' she went on. 'I told him we were a fine old family, but when papa and mamma died I was left without money. He thinks I'm one of those— what do you call 'em'?— genteel poor. So you can see, Jenny, why I cant possibly tell Henry about you.'

Jenny nodded. She didn't see at all.

'We're going to be married at his mother's house.' Dottie told her. And that's where well live afterwards. It's a lovely place, Jen. I'll tell you all about it.'

The vision of riches hadn't changed our Dottie, you see. She was just as big-hearted as ever.

THE DAY that Dottie sailed out of the flat to be married, it appeared she had sailed out for good. Jenny waited patiently for a call, or a letter, or a postcard. It didn't seem possible that Dottie could go out of her life like that. But Dottie apparently could.

After that, life was even more difficult for Jenny. Without Dottie sitting around as Jenny worked, the days seemed much longer. But Jenny wasn't giving up yet. She still loved Dottie. And she continued to believe the girl would come back one day and take her away from this flat. When anyone asked about Dottie, Jenny lied s cheerfully. She was travelling now, said Jenny, with her husband and her mother-in-law. She described Dottie's new home as she remembered it from what Dottie had told her.

She said stoutly that, in time, she would give up the flat. Dottie had no intention of allowing her to go on working now that dear Dottie was married to a wealthy man. She was doing it— well, just to keep busy until Dottie found her a place that was nice enough.

Then, finally, came the day when Jenny could lie no longer to either the neighbours or herself. Dottie had been married six months. And Jenny hadn't heard from her since she floated out of the flat with Jenny's one good pair of silk stockings.

She wept a little over her ironing board. Life, as she viewed it, had been plenty unfair. After years of sacrifice for a child who wasn't even your own, you were left alone. And the child upon whom you had showered all your affection could forget all about you overnight.

As Jenny sighed heavily she heard the insistent tooting of a car horn in front or the house. She walked slowly to the window. And she saw Dottie, assisted by a liveried chauffeur, stepping out of a long and beautiful car.

Jenny pressed her hands against her cheeks. At last! But she felt ashamed of herself, now that Dottie was finally here. She was ashamed that she had ever doubted the girl would come back.

DOTTIE swept into the flat with a contemptuous glance. 'Same old dump,' were her opening words. 'Boy, maybe I'm not glad to be away from here. How've you been, Jen?'

'Fine, darling,' said Jenny, as she kissed the girl's cheek. 'But I thought— well, I thought maybe you had forgotten me.'

Dottie shook her head. 'By no means,' she replied.

Jenny beamed. What a fool she had been ever to have doubted Dottie!

'Yes, Jenny,' Dottie continued, 'I'm going to help you out. In a big house like ours there's a lot of washing. And I'm going to see that you get that laundry to do from now on!'

'I've thought about you a lot— and I've wanted to help you. That's why I came here to-day.'

_______________

34: Pay envelope!

HE sat in the living room and looked down at his hands as they twirled the little yellow envelope. It was sealed on both ends. But by squeezing it, he could feel the crinkle of bills and the dead weight of coins.

Once again, the pay envelope. For five long years he had held one of these in his hands each week— and for those same five long years he had fought valiantly against handing it over to Sadie.

But every Friday night, sooner or later, she was the winner. And he always handed it over— screaming at the same moment that this was the last time he'd ever give in.

Well, this was Friday night once again. And he sat there, twirling that yellow envelope, and fighting with himself, and coaching himself for argument, and egging himself not to surrender.

No doubt about where Sadie was. You could hear her in the kitchen from where he sat. Cooking hash, as usual— and needlessly banging plates around, and monkeying with pots and pans, and priming herself for the fight to come.

Why, he asked himself, must we have this same old trouble every Friday? Why can't she give in once in awhile? Even once would be enough, just to save my pride a little. But no. She wants the pay envelope, and she wants it intact. And she won't even let me kid myself that I'm gonna have my way.

Why can't we live like other people? Do you ever hear Herb Foy and Myrtle arguing. You bet you don't! Every time Herb opens his yap, Myrtle smiles and says 'Yes dear... certainly, dear... you're right, dear'— I never get any of that. Well, this time I'm fed up. Yes. sir. This time I'm putting my foot down and I don't care what she says. Get a load of her out there. Banging pots and pans just to show me how sore she it. This is one time that old dodge isn't going to work. If she burns the hash, I'm gonna pick it up and fling it light in her kisser. We're gonna have a new deal around here, and I'm gonna be my own boss....

He kept twisting the envelope in his hands. He had aroused himself to such a pitch that his face was now a fiery red. His stomach trembled with nervousness. He was beginning to fear that he might take a punch at Sadie. Never had he raised a hand to her. Never in their five years together. But the worm was turning fast. The worm was now driven to a tigerish desperation. Anything might happen.

SADIE came to the door. She was rubbing the palms of her hands against her apron. 'Supper's on the table.' she announced acidly. 'You'll find the chile sauce in the refrigerator.'

He stopped fumbling with the envelope.

'I — I ain't so very hungry. Sadie,' he said. 'But I guess I better grab a bite. Ain't you gonna eat?'

She pulled the loop of her apron over her head and sat down wearily.

'No,' was her reply. 'Never mind about me. You go ahead and eat.'

'Gee, Sadie,' he murmured, 'you gotta eat. You'll get sick.'

He tried to put his arm around her. She thrust him away angrily.

'Go away,' she growled. 'Don't you dare touch me, you— you pig.'

He sighed heavily.

'All right, all right,' he said, resignedly. 'So I'm anything you say. A pig, even. But that ain't got nothing to do with supper. You gotta eat, Sadie.'

Her eyes narrowed. All this solicitude, she knew, was leading up to the inevitable. She displayed an open hand.

'Give me that envelope,' she demanded. He recoiled. Every vestige of sympathy died. He didn't give a hoot now whether she got sick or not. The fight was officially on.

'Nothing doing,' he barked. 'Not on your life.'

'Listen you,' Her words were like ice. 'I want that envelope.'

'I don't care what you want,' he said angrily. 'I'm sick and tired of these Friday night fights. And I'm telling you right now that I don't want to hear any more about this pay envelope business.

'I'm the man here. I wear the pants— not you. And as long as I continue to wear the pants, I'll handle this pay envelope. And let me tell you something else: You can nag all night long, and all day to-morrow, but you ain't getting this little old pay envelope.

'And that's that!'

Her expression never changed. 'Give me that envelope.' she said, 'before I lose my temper.'

He stepped away from an imaginary swing. 'Go ahead. Lose your temper. Maybe I'll lose mine, too, for a change. I'm sick and tired of your nagging. After all, I've got a little self-respect. So I'm telling you I'm the boss from now on, and don't you forget it.'

She said nothing, just stared at him with loathing. He cleared his throat nervously and looked in the direction of the kitchen, hoping that peace would come.

'Come on out and have some hash with me,' he suggested. 'It'll be getting cold.'

'You'll be getting cold, too,' was her even response, 'before you ever keep that envelope.'

He looked very forlorn. Every time he made a little peace overture it backfired in his face. He wanted to step nonchalantly into the kitchen and eat the hash, but he was afraid to. So he sat down in the living room and began to twirl the envelope again. She stood near the kitchen door and stared . at him beady-eyed.

'Give me that envelope,' she said softly. Then she repeated it: 'Give me that envelope.' Then, on a slightly rising inflection: 'Give me that envelope.'

He stopped twirling it. It was the old, old story. The hurricane signals were up....

He talked in what he thought was a sneering tone . 'Suppose I do,' he said. 'I'll still be the boss around here. I want you to know that.'

She smiled. She knew an ignominious surrender when she saw one.

'Sure,' she replied. 'Sure, you're the boss. Give it to me.'

He made a wry face.

'Okay,' he muttered flatly. 'Take it. But I'm telling you that I oughta have my head examined.'

Her smile widened as she took the envelope. '

'Thank you,' she said mockingly.. 'Thank you very much. But let me remind you that we've been married five years and you've never worked a day. And just as long as this envelope has my name on it I'm the little lady who will handle it.'

_____________

35: Vignette

IT WAS her own fault. What did she expect me to do— cry and apologise to her? Not me. Not in a thousand years. I'm gonna let her suffer. Let her sit home and worry and let these women know who's the real boss.

(The fingers drummed on the polished desk. The eyes watched the phone, which sat black and silent The brain worried about a wife. The stomach trembled with the terror that follows liquor. The heart stuttered. The nerves sang like tight violin strings.)

You've gotta keep 'em in line. If you're too lenient a couple of times, they've got you— and you might as well let them wear the pants. Well. I never did it before. and I'm not gonna begin now. If she really loves me, she knows where she can get me....

Wonder why she doesn't call? That's not like her. She always called me long before this. It's almost twelve now. I should go out to lunch, but I can't. I'm a very sick man. Lord. why do I drink! I'm such a fool! What does it get me? Fights and headaches. If I was only a man who knew how to drink. If I could only go home quietly and go to bed.

But no— I gotta pick fights. What did we fight about last night? What was it? It's all so hazy now. I remember saying something about her mother. Did that start it? No, it couldn't be that. No, it must have been something else. Her clothes? Might have been.

She spent a hundred and sixty for that coat and it looks like an old rag. She must head think I'm a millionaire.

Oh, my head! My poor old head! Maybe a bromo? or maybe milk. That will kill the acid. Why the devil doesn't that phone ring? If she's trying to get high-handed with me, I'll fix her. I'll cut off her dough, that's what I'll do. Won't give her a cent. Then we'll see who's boss.

(On the polished desk, the fingers drummed on and on. And the hangover grew worse and worse.)

I shouldn't have left the house, though. That was bad. When I get drunk, I always walk out. I leave a nice warm bed at home, and then it costs me four bucks at a hotel. Oh, why do I drink? I'm a very sick man. Awfully sick.

Well, she's going to have a long wait. I don't care if I drop dead. I'm not going to make the first move this time. It's up to her. She has no right to disagree with me all the time. A wife's duty is to love, honor and obey, isn't it? Well, then, she's not living up to her vow. I got a legitimate right to be sore. By rights even if she calls up, I shouldn't talk to her.

After all, where would she be if it wasn't for me? Before I married her she was selling hats in a cheap store. She didn't have anything at all. I'm the that put her up the map. Wouldn't you think she'd realise that?

(The fingers drummed with increasing nervousness. The head throbbed madly.)

But suppose she doesn't call at all? Then what? I just can't sit here in the office. I'll go nuts. I could go home of course, and just ignore her. I've done that and it never works out right. She just ignores me right back.

Maybe in the long run I'd be better off if I phoned her. That wouldn't be showing the white feather, would it? Of course not. When you come to think of it, it's the gentlemanly thing to do.

I'll call her up now and show her my heart's in the right place. And if I make the first move, the rest is up to her. Other husbands do it that way. So why not me? Besides, until now she always did the calling up. One from me wouldn't hurt any. Unless, of course, it got her into bad habits. She might get to expect it all the time. Oh I can fix that. After we make up I'll raise Cain with her about something just to show her here she gets off. That'll square everything up in no time,

(The fingers stopped drumming; they reached hesitantly toward he phone. Then they pulled way again, as though the receiver was hot.)

Wait a minute. Why should I call? She's my wife— and its up to her. But suppose she doesn't? Honest, I could smack her for making me go through all this! Oh, I might as well go through with it. I'll be sweet to her. I'll tell her I love her and I won't even mention the fight. If she's smart, she'll be the same way. And she'll be smart, all right. She knows the side her bread is buttered on.

(The hand moved toward the phone again. This time it picked up the receiver.)

"Hello, Alice. This is George."

"Oh, George! It's so good to hear your voice. I was just sitting here, wondering if I?"

"I know, hon. I know how you feel. I've been wondering too, whether I ought to call or not. Not that I didn't want to, of course."

"George, you listen to me. I love you— love you with all my heart. I swear I just sat here, praying or you to call me. I kept saying over and over. 'George, please phone me, please please, please!' And finally it worked! Can you get off from work? I mean now?"

"I don't know, Alice. I could try. I've got so much to do here."

"Oh, don't be mean. I'm more important than that job. Please try to get off. It's terrible to be sitting here all alone like this. We could be together all afternoon. Won't you try?"

"You bet I will, dearest I'll get away all right. And Alice?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Love you a million! More than all the world."

"Me too, dearest. Me too. Hurry now."

"I will."

(The operator cut in. John Tucker's voice sounded very strange. "Yes, operator," he said, "I had the right number. A little too right. You just me in on a busy wire? and my wife was talking to somebody else." )

________________

36: Study In Tragedy

SIX months ago they had all sat in the old parlour, waiting for the doctor to come out of the sick room. It took him all of an hour, and Joan and Belle fidgeted and whispered as though their father was already dead. Richard— tall and grey and quiet— sat watching the birds caper on the lawn. He had played on that lawn years ago. As a matter of fact, he told himself as he searched his memory, he had fallen from that very poplar tree.

At long last, the doctor came out. He was wiping his glasses and he spoke quietly.

'He is a very sick man,' he announced. 'His heart function Is none too strong and his ankles show fluid. Also to mitigate against his chances, he is in his seventy-second year.' He blew on the glasses. 'I would suggest permanent confinement to bed and the care of an expert nurse.'

Joan and Belle spoke In one breath.

'How long will he live?' they wanted to know.

The physician shrugged. 'No one can say,' be replied. 'With good care he might go on for six months, perhaps a bit longer. But I'd suggest that each of you spend as much time as you can with him. Visits will not hurt him. Just so long as he doesn't become excited.'

'Then,' said Richard, 'we'll be with him all the time.'

'Fine,' said the doctor mechanically. He adjusted his glasses and snapped his black bag shut. 'I'll step in tomorrow. Good night.'

Yes, that was all six months ago. Now Joan and Belle and Richard and all their children were jammed into a small darkened room. And now the women all went bitterly.

As always, Richard was quiet. If there was sorrow in his heart, it was locked there. He stood against the wall, and his sombre eyes swung quickly from one relative to another, and then back to the bed. But he said nothing.

Joan sobbed. Her eldest daughter, a pretty thing except for the phony eyelashes that were too long, kept patting her on the shoulder.

'It doesn't do any good to cry, mother,' she whispered. 'You'll only get yourself hysterical, and that won't help any. Please try to stop.' But Joan only wept the louder.

And Belle sniffled and held a handkerchief to her nose. 'Why did it have to be father!' she wailed. 'So many, many people in this world— and it had to be father! Why, oh why!' She half fell from the chair, and her husband awkwardly lifted her back on.

Richard felt stifled. He wanted air, but he was afraid to leave. It wouldn't look right, and this was no time to do anything that wouldn't look right. So Richard remained where he was.

The big double windows were closed, and the blinds were drawn. A single yellow bulb on a night table lamp actually made the old man on the bed look saffron.

Richard wondered how much money his father had. He knew he had the paving company, and the coal business, and a whole block on Baldwin Boulevard. Then there were Government bonds, too, and cash in the First National Bank. The whole thing probably amounted to no less than half a million dollars. Quite a tidy sum, all right, and Richard was mentally dividing half a million into thirds— when Belle suddenly fainted.

Richard seized the opportunity to carry his sister out. He gazed at her for a few moments, and smoked two cigarettes in rapid succession. Then he strolled back into the darkened room. Joan had stopped sobbing. Now she sat. rocking back and forth, and accusing herself.

'It isn't as though we couldn't have done more,' she moaned. 'Didn't the doctor say we could see father every day? You know he did. He said it more than six months ago.

'We knew father was lonesome. But did we pay attention? You know we didn't. We were all too busy going to luncheons, or meetings, or to the movies. I'll never forgive myself. Never— never— never!'

Her daughter begged her to stop.

'Don't talk that way, mother. You stayed with gramp as much as you possibly could. You were with him almost every day. I don't see how you could have done any more than that.'

Joan heaved a tremendous sigh. 'Perhaps you don't,' she said, 'but I do. It's all my fault, because I didn't have to leave him alone for one single minute. Surely I could have stayed with him for the final few weeks.

'But no. I had to go to Hattie's house to play bridge. And I had to see that Gary Cooper movie. Just had to. And that time I went to the outing up at Pencil Falls. For I what reason I went, I'll never know. All I got out of it was ptomaine poisoning.' She sighed again. 'And now,' she added, 'It's too late. Now, when everything is gone. I repent those things. Isn't that always the way?'

She looked around, bird-like. 'Where is my dear brother Richard?'

She hadn't much trouble seeing him, because he was standing right there.

'Ah,' she sobbed, 'poor Richard. Isn't it terrible?'

He looked uncomfortable. He glanced at the nurse and she nodded slowly. He walked over to his sister.

'Don't you think you'd better get some air?' he asked. 'You'll feel fresher.' Joan sat undecided. Belle came back in, supported by her husband. She teetered to a chair.

'I think,' said Richard indecisively, 'we had all better go.'

Belle looked up at him as though she had never seen her brother before. Then she looked away again. Her eyes were small and inflamed, from crying. The nurse gave Richard the go signal once again. He assisted his sisters from their chairs and held the door open. They trooped out with their husbands and their children. Richard closed the door softly from the outside.

IN THE bed the old man sat propped up. He glanced around the room to make sure that all were gone. He clutched the nurse's hands greedily. 'They sure are carryin' on, ain't they, baby?' he cackled happily. 'From the way they act you'd think I was the first old guy that ever married his nurse!'

_____________

37: The Nice Feller

IRENE looked into the mirror. It was one of the best things she did. She adjusted her hat carefully. Pecked at her hair. Dusted the powder off the front of her dress. She was youngish, blondish, cutish. She smiled at her reflection. Suddenly the smile dimmed. It died. Fear appeared.

'Why— er? yes,' she stammered. 'Sure. You know I always go to the Gellers one night a week for bridge. What happened to you, Mike? You're supposed to be at work.'

He grinned amiably. 'Didn't feel like working tonight,' he said softly. 'A guy gets tired, you know. And I had a feeling that maybe you were lonesome sitting here by yourself all night.'

His wife gulped. 'Well, if you don't want me to go— '

He waved a hand. 'Certainly I do.' he said. 'You go right ahead to the Gellers. Enjoy yourself, my pet.'

He paused. 'But before you go,' he went on, 'perhaps you d like to tell me about that, new bracelet you're wearing. Where did you get it. Irene?'

The woman thought faster than ever before in her life. She had to. She pointed to the beautiful diamond bracelet on her arm.

'You mean this?' she said, smiling broadly. 'I'm certainly glad you asked me about it, Mike, because I wasn't sure about what I should do. What do you think, Mike? I found it.'

Her husband rubbed his chin.

'Yes I was down on Milton Street this afternoon shopping. And there it was. right on the sidewalk! I thought the best thing to do would be to insert an ad. in the paper tomorrow. Don't you agree, Mike? Maybe there's a reward for it, huh?'

'I shouldn't be a bit surprised.' said Mike. He was toying with the mouse, now. 'Do you want me to put the ad. in the paper for you, pet? Or maybe you'd rather keep the bracelet?'

Irene was properly shocked.

'Oh, no,' she replied. 'How could I? It doesn't belong to me.'

THE little den was full of smoke. In booths, couples leaned over tables to talk in whispers. Irene's knees were knocking. Len Hamilton sat with her. He was holding her hand and assuring her that everything would be all right.

'Look kid,' he said for the sixth time. 'Your husband can't possibly know anything about us. He doesn't know I gave you the bracelet, and he doesn't know we've been meeting each other for years. So what?'

'Besides, you told him about putting an ad. in the papers. That shows faith, doesn't it? So what happens? Nobody claims the bracelet— and you keep it. See now simple it is?'

Irene nodded dumbly. She couldn't do much else. Later, when they parted. Len Hamilton said he'd meet her at the same time the following night.

IRENE went home. She was worried, and she didn't like the look of things. Because she wanted Mike. And he wanted Len. And she wanted the bracelet.

When she walked in. Mike smiled cynically. 'Win anything at the Gellers?' he asked.

'No.' she murmured, 'they're too good for me. I didn't stay long anyway. I had a headache.'

He assumed an expression of sorrow. 'Tch, tch, tch,' he sympathised. 'You probably got the headache from worrying about that bracelet you found. Well, my pet. you won't have to worry about it much longer. While you were gone I put an ad. in to-morrow's papers. The person who lost it will certainly watch the papers— and should claim it by to-morrow evening, anyway. Won't that be nice?'

Irene swallowed hard. 'Yes,' she returned miserably. 'Won't it?'

Mike didn't go to work the following night. He said, quite casually, that he wanted to be present in case somebody claimed the bracelet. He underlined the 'in case' very definitely.

Irene was on the verge of a nervous collapse. At 7.30 she said she was going to visit a girl friend for a few minutes. She slapped on her hat, and went directly to the den to meet Len Hamilton. There she waited. And she waited. She ordered one drink after another. And finally, when he was more than an hour late for their appointment, she phoned his hotel.

The phone operator was very sweet about the message.

'Sorry, ' she said, 'but Mr. Hamilton checked out about 7 o'clock. He said he was leaving town.'

'No— no forwarding address?' stammered Irene.

'No,' replied the operator. 'No forwarding address.'

Irene mumbled her thanks and hung up. She hailed a cab, and gave the driver her home address.

'Nice feller,' she muttered to herself, as the cab bounced along. 'Good old Len Hamilton. Tells me he's nuts about me. Gives me a diamond bracelet. And then, when my husband finds out, he leaves town with me holding the bag. Nice feller. Very nice feller.'

When she entered the house she was practically ready to blurt out the entire truth. Perhaps it would be better than to keep lying and getting in deeper and deeper. Perhaps—

But what was this? Before she could say a word, Mike had grabbed her in his arms and plopped a great big kiss on her forehead. 'Listen, honey.' he said. 'I'm a no-good rat. I owe you a thousand apologies— and I only hope you'll be able to forgive me.'

His wife was pop-eyed.

'What? what do you mean, Mike? What have you done?'

He looked extremely sheepish. 'To tell you the truth.' he said. 'I sort of suspected that you didn't find that bracelet at all. I mean I was afraid some boy friend had given it to you.

'I even continued to suspect when you spoke about an advert. in the. papers. I thought you were looking for a way out. But now I know what a fool I was, because right after you left tonight, that bracelet was claimed by its rightful owner.'

Irene almost fainted.

'Yeah,' Mike went on. 'You weren't gone two minutes when a man came in and described the bracelet to a T. Said he had given it to his wife, and she had lost it. So I turned it right over to him.

'Nice feller he was, too. Said his name was Len Hamilton.'

____________

38: A Question Of Method

JIM leaned back in the swivel chair so that his feet barely touched the floor. He folded his hands on his stomach and smiled fondly at the sign that read 'General Manager.'

'That little sign,' he observed softly, 'means ten thousand a year.'

He drummed his fingers on the glass top of the desk. 'Yes. sir,' he mused. 'That's nice money, Spencer. Very, very nice money.'

Spencer sat alongside the desk. He was a sorrowful little man who always looked as though he expected to be struck by lightning at any moment. He nodded slowly.

'That's right,' he conceded. 'It is very pretty money, Jim. Means an awful lot these days.'

Jim grew expansive. And philosophical.

'You and I, Spence,' he said, 'have had our eye on that little sign for a long while, haven't we? How many years is it altogether? Thirteen? Fourteen?' He waved a hand. 'Well, it doesn't matter. It's been a long time, anyway. I always imagined myself as a big business man.'

'Yes, sir, we were two friends, you and I— both I fighting for the one job of General Manager. Each of us fighting the way he figured best.

'And now,' he continued, whirling himself in the swivel chair, 'now, Spence, the fight is over.'

Spencer said nothing. After all, Jim was right— the fight was over. The company president had awarded the job that morning.

Jim regarded the other man a bit anxiously.

'Say, Spence,' he asked, 'we're surely going to remain friends, aren't we? There are no hard feelings, I mean, or anything like that?'

Spencer brightened for a moment. 'Positively not,' he replied. 'I want us to continue being friends.'

'Now that it's all over,' Jim said, 'the whole thing seems a bit ridiculous, doesn't it? As I said before, you had your methods— and I had mine. You used to work like the devil, trying to impress the boss— and I used to buy him drinks down the block. Just a matter of methods, my boy.'

Spencer sighed. 'I couldn't afford to buy him drinks,' he murmured.

'Who could?' countered Jim. 'Not me, surely. I never made any more than you did. But the way I looked at it, it was an investment. You can't get ahead these days, Spence, on brains alone.

'The world is full of brains. We're knee deep in 'em, right in this office. I realised that, and I told myself that I was no smarter than you or any of the rest of them. I knew that, if the president was going to pick a General Manager on brains, we'd all be pretty nearly tied for first place.

'So I used the old noodle. I asked myself why I didn't make a pal out of the president. Wait for him at night. Buy him a few shots. Find out his hobbies, and talk about them.

'That's the way I figured it. And, as you know, he fell for it beautifully. Later, when I got to know him well enough, I invited him around to the house.

'Before long I was in hock. Plenty in hock. But it didn't matter. It was a worthy cause, and I counted the money well spent.

'But it all bore fruit. He often said that I was one of the brightest men that ever worked for him, and his wife told Mildred that her husband thought very highly of my work.'

He leaned back in the chair. 'That, Spence, was my way of getting action.'

Spencer nodded vaguely.

'Sure, Jim,' he admitted, 'you can get away with that high pressure stuff. You're dominant, compelling. But what about me? Say, if I ever started that kind of business with him, the big boss would laugh right in my face.' He shrugged hopelessly. 'You know me, Jim,' he went on. 'I'm one of those— well, dopey sort of guys who always thinks of the right thing to say after everybody's gone home. I'm no good talking, or entertaining. Besides, I can't afford to entertain. I wouldn't go into debt for anybody: even the president.

'So I just went on working hard, and doing more than they expected me to do. Everybody laughed at me for working late? even you, Jim. Oh, don't deny it. I know you laughed at me, too. And I can't say that I blamed you.'

He looked sadder than ever. 'All a guy like myself can do,' he said simply, 'is the best he knows how. If he gets ahead, he's lucky. And if he doesn't, he should be thankful he's got a job.

'That's the way I always looked at it, Jim. Foolish. I know, but I can't help myself.'

Jim didn't answer. He was grinning to himself.

'Wotta thrill last night!' he asserted. 'When we got word, I mean, that the boss would make the selection this morning. I couldn't sleep— and I'll bet you couldn't either. Billy Graf told me today that half the office was betting nine-to-five on me.

Spencer edged up in his chair. 'Yes,' he returned, 'I heard about that. Deep down, I was sure you'd get the job, too. But it's foolish to waste money by betting.'

Jim stood up. He tousled his friend's hair.

'Still the arch-conservative, eh, Spence?'' he smiled.

'Yep,' replied Spencer, essaying a feeble grin. 'And guess I always will be, Jim.'

The two men shook hands. 'Well, Spence,' said Jim, 'the very best of luck to you. And thanks, Mr. General Manager, for letting me sit at your desk!'

____________

39: Legacy for One

THEY were ten years older now, and restraint had flourished in them. Now there was no biting sarcasm between these two brothers; no enmity; no envy either. They sat in the cool of the wide den, smoking big black cigars and talking small stuff about the family.

From outside came the treble bark of a boy calling football signals. The sun was red in the West, and soon the boy would come in and have his dinner and spend an hour over his homework before being sent to bed. The brothers kept talking affably, but the talk was meaningless. The one in the shiny corduroy pants was thinking back to that bitter scene ten years ago. And the other man, master of this big estate and father of that boy outside, was wincing inwardly as he saw the complete poverty and hungry appearance of his only brother.

A decade ago they had sat in another den. Their father's den; that hadn't been opened since his death some three weeks before. The place had smelled musty at the time. It needed air and sunlight. Both men could remember the scene exactly. Until their deaths they would never forget that day.

Bill had picked a chair to the right of his late father's desk. And Roy, ne'er do well, had slouched on the other side.

McSears was the lawyer. McSears had a head like a tomato, and just about as much foliage on top. This was a difficult task for him. For he couldn't very well become formal in front of two young men whom he had known from their cradle days, and both of whom he had once taught to swim.

Visibly uncomfortable, he had sat down behind the desk. He had coughed a few times in a showy handkerchief, and then opened the brief-case. 'If you wish,' he said quietly, 'I'll read the entire will.' He looked at brilliant Bill, and then turned to ne'er do well Roy.

Roy waved a hand. 'You can spare me the details,' said Roy.

Bill looked coldly at his brother. 'We won't bore you too long,' he stated evenly. He turned back to McSears. 'What's the proper thing to do?' he asked.

The lawyer shrugged. 'Ordinarily,' he replied. 'I'd read the entire will. But in this case— well, I know you boys since you were shavers, and I'm well acquainted with your dad's wishes. I can give them to you briefly if you wish.'

This time Bill said nothing. Roy leaned back and closed his eyes. 'Go right to it,' he suggested. McSears put the will back in the brief-case and folded his hands on the desk. As he spoke he looked first at one boy. then at the other.

'You are the only two persons mentioned in the will. After your mother's death three years ago your dad wanted to change the will. But he kept deferring it until eleven months ago, when I prodded him into it.'

Bill paid strict attention. Roy appeared to doze.

'In the new will,' McSears went on, 'he relates that he converted everything he had in the way of real estate and other holdings into cash. This cash, of course, amounts to a considerable fortune.'

He glanced at Roy and took a long breath. 'Every last cent of it goes to Bill.'

Roy opened his eyes a little. 'You needn't be so dramatic about it,' he said. 'It's just what I expected, so it's hardly a surprise. What comes to me— a dollar and my dead old dad's best wishes?'

Bill said, 'Watch it, Roy. Don't talk like that about father.'

'Oh, shut up,' Roy muttered. 'Don't be so smug.'

McSears coughed nervously again. 'One dollar goes to Roy,' he said, 'and nothing else.'

Roy grinned at the lawyer.

'Buy a cigar with it,' he answered. 'A nice, juicy dollar cigar.''

Bill fumbled with his hands. He kept looking at Roy. 'Oh, this is silly,' he finally exploded. 'Just plain silly. There's enough money for the two of us, no matter what father says. If he left it to me I can do whatever I want with it ... Will you share it with me, Roy? What do you say?'

Roy sat up. He didn't even look at his brother.

'Anything else you need me for?' he asked McSears.

'How about it. Roy?' Bill persisted. 'After all we're brothers.'

Roy turned slowly. 'Yeah,' he responded icily, 'and that's about the only thing we have in common. It's a pleasure to tell you. Bill, that I want none of this money, and that I wouldn't share a sunny day with a man like you. I have too much self-respect.'

He got up and left the room.

Bill cried out after him, 'Roy!' he shouted. 'Please listen, Roy!'

He felt something on his arm. It was McSears' hand.

'Let him go,' advised the lawyer softly. 'He's hurt, and I suppose he was right to be.' He shook his head sadly. 'Lord knows, I tried hard enough to change your dad's mind.'

Bill sighed. 'Dad was a stubborn man,' he said. Then he shrugged, 'but no more so than Roy. Imagine him telling me about his self-respect!'

ALL THAT was ten years behind them now. And yet, as they sat in the big den and talked small chatter on an autumn afternoon they both could see it all very plainly. The football shrieks outside had died in a bedlam of grunts. The plunge had probably failed with no gain.

'Ever see McSears?' asked Roy.

'No,' said Bill. 'I haven't seen him in years. Last I heard from him was a letter from Hot Springs. He was taking the baths.'

Roy smiled.

A grey-haired butler appeared just inside the den door. 'I beg pardon, sir,' he announced, 'dinner will be served in ten minutes, sir.' He disappeared again.

Bill rubbed his chin. 'I've been thinking,' he mused. 'I wonder If old McSears ever bought that dollar cigar, as you told him to.'

Roy shook his head. 'No,' he replied. 'I guess he was too much of a stickler for legal formalities. He wouldn't have that cigar on me. Instead he sent the dollar on to me and said everything had to be done according to the terms of the will.'

They sat for a moment looking away from each other. It was easy to see, after ten years, they still had only their kinship in common. Roy, once the ne'er do well, pointed to their surroundings.

'It's all mine, Bill,' he said. 'More than enough for one guy and a wife and son. How about sharing it with me?'

Bill smiled, as though he remembered the words well. He looked down at the old corduroy trousers he wore and the greasy windbreaker.

'No, thanks,' he murmured. 'I know you've been a big success, Roy, while I was running through all of dad's money. But, after all, I still have my self-respect.'

________________

40: A Father's Return

BACK in the early days life was a difficult proposition for Mrs. Ramsey. It wasn't because she had to go out and drudge for her growing boy— and it wasn't because of her grief either. The real trouble was that her son was beginning to wonder about his father. All the other, kids had fathers. Where was his?

The woman did her best. But her best called for lie after lie. Once she told him that his father had gone away on a long journey. The boy immediately wanted to know where he went. She was vague in her reply. Questions. Questions. Questions. The young are the eternal seekers of truth. They probe for the things they shouldn't know— and quickly forget the things they should remember.

Little Tommy Ramsay was no exception. On his eighteenth birthday, the young man learned the truth. His mother, a little woman who was old before her time, sat down with him that morning. And she told him everything.

'Your father was a fine man. Tommy. Really fine. What, I am going to tell you may make you hate him. But I rather doubt it. The chances are that you will love him for what happened.

'Your father's name is the same as yours. Thomas Philip Ramsey. When I first, met him. he worked in the coal yards along the waterfront. He earned twenty-six dollars a week, and that was fine money in those days, We were married on July 2, 1910— and we came to live here immediately.

'You were born a year later. Your father was an acting foreman by that time, and it was a fine job. But he was always for his men, and never for the bosses.

'When you were just a baby, there was a lot of trouble down at the yards. The men went out on strike, and your father went with them. He said he felt the men were right, and that it was his duty to stick with them. 'Well, right or wrong, that was a terrible winter. What little money we had was soon gone, and your father went half-crazy trying to get some temporary work. But he couldn't find a thing.

'One bitter, cold morning — and the horror of it will be with me until the day I die — there wasn't five cents in the house for a quart of milk for you. It was then that your father lost his head completely. He went out of the house with a gun in his hand.

'He went into the grocery store and demanded a quart of milk. That's all he wanted. The grocer told him to go home; that he was making a fool of himself. Your father grabbed a bottle of milk. The grocer put up his hand to stop him. And the gun went off.

'The grocer died. And they sent your father away— for life.'

The woman's voice trailed off. The boy had listened attentively, his eyes wide. But now he leaned forward and poured forth question after question. Eager questions. Why hadn't someone told him about this long before? What prison was his father in? Couldn't they see him right away? Who—

'My boy,' said his mother, 'I have always respected your father's wishes, and I want you to do the same. He asked that you shouldn't be told about him until you were eighteen. So I kept silent, and so did the few old neighbours who knew about it.

'He made several other requests. One was that, neither you nor I was ever to visit him. And another was that you were never to be told the name of the prison which he was at.'

She placed a hand on her son's arm.

'He said,' she went on softly,' that there were always ways of keeping in touch with us even though we wouldn't know it. He wants you to be a good boy and to work hard. 'And then— some day, maybe,— he will come to us. Some day.'

Mrs. Ramsey never saw her husband again. She died of cancer at 49. But before she passed on, she made Tommy promise that he would work hard, that he would respect his father's wishes, and that he would help his father if the man were ever freed.

The boy stuck to his promise. He worked for a big printing house, and his rise was rapid. He slaved on the job, and five years later, he was a young man who was evidently headed for big things. Smart investments made him more money than his salary. Shrewd work won him promotion after promotion. The head of the firm was now a very close friend.

AND THEN, one day, it happened. As he was leaving the office, an elderly man stepped up to him and tapped him on the arm.

'You're Tommy,' said the old man simply. 'I know it, because you're the image of your dear mother. You're Tommy, and I'm your father.'

Thomas Philip Ramsey felt his knees go weak. His hands shook. He looked at this beaten old man, and he pressed his hands so tightly that his father winced.

'Dad,' he murmured. 'So you're my dad. Dad...'

It took two days for the boy to get over the shock. The very thing for which he had been waiting and praying had come so suddenly that it almost bewildered him. He got his father a job in the plant? but the old man demanded that their relationship be kept a secret.

'It might hurt your chances, son. So let's not be foolish about it. Tell them I'm— oh, any name will do. Tell them I'm John Green. An old friend.'

So, for three weeks, Tommy was in the clouds. His father was working in the paymaster's office, and he looked like a new man in the clothes that Tommy had bought for him. Yes, everything was grand for these three weeks— and then the happiness ended with a terrible suddenness.

His father disappeared. There was no note. No explanation. Nothing. He just didn't come home one night. And, the next morning, the paymaster explained why. Over six thousand dollars was gone.

Now, Tommy Ramsey could stand many things. Youth without a father, a mother who had to work for him. Thoughts of his father in a cold cell. He could stand these things. But he couldn't stand this. Too sensitive, perhaps. Who knows? He could have paid the money back and attempted to forget his father. But his brain snapped, and he chose the wrong way out. He killed himself that very night.

IT WAS just thirty days after they buried the boy. The warden of a big penitentiary patted an ageing man on the back.

'Good luck to you,' said the warden heartily. 'Glad your pardon came through at last. But before you leave here, Thomas Philip Ramsey, there's just one piece of advice I want to give you:

'Keep away from that old cellmate of yours— that John Green. He's bad medicine.'

___________________

41: Accident

THE little man was trembling with anger. His thin face was distorted and red, and he pushed the male secretary so hard that the other man almost fell. He rushed into the inner office, with the secretary trailing.

"I'm sorry, boss," the secretary blurted. "I tried to explain that; you were busy, put this man insisted— "

The boss was an opulent character. His hair was white, and he looked well fed. From behind the desk. he looked calmly at the wild-eyed little man.

"It's all right. Barton." He waved the secretary out of the room and nodded' to the little man. "Won't you sit down for a moment?"

The little fellow glared at him. "Your name's Grant, isn't it?" he asked.

"You already know that." was the soft reply. "My name's on the door."

"Well, Grant," sneered the little man. "I came here to kill you"

Grant was no hero. But common sense told him it would be dangerous to get excited. So he sat quietly and forced a faint smile. "That's an ambitious idea," he murmured. "But look— won't you sit down for a moment?"

"You don't have to give me that! stuff. Grant" The little man said. "I changed my mind as soon as I saw you. You're old, and time will take care of you quick enough. I don't have to kill you."

"Thanks, but I don't quite understand. Who are you — and what have I done to you?''

The sneer became exaggerated,

"My name," said the little man, "is Henry Brown. Remember me?"

"Oh, you're the father of the little boy—"

Brown pointed an accusing finger. "—That you hit with your automobile. Yes. That's me."

"Indeed!" Grant suddenly lost his aplomb. "I felt very badly about that. Really. It all happened so quickly, I—"

"Go on, mister. It sounds good."

"What's the use? You won't believe me."

"Why should I— when you don't believe yourself?" His eyes probed the room briefly. "You're a rich guy. What does a little kid mean to you? Your money can keep you outa trouble. He was gonna be seven this; week. The missus and me scraped up all we could to get him a pair of roller skates.

He chuckled insanely. "And now, thanks to you, he won't be able to use 'em for a year at least. He's got compound fractures of both legs "

His voice was rising to an hysterical pitch. "You know what I oughta do to you. Grant? I oughta kick you from one end of this office to the other!"

Grant said nothing. He kept rolling a gold pencil back and forth over the desk blotter. The little man began to sob. He covered his face with dirty hands and his shoulders convulsed.

Grant wet his lips and agony came to his face.

"You're poor," said Grant. He flipped open a cheque book. "Will you let me help, at least?"

The little man clenched his fists.

"Still at it, eh?" he cried . "Still trying to buy your way out of trouble. Money fixes everything, hah? Well, it won't fix my kid's legs. Not now.

"So put that book away You may need it some day; some day when you meet up with a guy with more nerve than me. That's when you'll need it bad— and I hope to God it don't do you no good!"

Grant made a gesture of futility.

"I only wanted to help a little!"

"You wanted to help! Don't make me laugh. I can forgive the accident. Those things happen. I'm glad he wasn't killed, even.

"What gets me is your nerve, sitting in the car after hitting the kid, and making the chauffeur get out and pick him up. That's what floors me. You wasn't even interested! "

"Please!"

"Please nothing! You were probably very busy at the time, busy figuring out how to make another million. What did a youngster matter to you?

"You just sat there. Maybe you worried that the blood dirtied your car, hah? It was too much trouble for you to bother with. Well, thank God, the insurance company is going to take care of the hospital— and I don't have to depend on the likes of you."

He was silent a moment, staring at Grant. "I promised myself," he went on finally, "that I'd come here and tear your heart out. But I lost my nerve. Instead I broke down and cried like a sissy.

"Well, save your laugh for after I go. You wouldn't understand what it's like for a growing kid not to be able to use his legs. You don't know how he liked to play games. You can't see that look in his eyes when his mother and me go to the hospital

"No, you wouldn't understand any of those things. Your damned money is too important." He looked deep into Grant's eyes. "All I hope and pray is that the same thing happens to you. And the sooner, the better."

He walked out.

GRANT pressed the buzzer. His secretary walked in, a frightened look on his face,

"I was listening at the door, Mr Grant," he said. "Just in case that— " His voice failed off as the grey man looked up at him.

"Look, Barton," said Grant evenly, "I want you to continue to pay all the little fellow's bills. See that he has the best of everything and tell Dr. Manning to continue to say that the insurance company's paying for everything."

His secretary nodded. "I'll take care of that, sir."

Grant drummed the desk. Then he sighed heavily. "All right, Barton." he said. "I'm ready to leave now."

Barton walked forward. He lifted his crippled boss tenderly and carried him to the wheelchair in the next office.

__________________

42: One Man's Monument

IT was a walk of seven blocks to the tennis court, and, on this particular morning, Joe and Alice decided to take the short cut through the cemetery. Joe was talking. He was always talking. A writer of short stories and in love with the girl on his arm, he talked incessantly of plots and possibilities and love and romance. Perhaps he was wise enough to know that, after his marriage, he wouldn't be able to get many more words in. So he was making hay while the sun shined.

'Even here,' said Joe, as he waved his free arm majestically. 'there is love and romance. Yes, my sweet one, even in a cemetery: Look. All around you are little shafts of stone and granite to mark the resting places of those who wait for loved ones to join them.'

Joe didn't quite understand that statement, but he made a mental note to use it in some story or other. It sounded like a good line.

Alice shuddered. 'But, Joe,' she stated, 'how can you speak of love and death in the same breath? Isn't death usually the ebb of love?'

The writer smiled tolerantly.

'Darling,' he replied, 'so far as love is concerned, death is only an intermission. And the play goes on until— '

'Joe,' said Alice, 'there's a fly on your nose.'

AS they neared the cemetery's exit, Joe halted before the tallest monument in the place. On a huge pedestal was a granite man. He was tall, wore a Windsor tie, and his right hand was thrust between the buttons of his coat. The inscription was simple:

'Raymond Braeburn,' it read. 'This monument was erected by his wife. Margaret, in the year of his death, 1890.'

In front of the monument was a small mound, and around the whole thing a green picket fence. Joe looked around him, musingly. Then he sighed.

'Ah, my dear Alice,' he murmured, 'if you but had my brain; the brain of an author. If you could see the hidden stories that are all about you, but which you miss completely!

'Look at this monument. What do you see? Nothing but a man of granite, standing on a huge pedestal. But what do I see? Love. Heroism. Romance. Adventure. Oh, thousands and thousands of things.'

Joe studied the man of granite. Then he read the inscription again. And when he spoke his voice was soft, murmurous, dreamy. 'Can't you see that figure alive, walking? Notice the heroic attitude, the intellectual forehead, and tie dignified Van Dyke beard. What a grand character for a romantic story!'

He stole a glance at his fiancée's face and saw that she was hanging on his every word. This was as it should be. 'Look at the inscription,' he went on dreamily. 'Born in 1840, and just 21 years of age when the North and the South began their titanic struggle. Nobody needs tell me that he heard the call of his President, the noble Abraham Lincoln— and that he fought valiantly until peace was declared.

'Then the return. The glorious triumphant return. The war is over. See the bands, the flags, the heroes— and see Raymond Braeburn as he steps from the line and has a medal pinned upon his chest. His mother weeps with happiness. Her boy, her only son, her baby— has served his country well.'

Joe paused. Instinctively, Alice leaned her head against his shoulder. How beautifully her man could weave a picture!

'It is all so simple,' he went on, 'through the eyes of a writer. I can see Raymond Braeburn now as, five years later, the course of his life has changed. He has married a beautiful girl. They have two fine children, a boy and a girl.

'Braeburn is now a lawyer. From the wealthy he exacts heavy fees. But from the poor he takes nothing but gratitude for fighting their battles. He is a grand man, loved and respected by all.

'Every day, his open barouche— drawn by two frisky, dappled grays— leaves the winding drive-way in front of his home. He turns to blow a last-minute kiss to his loving wife who stands in the doorway with the kiddies.

'He does this each morning— until at the age of fifty, in the very prime of life, he leaves his home for the last time.'

Alice bit her lip and tightened her hold on the man's arm. Joe's voice was dramatic.

'It is the way of life,' he continued. 'What must be, my dear one, must be. While Braeburn is driving downtown on the dreaded day, he sees an elderly woman fall in front of a heavy brewery waggon. Without a second's hesitation he leaps from his barouche, tosses the lady to safety— and himself dies under the heavy wheels.

'His wife is inconsolable. The mayor orders a public funeral. The greatest of the great stand on this very spot as Raymond Braeburn is lowered to his place of rest. His heartbroken widow— '

The writer stopped suddenly.

An old man— a lawn-cutter— had come into view. Slowly, with shoulders bowed by age. he prepared to trim the grass around the big monument. Joe pointed to the venerable figure.

'Wait, Alice,' he asserted, 'my author's instinct tells me now that this old man can complete my story. I have a hunch that he knew Raymond Braeburn. Listen, while I draw the story from him.'

He leaned forward. 'Mister.' he called, 'did you know Raymond Braeburn?'

The old man looked up. 'Yep,' he replied. 'I was right here the day they buried him.'

'I thought so,' exulted the writer. 'I am an author, and I was just describing him to my bride-to-be. That monument is a grand tribute to his memory. He must have been a wonderful man.'

The old man smiled toothlessly.

'Son,' he replied. 'Raymond Braeburn was the biggest hobo on two feet. Never worked in his life. And when he died his wife said: 'The only favour Ray ever did for me was to die— and, in appreciation I'm going to erect the biggest monument in the cemetery for him.'

'So that's how he happened to get a monument.'

_______________

43: The Lady Squawks

EMMA was a big girl. Big, and blonde, and brusque. She swung the grip up under her right arm. Then she grabbed the other two bags, one in each hand.

"Let's go," she said to Tess. "We don't gain nothin' by stayin' around here any longer."

But, just the same, she glanced round the little apartment once more. Windows down... gas off... no lights on... no smouldering cigarettes in he trays. Emma nodded and moved along.

Tess— poor tired wan little Tess— followed her big sister out the door. She saw her try the lock and then she trooped silently behind her down the stairs.

They reached the street, and no word had yet been spoken. With big Emma the outside, they walked a block. Then Tess spoke.

"We ought to take a cab," she said timidly. "Them bags are very heavy, Emma. It's foolish for you to carry them all the way to the station. You'll get flat feet, Emma."

Emma was paying absolutely no attention to her sister. She kept right on walking, and she began a sort of mumbling conversation.

"After fifteen years!" she said. She shook her head slowly as she moved along. "It just goes to show you. You think you know a man, and you think you're all set, and— boom, up goes the whole thing in smoke!"

Tess kept quiet. She had trouble keeping up with Emma.

"Was it Mrs Gold who said it?" Emma mumbled. "Or was it Mrs Schwartz who told us it was hard luck for two sisters to get married in the same year? It was somebody, I know."

"It was Mrs O'Rourke," Tess stated. "She was always saying it wouldn't last."

They stopped at a kerb. Tess offered to take the bag that Emma carried under her arm. But Emma said no, that she didn't mind.

"If you're carryin' two," she pointed out, "a third one don't make no difference."

When the light went green they started across diagonally in the direction of the rail-road station down the block.

"That Mrs O'Rourke," said Emma suddenly, as she trudged along, "was a big chowderhead. What right had she to say it was hard luck for two sisters to marry in the same year? She was a fine one to talk; her who couldn't keep her own man, even when nobody else wanted him. Besides, she was wrong when she said it wouldn't last. It lasted fifteen ears, didn't It? Say, you can't expect marriage, to go on forever like it was movie, or somethin'."

The hands on the big clock over the station closed slowly towards twelve. Emma said they had plenty of time, so they slowed their pace.

"LOOK at the sapadillo I married," Emma sighed. "If there's a meaner or nastier man in this country— well, there isn't, that's all. Paul cops all prizes. I bet you, Tess, that I've been knocked down more times than all the guys that ever fought Joe Louis.

"Last night was the limit. He walked In plenty late and plenty plastered, and I said, 'Where you been?' Just like that, Tess, real a nice and sweet. And before I get a chance to move, he swung one from the rug and caught me right here."

She stopped, and dropped her bags, and pushed her hat back to show a purple bruise over her ear. Tess clucked sympathetically. Emma put her hat back on, and picked up the bags.

"Yeah," muttered Emma, "that's Paul. He's never been no different, and he never will be. Does he ever take me out? Does he ever say nice things to me? Huh! All he does is make faces when I talk to him, or else he just hauls off."

Tess coughed slightly. She glanced up at her sister.

"My Johnny was kinda different," she ventured shyly. "He wasn't mean. Not ever."

Tess wasn't gloating, for this was no that she was merely stating the true facts of the case as she saw them.

"You're telling me!" said Emma. "Why, butter wouldn't melt in that a man's mouth! Your Johnny was always one of them slippers-and-pipes men you read about!

"Tell me the truth, Tess. Has he ever said beans to you in all these fifteen years?"

Tess smiled. Rather proudly, too. "Johnny couldn't help bein' quiet and shy," she replied, That was his way."

They arrived at the station and walked through the huge vaulted room, threading through the groups of people who were hurrying to so many directions.

"You know, Emma," said Tess, wistfully, "you can say what you want. But you gotta admit right out that the four of us had some pretty good times in the old days."

Emma chuckled

"Yeah," she returned cynically. "Swell times. Ham sandwiches, and pickles, and beer. Two rounds of pinochle, and your Johnny would start to fall asleep. Nice guy to have around at a live party, all right."

Tess pouted. "I don't see anything anything funny about that " she declared. "You always picked on my Johnny, anyhow."

"Aw, no I didn't," Emma protested. "You got me all wrong. He's a sweet guy, and he wouldn't hurt a fly. But how can you tell when that kind is dead? Do you pinch him, or what?"

Tess grew indignant. "Talk all you want. Enjoy yourself. But I still don't see nothin' funny."

Emma waved a hand. "Aw, forget it," she said. I'm just tryin' to be smart. But it ain't gettin' over." She shook her head. "It's sure goin' to be strange with one of us married and the other divorced."

Tess seemed about to weep. At the train gate Emma sat the bags down and pulled off a glove.

"Look at this," she said. She pointed to a puffy, red bruise that was, extremely ugly-looking. "There ain't much fun in that, Tess. He winged me with a glass ash-tray. I'm sure lucky it didn't get me in the eye. I'da been blind as a bat."

Tess closed her eyes and shivered. The conductor began to call out then. There would be a change at Chicago for Reno, Nevada.

The sisters kissed fervently. "Goodbye," said Emma. "I'll be seein' you in about seven weeks."

"Take good care of yourself," Tess shouted.

"I will," cried Emma. "And you take good care of yourself out in Reno." Her voice rose to a shout. "And, Tess— if you ever marry again before you come back— make sure it's somethin' that won't bore you to death for the next fifteen years.

______________

44: Dividend for Faith

JOHN HENDRICKS was rich. Rich in money, that is. He had homes, and cars, and he had boodle, and bonds. He could follow the sun, from season to season, in his private railroad car. And everywhere he went people bowed and hopped when he spoke.

In short, when it came time to die he had everything that meant nothing at all.

When John Hendricks realised that death was half way between third and home, he also came to the sudden realisation that his life had been very empty, Indeed. Except for those to whom his passing would mean the loss of a job, there was none to mourn him.

For there was no one in any way close to John Hendricks. His wealth had brought him nothing but more wealth. It had failed to bring him an unselfish love. Or dogged loyalty. Or honest kindness.

There had been one brief summer long ago when he had known those things. There had been a girl who lived in a country town. And those bright, blue days he had spent with her— now almost forty years ago— had been the happiest John Hendricks had ever known.

What a summer that had been! A row-boat on a lovely lake. A moon rising over fragrant fields. And two youngsters in love, promising each other that time would never change that love The oldest scene in the world, originally staged by Adam and Eve, and still presented daily by a different cast at each performance.

Alma was her name, and she had been a sweet kid. Good, and kind, and tender, and unselfish. She and John Hendricks had been completely happy through those fleeting two months. Tremendously happy. It was all so very long ago, and yet he knew now that— if he had married this girl as he promised he would— his life would never have been so terribly empty. He knew that he wouldn't now be looking backward with nothing but regret.

Why hadn't he married her? Again , the old, old story. Ambition. An intense desire for what passes for success. A burning yen for money. And more money. And more, more money. That had been first and foremost— and everything else was stifled out.

Now, with the hand of death on his shoulder, he longed for one more experience with decency and kindness. Yet he was afraid of disappointment. Well he knew that humans, although forever trying, never recapture precious moments that belong to the past. So he hesitated— until the urge became too strong.

Then, after forty years, John Hendricks made his plans to return to that country town, An inquiry assured him that Alma was still living there She had married a man named Black, who had died some fifteen years before.

John Hendricks sought no further information. He slept in his own private railroad car that night as it sped toward that little country town. And at noon the next day, still twenty miles from his destination, he stepped from the train and hired an automobile to take him the remainder of the way.

He didn't drive directly to her house. He stopped a short distance away, paid off the chauffeur, and walked slowly toward his objective. Alma would know of his wealth, of course. Everyone did. But he wasn't putting it on display now. He was almost praying now for kindness that had nothing to do with money, just this once.

Alma was on the front porch. She was knitting. Unobserved, John Hendricks stood for a moment, studying her. In his heart were relief and gratitude. She was lovely, her hair was silver, and her face held all the sweetness he remembered so well. It was all so peaceful, so genuine, so right— the porch, the garden, and this gentle old lady.

John Hendricks sighed heavily. What a fool he had been to throw this all away for things that didn't matter at all in the end.

Alma looked up. She leaned forward eagerly. Her eyes brightened. "Oh. John," she murmured happily. "Dear John! I knew— I just knew— you'd come back some day!"

THAT AFTERNOON touched perfection. They sat there on the porch and watched the shadows move slowly across the lawn. They didn't talk as much as they should have, but that was mainly the fault of John Hendricks. He didn't want to talk. He just wanted to look at her; and see her smile.

When they spoke at all they talked of simple things. Alma told him about her garden, and her neighbours, and her church. He asked her suddenly is she remembered the night they had climbed the mountain to see the northern lights. She nodded.

"I remember everything, John," she said quietly. "I remember every moment we spent together. And do you want to know why?" She didn't wait for a reply. It was as if she hadn't asked the question at all. "I remember everything, because I've always loved you.

"I always knew you'd come e. People tried to make me give up hope, but I wouldn't. And I was right. You've made me very happy today, John dear."

John Hendricks reached for her hand, and pressed it gently. It was too late for love, he knew that, but it didn't matter. He had found the thing he sought. He had found that unselfish loyalty still existed.

At dusk, John Hendricks went away. He held Alma's hand for a moment and told her he would come back again. And even as he said it he knew that death would greet him first. But he also knew that, as soon as he reached the city, he was going to see his lawyer. And when John Hendricks died, a little old lady would have more money than she ever imagined in her dreams. For a very rich man was changing his will. He was going to pay a dividend for faith.

INSIDE Alma's house, two nurses watched him walk down the street.

"No, I don't know who he is," said one. "But it doesn't matter. You never have to worry about her because she is such an easy case. You'll have no trouble at all, and I'd never leave if I wasn't getting married next week.

"The old lady's darling. It's just that little queerness." She lowered her voice. "The shock of her husband's death did it. She was married to John Black and I guess it must have been one of those loves you read about.

"Anyhow, since he died, she thinks that every man she sees and speaks to is John Black come back to her."

Outside, the delivery boy from the grocery store was coming up the walk. The little old lady leaned forward eagerly. Her eyes brightened.

"Oh John!" she murmured happily. "Dear John! I just knew you'd come back some day!"

_______________

45: One Man's Failing

HENRY SEARS was a thoroughly normal man. His habits were regular, his actions sincere. He had but one failing: Auction sales.

That's right. Auction sales. Some guys get pleasure out of cooking a steak. Others like to sail a boat. Some get married five or six times. But Henry liked auction sales. Whenever an auctioneer barked: 'Step right in, gentlemen. Right in, away from the door!' Henry accepted it as a personally engraved invitation. Some invisible force whisked him off the street and deposited him by the auctioneer's side.

To repeat, aside from this one failing, Henry was a normal man. But oh, boys and girls, what that one failing did to him!

AS OUR story opens, we find the man hurrying out of an auction room with a small package clutched tightly in his fist. Henry had a good reason for hurrying. He had lingered well past the allotted hour his firm allowed its employees for lunch. And Henry was worried about the situation, too. For his boss was no tolerant soul who overlooked little matters like unpunctuality. Especially in these trying days.

Henry hurried from the elevator, hung up his hat and coat, and look his accustomed position behind his desk. He was barely seated when his summons came from the inside office. Worried and trembling, the man approached his employer.

'Yes. Mr. Breen?' he inquired timidly.

Mr Breen wheeled around on his swivel chair. He fixed Henry with a stern glare. 'Sears, 'he stated harshly 'you were late again this noon time. There's a war on, you know. I believe I told you not long ago that, the next time you were late, it would mean your dismissal.

'Perhaps you thought, I was jesting. I was not. You're fired!'

Henry attempted to remonstrate. 'It was totally unavoidable,' he protested. 'Honest it was Mr. Breen. I— stopped in on an errand, and I was detained while I...'

Mr. Breen waved a hand. 'No excuses this time, please,' he said. 'I'm tired of listening to them.'

He turned away with an air of finality. 'You've had too many chances as it is. Now please clear out.'

THAT was the end of that. Ten minutes later, out of a job. Henry walked glumly away from the office building. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets. He was thinking of the blackness of the future when his left hand suddenly encountered the object he had purchased at the auction sale. His face brightened immediately. After all, this was really something.

He drew the package from his pocket and stopped long enough to unwrap the paper. Gazing admiringly at the contents of the box, he attempted to crass the street. So engrossed was he that he failed to notice the lights were against him. And what happened after that comes within inches of being a terrible tragedy.

The cab driver shouted, but it was too late. Henry went sprawling into the gutter. In the space of a few moments he was shipped to a nearby hospital. There was no great damage done. The man was shaken up and there were a few superficial bruises. But nothing serious.

He was discharged from the hospital around five o'clock that, evening. Thus, at the very lime he would ordinarily be returning from work, Henry dragged himself painfully from a taxi and hobbled to his door. After the events of the last few hours, he mused, home would seem a very sweet place.

But the minute he opened the door he saw that something was very much amiss. His home looked as though it had been hit by a cyclone. The place was in the wildest sort of disorder. Contents of bureau drawers were tossed about, and there was, every evidence that the place had undergone a thorough ransacking. The little woman, red-eyed and nervous, came out to greet him.

'Oh, Henry.' she sobbed, 'the most awful thing has happened. I went to the pictures this afternoon, and when I got back, I found that thieves had broken in. It was broad daylight, and still they carried off every single thing of value!'

Her husband made an effort to comfort her. 'There, there Mildred,' he soothed. 'There's no use carrying on about it. Of course, it's mighty unfortunate— especially right at this time.' He hesitated. This wasn't exactly the he had lost his job. But it had to be done some time, so he told her of being fired, and of the accident, that had almost completed his career.

Mildred began to cry again. 'It's terrible. Henry.' she whimpered. 'Those thieves took everything we had in the house. We have nothing now. The money's gone, and there's no more coming in and— '

She stopped suddenly. And her face cleared a bit. 'Well, at least,' she went on, 'you have a few dollars. That will keep us going for a day or two until we're able to figure some way of getting more money. You have five dollars or so, haven't you, Henry?'

Henry gazed at her morosely. He shook his head. 'Not now,' he replied sadly. 'The money the office gave me I had to pay back to a few of the boys. I did have a few dollars this morning. But I spent it.

'I really couldn't help myself, dear. I was going by one of those auction rooms at noon, and I dropped in for a moment. Well, there was a bargain there that I just couldn't resist. It was one of those fascinating places, and I— '

His wife made an important gesture. 'I know.' she cried. 'You spent your last cent, and you lost your job in the bargain! Oh. Henry, won't you ever learn! What was it you bought, this time?'

Henry smiled weakly. 'I lost it when the taxi hit me,' he explained. 'I really wish you could have seen it. It was the most beautiful good luck charm I ever saw!'

__________

46: Fakes and Pains

THERE were pale cream walls. And a deep dust rug. And glass-topped serving-tables. And magazines. And two women reading silently.

It would remind you of the waiting-room of a five-bucks-a-time doctor. And it was...

The women were strangers to each other. The little Chickadee was trying to fight age, but the odds were too tough against her. Her hair had been yellow-rinsed too often, and her face was beginning to come through her make-up. She had the electric, birdlike quality that spells nerves.

The other woman was big. and tired, and grey. She turned her feet inward because she was conscious of their size. Her face held a sadness that was common to pedigreed spaniels.

The Chickadee looked over at the Spaniel. The latter woman had just put down her magazine.

The Chickadee held up one she had. 'Like to read this one?' she asked. The Spaniel smiled her thanks and reached for the magazine.

The Chickadee kept on talking. 'My husband's in there,' she announced, nodding over her shoulder. 'He's got a pain.' She pointed to the left side of a bulging stomach. 'Right about here.'

The Spaniel spoke for the first time. 'Probably nothing at all.'

The Chickadee laughed loudly. 'That's a good one,' she cried. 'Of course it's nothing. He's just like all men. He wants to be babied, so he thinks he's sick. He wouldn't feel right unless he had a little pain.'

The Spaniel shook her head. 'Those men,' she observed. 'They're really something.'

The Chickadee warmed up. 'Old you ever see the beat of them?' she asked. 'Every last one of them is exactly the same. They never grow up. They're always whining, or coughing, or running to a doctor, or spraying their throats, or doing something or other.'

'Yeah.' The Spaniel nodded. 'My husband used to be like that too.'

The Chickadee's eyes widened. 'Used to be?' she echoed. 'You mean to say you cured him of a habit like that?'

The Spaniel nodded again.

The Chickadee shrugged. 'You must be a wonder,' she complimented. 'I sure wish I could cure my man. He imagines he has every illness under the sun.

'Last month it was neuralgia in his shoulder. The month before that it was diphtheria, In the summer he coughed twice— and he was sure it was T.B. The only two things he really has, he absolutely denied. Those two things are flat feet and dandruff.'

The Spaniel rubbed her chin. 'Sometimes,' she said, 'they get on your nerves.'

'You said something.' The Chickadee was in complete agreement. 'I often tell my husband that if he had to go through what we women go through he'd have been dead years ago. I haven't been to a doctor since I had my last baby— and he'll be six this January.'

'Me, too,' said the Spaniel. 'I seldom bother with a doctor unless I feel I have to. Whatever aches or pains I get always seem to go away by themselves in time.' The Spaniel flipped the pages of the magazine she was holding. The Chickadee drummed the little table beside her. 'With the five dollars my husband's spending in there,' she complained, 'I could buy a new hat.'

The Spaniel frowned. 'I could buy five,' she growled, 'and a pair of stockings.'

The Chickadee smiled forgivingly. But she felt it was time to get away from that particular notion. 'By the way,' she asked, 'you said before that you cured your husband of the doctor habit. How did you do it?'

The Spaniel spoke without a trace of emotion. 'Simplest thing in the world,' she explained. 'I simply refused to give him any money to spend on doctors. That did it.'

'How interesting!' The Chickadee was genuinely impressed. 'I might try that some day.'

'It works,' the Spaniel said laconically. 'But after it works, then you got something else to contend with.'

'I know. The moans and groans.'

'Nope,' returned the Spaniel. 'Not so much that. It's the phony medicines you got to watch out for. If you don't watch 'em very close they'll buy a bottle of everything in the chemist's shop and dose themselves sick.'

The Chickadee pouted. 'My husband does that, anyway,' she said. 'He has a separate steel cabinet for his private medicines.'

It was the Spaniel's turn to smile. She smiled the hard way.

'My husband didn't go that far,' she said, 'but it was far enough. He came home one night, complaining of a pain in his chest. So I put my foot right down.

'I said: "Listen, Lennie"— that's his name, Lennie. it's short for Leonard— "Listen, Lennie," I said. "I'm sick and tired of paying out a guinea every time you think you got a pain. We need our money, and I'm not going to have you throwing it away any longer. It's stopping right here and now. You're not going to any more doctors, no matter how you carry on."

'She smiled again. 'Honest,' she went on, 'when I talked like that, I thought he'd drop dead right before my eyes.'

Chickadee was tremendously impressed. 'And did his pains go right away?' she asked breathlessly.

The Spaniel shrugged.

'You know how men are,' she replied. 'He kept rubbing his chest for a couple of days and moaning about lightning flashes on the left side— you know, the usual stuff.'

'Tch, tch. tch!' The Chickadee sighed. 'Wouldn't it be wonderful it men weren't such babies? But it's just as I said before, they're all alike. How long is it now since your man went to a doctor?'

'Six weeks ago,' said the Spaniel.

'Wonderful!' cried the Chickadee. 'Absolutely wonderful!'

THE NURSE stuck her head out of the office doorway. She smiled at the Chickadee. 'Your husband will be out in just a moment,' the nurse announced.

The Spaniel put down the magazine and stood. 'Oh, nurse,' she said.

'I'll see you in a few minutes,' said the nurse. And she disappeared behind the door.

'Well!' exclaimed the Spaniel angrily. 'How do you like that?'

The Chickadee was interested. 'What did you want to see the doctor for?' she asked.

The Spaniel spoke very simply. 'I just want to pay the bill,' she said. 'My husband died a week ago, and the insurance money came this morning.'

____________

47: Won Her Ambition

AROUND the corridors of the old Boothby Building, down in New York's financial district, old Mary was a familiar figure.

For she had been a member of the mop brigade in that spot for almost 25 yews. Her frail form, bent now from years of toil, seemed actually to be a part of the building. She had a meek, wistful smile that people missed when they failed to see her. Some of the biggest men in the world of money— men so social that they sometimes refused to recognise themselves— always exchanged a word of cheer with old Mary whenever they saw her. And these very same big shots often discussed her during lulls in their luncheon hour.

We humans are funny that way. The beggar who panhandles during intermissions is inevitably a topic of conversation with the first-nighters. If he talks intelligently or has a new method of approach, they like to wonder whence he came and how he happened to turn into a panhandler. The same thing goes for the waiter who quotes from the classics, the barber who writes books, and the cab driver who amazes you with his observations. You think about people such as these, and you wonder how they came to be what they are. At least, I do.

At any rate, Mary fell into that category. There isn't a doubt that she was fairly well educated— and she differed from the others in the mop brigade by several million miles. When the others were paid, many of them raced for a bottle. But not old Mary. Her first move was to the bank on the corner. And each pay day found her putting away four dollars out of her meagre salary. At Christmas there was a little extra money for her— and that inevitably went the same way. For almost twenty-five years she had journeyed from the office building to the bank.

As I said before, the people in the Boothby Building often discussed her. And many were the stories that were told about her.

'Know what I heard about old Mary?' one broker would say. 'I understand that she has an invalid son somewhere, and that she is saving her money just for him. She's working very hard so that he will have something to live on when she's gone. Swell story, isn't it?'

Another would nod. 'You betcha,' he'd agree, 'if it's true. But I heard another angle. Somebody told me that she came from a really fine family, and that she went nuts about, some guy that her people didn't want. As I understand it, she went with the guy anyhow.

'Well, this man finally gave her the air— and she was too proud to go back to her family. She took the job as a scrub woman in our building, and she's been there ever since. And I heard that she's saving her money so that, when she dies, she can be buried next to the feller she's still in Jove with.'

And it's all very strange, when you stop to think, that after saving four dollars a week for twenty-five years, Mary probably had more cash than half the brokers whose offices she scrubbed!

A FEW weeks ago Mary quit her job. She didn't make a great to-do about it. She just told people as they arrived in the building that it was her last day on the job.

'I've reached my goal,' was her simple explanation, 'and I'm leaving here to-day. I just wanted to say good-bye, and to thank you for being so nice to me through the years.'

And nobody knew what her goal was until the teller in the bank let the cat out of the bag. Seems that on the day she quit work, old Mary made her way to the bank and drew out every penny she had saved. The same man had been serving her for a long time, and he urged her to be careful. Man' shook her head. '.

'No,' she replied. 'I appreciate what you mean, and I promise I'll be careful. But don't you worry about me.' She smiled happily. 'All my life,' she went on, 'I've worked so that I could do exactly what I am going to do now. I've reached my goal, and my ambition will soon be realised.

'I've worked hard. Very hard. Twenty-five years with a pail and a mop aren't much of a pleasure. But that's all behind me now, and maybe it has been all worth while. It's something in life to reach a goal, isn't it?'

The teller nodded as he shoved the pile of bills across. 'I suppose it is, Mary, and I wish you all the luck in the world. I expect you're going to buy yourself a little house in the country and settle down for the rest of your years. That's it, isn't it?'

Mary drew back.

'House in the country?' she repeated. 'I should say not. My goal has been reached. I'm going down to Mexico City and have myself a helluva time!'

______________

48: Good Time Twins

I'M NOT really too much of a cynic, but I've always felt a trifle mistrustful of the guy who keeps his wife's picture prominently displayed on his office desk. It's like advertising love— which is a waste of time, because you can neither buy nor sell the genuine article.

Look at Larry Clark, for instance. Dam near the whole of his staff had remarked, at one time or other, on what a wonderful husband he must be; just because a foot-high, silver-framed photograph of his wife had adorned his desk for nearly 12 years.

Twelve years ago Larry had married Stella. It was a case of playboy marrying playgirl, and it was a toss-up which of the two knew best the hot spots of New York. They were known as the ''Good-time Twins."

They had money to burn, and, believe me, they made a bonfire of it Between them they invented more ways of raising Cain than all the more recent Broadway sports rolled into one.

AS LARRY sat at his office desk he recalled the night before their wedding and the talk he had with Stella.

"Ours is going to be a grand partnership, Stella," Larry remembered saying. "We're going to build our future on mutual trust; both of us going our own ways, knowing that, in the end, our ways are bound to meet."

And that's just what happened. For two years the marriage panned out as they had dreamed— a companionate affair with the saving grace of a marriage license.

Then their child arrived. Something fiercely maternal turned Stella from one extreme to the other, and the playgirl de luxe became a mother supreme.

In spite of his real and very genuine love for their kid, Larry just couldn't stop hankering after the bright lights. Without the moderating influence of Stella he became a ship without a rudder— and Broadway is a devil of a sea to negotiate without some kind of steering. Within a few months he hit the booze trail with a wallop that broke a world's record in the saloon Olympics.

Eight years of this.

LARRY sat, lost in thought as he gazed at Stella's portrait.

"What a dog I've been!"

He'd make up for the past.... Fight like the devil to get straight with Stella again. Try to make his kid proud of her father.

A few minutes later he swung out of his office with the jaunty step of a man suddenly freed from gaol. He was going to buy Stella a ring— not as a peace offering or a bribe but as a token of a new start.

"Stella," he was going to say as he put it on her finger, "let's get married over again. Let's pretend these last eight years haven't happened. Let's....."

LARRY got home just before dinner. He couldn't remember when he had felt so good, and, like an excited schoolboy carrying a surprise gift home for his mother, he crept into the sitting room.

His first instinct was to surprise Stella in her room, but he figured that she would probably have heard him come in. And for Larry to return home at this hour would be surprise enough in any case.

Waiting for her to come down, Larry sat examining the ring he had purchased. Suddenly he heard Stella enter the room, and hastily he put the ring in his pocket. Rising, he turned to greet her.

"Well, Stella, old lady, the prodigal has come home."

Stella cut him short.

"What was that you put in your pocket, Larry?"

"Why— er— nothing— I mean—" Larry stammered. The coldness of her voice had stunned him.

"Nothing, eh?" her voice was even colder. "It was a ring, Larry. I saw you put it into your pocket as I came into the room."

She paused, then: "So, it's come to this, has it, Larry?" she went on. "Drinking I could stand. But drink and women, especially when you flaunt rings in my face, form a combination that even I can't put up with."

"But, Stella—"

"Oh, don't talk like a child. Whom was the ring for?"

"Why, for you, sweetheart."

"The woman laughed loudly.

"Please stop lying. Larry. And hiding it guiltily in your pocket the moment I enter the room.

"But, darling. Honey. Will you— will you please listen?"

"No, Larry. I've listened long enough to your excuses. Get out, and don't come home again. Go to your other woman, and give her the ring.

"Get out, I say!"

LARRY got out. Outside he looked up at the stars. Then he looked at the ring.

"Oh, well," he muttered, "what's the use? I should have known that Betty or Joan or Mabel or Dorothy would have appreciated it more in the first place.''

____________

49: Just Once Too Often

HARPY was tiny, and tough, and screwy, and superstitious. He had a head like an auctioneer's mallet, and beady little eyes that blinked like a lighthouse. He was the toughest man in his State, and when not in the mood to murder, he had been known to gouge the eyes out of a friend. Harpy was afraid of no man.

The intangibles, however, could make a sissy out of him at any time. Anything that smacked of the supernatural had him completely buffaloed. He was woefully ignorant. And that, of course, emphasised the value of superstitions

Once he almost fainted at the sight of a black cat. It happened in 1933. He had planned a night robbery, and he had planned it very well. The joint chosen was packed with expensive furs. And Harpy had a fine outlet for them. He and his gang waited for more than a week. Then the layout looked exactly right— and Harpy decided it was time to operate.

At the fur warehouse Harpy slid from his car. As he did so a cat walked in front of him. The cat was as black as an invasion headline. She was mangy and cold, and she looked at Harpy and mewed for food. Harpy trembled. His beady eyes snapped. His knees shook. His skin faded to a clownish white. He leaped back into the car.

'Step on it!' he shouted. 'Let's get out of here. Quick!'

The gang wanted to know what happened to the boss. On the way back he told them. They wanted to laugh at him, but they didn't dare. Harpy swore the cat was a tip-off, and that the cops were probably inside, waiting. And. strange as it may seem, he was right!

The very next day the newspapers had a small story to the effect that the police waited in that very warehouse. They had waited there for a week on a tip that 'some gang' was going to pull a robbery.

After that the boys never, laughed again at any of Harpy's superstitions

LATER, Harpy became the very hot criminal indeed. The cops were out to get him. The governor of the State demanded that the cops in every town were to hunt him down. And Harpy was compelled to remain very much in seclusion. He stayed in an apartment— and held court there. Business went on an usual, and Harpy was feeling fine.

He felt that way, that is, until one of the gang walked in one night and tossed his hat on the bed. The superstitious Harpy almost leaped out of his hide. As he ran to knock the hat from the bed he heard an impolite hammering on the door of his hideaway apartment.

Harpy waited to ask no questions. He was out the window and down the fire escape in less time' than it takes to write it here. And a few seconds later the police; kicked the door down. Again Harpy escaped. But he knew in his heart that the hat on the bed was what got him into trouble.

SEVERAL months later interest in the notorious Harpy had waned. The papers were full of politics, and they forgot about Harpy for the moment. So he came out of hiding. He summoned the boys and handed out some very sweet news. He was going to pull a very juicy job. On a bank this time. And in daylight, too, when the pretty bills were present for everyone to see.

He had a mug draw maps of the surrounding streets and of the interior of the bank. Harpy knew exactly where every burglar alarm button was. And he X'd off the spots on which he wanted the boys to stand.

Each man had his own job. Harry was to keep the engine of the car running on Geller street; Tommy was to stand at the back entrance with his hat off. If he put the hat on at any time that was the signal to scram. Joe, Ben. and Mike were to enter the bank with Harpy. One was to take care of the patrons. One was to cover the bank officials. One was to help Harpy at the teller's cages. The job was an absolute cinch.

The boys did their parts like troupers. Everything went well except for one very unfortunate hitch. One of the tellers wanted to be a hero. He grabbed a gun. And Harpy slashed a shot in the centre of his forehead.

The boys scooped up all the dough they could handle. And they departed fast. They ran to Geller street and scrambled into the waiting car. They were only seven blocks away when a police car pulled across the road in front of them. They had to pull up— or crash. They pulled up.

Harpy grabbed a money bag and ran. He kept his fingers crossed as he ran— and he wasn't hit. Mike ran alongside of him.

'We're makin' for the old flat,' cried Harpy. 'Keep running like hell.'

Which is just what they did. They hurdled fences and hedges, and they ran up streets and down alleys. Finally, they reached an apartment. They ran through the hall Fortunately, no one was there.

The two men raced up the stairs. Harpy used his old key, and entered the flat with Mike. He closed the door and leaned against it. 'Took a long chance comin' here,' he whispered heavily. 'But we hadda do it. Now if the luck only holds out for a coupla hours.'

His voice trailed off as he heard the police. Sirens— hundreds or them— seemed to be blowing. There were heavy steps on the stairs. Harpy and Mike left the door. They took the money bag and raced into a deep cupboard. Harpy closed the door and pulled a lot of gowns and suits in front of them. Then Harpy crossed his fingers because that had never failed to bring him good luck. They heard the cops pound on the outside door.

Harpy and Mike held their breaths. They heard the pounding and splintering of wood. They heard the hoarse shouts of the police, and the tramping of many feet. They heard a policeman approach the cupboard. Harpy grinned in the dark— and double-crossed his fingers.

The cop opened the cupboard door and stared inside. Harpy's heart pounded in the throat. But nothing happened. The cop was evidently satisfied. He closed the door again. A moment later there were a number of shots. Harpy felt the sting of many bees in his chest. He and Mike fell dead.

IN THE police station the proud cop explained it all to the chief.

'So help me. sir,' he said. 'I didn't know they were in there. I opened the cupboard door and looked in. All I saw was a lot of clothes. They might have got clean away, except for one thing:— After I slammed the door. I heard somebody knock on wood!'

____________

50: Ties That Bind

JOHN PETERS didn't look much like a desperate criminal. He was a frail little man, with a hangdog look, a ghostly pallor, and a strange trick of starting nervously when anyone spoke to him.

The beaten expression and the pallor were the result of ten years in gaol. The nervousness was caused by the ten years he hadn't served. There wasn't much about John to attract a woman. In the rooming house where he boarded, he seldom spoke to anyone. Yet it was there that he met Anna and fell in love with her.

During the weeks of their courtship, Anna told John everything about herself. None of it was very unusual. She had been a school teacher for the past ten years. There had never been a real love affair in her life before. John was less candid. One chapter of his past he kept carefully hidden. And when he and Anna were married she knew nothing of his ten years in prison.

For a year or two things went along smoothly. John was working in a factory, and Anna had given up her position. And then one night he came home hastily.

'We gotta be moving. Anna.' he babbled. 'Somebody's been asking questions at the factory.' He blurted out the whole story that night. Of the break he had make three years ago with two other convicts. Of the hunt that went on ceaselessly. Of the ever-present terror of being picked up. From that moment there were two hunted creatures now instead of one

WITHIN the next few years the Peters moved at least half a dozen times. In new surroundings there would be, for a while, that feeling of security and peace. Then, finally, the inevitable night when John came home trembling.

'There's been somebody asking questions,' he would mumble. 'We better move along right away.'

As the months went by the man grew frailer and frailer. He developed a racking cough. Fear and uncertainty aged him. When Anna thought ahead along the years the future seemed very dark.

His cough growing worse, it was becoming difficult for John to find work these days.

'If we could only get out west somewhere,' she had told him once, 'we wouldn't be bothered there.'

Shortly after that, the man fell ill.

Anna grew desperate. 'We have no money left, and there's only one thing to do,' she stated. 'That's go back to the town where I used to live. I have some friends there. I may be able to borrow enough money to get a car and head for the west.'

She was thinking of a certain individual when she spoke— of Joe Kearns. He had been her friend once. He also had been in love with her.

'If there's ever anything I can do for you,' he had said, 'you just let me know. Anything at all. Anna— anything.'

It would mean swallowing every bit of pride to admit that she needed help for her husband. 'But I'll do it,' she resolved. 'I'll do it for John.'

THERE wasn't the slightest doubt in her mind about Joe's helping her. He had always been kind and generous. So, after she and John were installed in a shabby hotel, she set out to find Joe. She found him sitting in his shirt sleeves on the front porch. He came down the step slowly and took her hand. Then, with a quick glance at her white face and shabby clothing, he drew out a rocker for her.

Anna told him rapidly why she had come. 'You said to, if I ever needed anything,' she pointed out, 'I had no one to ask, Joe. You were always so good and kind.'

She told him about John, about the cough, about the necessity of getting away. She told, him, too. of the unfinished prison sentence and the shadow that hung over them always. When the story was finished, Joe took her gently by the arm and walked with her back toward the hotel.

'You will help me. won't you. Joe?' Anna appealed. 'For old times' sake?'

'You're making it awfully hard for me,' the man murmured. 'I wish to God you hadn't told me all this. I'd do anything in the world for you, Anna. Anything, that is, except violate my sworn duty.'

He walked her up the steps of the hotel.

'I'm going in, too,' he explained slowly. 'You see Anna, I was elected sheriff of this county last fall.'

______________________

51: Joke on Anna

'CHILDREN are wonderful,' the nurse murmured. She was watching Anna fondle the new born daughter. 'When you're good to them they bring so much happiness.'

That's what Anna thought, too. Anna was one of those mousy little sentimentalists who save the first bottle, the first rattle, the first childish scrawl. She was a cameo creature who thought her George was the greatest man in the world, her baby the greatest miracle.

Baby Florence was seven months old when George walked out on Anna. There was no warning, no fight, no trouble— He just walked out, saying: 'I'll be back in a little while.'

And he didn't come back.

Ten days later Anna located him in an old rooming house, she sat on the only chair in a back room. He was stretched out on the bed with his hand over his eyes. 'You're not coming back?' she asked wonderingly. 'You mean you're not coming back— not ever?'

'Not ever,' he said, to the celling. 'I got married because I was in love with you. Anna. I wanted it to stay that way. We had good times together. But now it's all the kid, and so that deals me out.'

She looked bewildered. 'But it won't always be that way,' she pleaded. 'Honest, George. I can do something about it. Honest. I can.

'I'll get somebody to mind the baby, George. There's a girl next door. You know. Mrs. Banks' little girl. She's fourteen now, and I wouldn't have to pay her much— and we can go out two or three nights a week— and her mother says she can sleep on the couch if we're out late— and—'

'Aw, stop kidding yourself,' he advised. 'You're all for the kid. and I just don't happen to like kids. When they're not crying they're sick. And when they're not sick they're slobbering all over themselves. No, Anna. You don't have fun with kids around. So I'm through.'

Anna hesitated. She felt strangely sick and she wanted to run outside. But, because of the child, there was something to be settled first.

'George.' she said slowly, 'will you give me a little something every week to sort of help out with the

He sat up and regarded her coldly. 'I'll do what I can,' he stated. 'But the moment you put the law after me I'll hop the freighter to China. So don't annoy me, see?'

Anna nodded slowly.

She never saw George again. And she never heard from him, either.

EVEN in those days jobs were scarce. Anna could never seem to make enough to feed herself and little Florence and still pay a girl for minding the child. Then, too, Florence didn't gain weight fast enough. The child went from whooping cough to bronchitis, missing none of the way stations between. Illness is a luxury, and Anna couldn't afford it. But she kept on fighting grimly fighting to keep the child well enough, and fed enough, to prevent authorities from taking Florence from her.

Anna aged rapidly, but she never stopped fighting for a minute.

When Florence was twelve Anna met a man. She had met plenty before, but the others were only window shopping. This man was honest and sincere. He was the chef in a restaurant in which Anna slung hash. He was older than Anna, but what difference? He said he could set her up in a little flat. and take care of Florence, and see that the child wanted lor nothing. He was searching for a quiet marriage and a quiet happiness. Anna was frank. She said she didn't love him: that she'd never love anyone as she did the man who walked out on her so many years before. But she said she'd try to be a good wife. And she said she felt lucky that he had asked her to marry him.

When she told Florence she was relieved and overjoyed. She tried to explain to the child that this marriage would mean comparative ease, and security, and a home. And that this man was a good man; a man who would try to be her daddy.

Florence screamed. She stamped her feet and threw herself on the- floor. She sobbed. She said she'd run away if that awful man ever came in the house again. She almost went into convulsions. And Anna wept bitter tears of defeat Jong before the scene was actually over. That night she told, the man it was no good.

Anna went on alone. She had fought hard for dollars for so long she scarcely minded it any more. And when Florence finished high school Anna hugged the girl fiercely and said: 'Now college. College is the next stop for you. Once I get you through that I can sit back a little and take it easy. Just four years more, that's all. 'I want you to have a fine education. That's very important, because I want my daughter to be able to hold her head up in any society. When I know that's done. I'll be able to rest a little. 'But only when that's done.'

No one will ever know how Anna scraped up the money to go through with it, but it was done just the same. Florence went to college. And Anna bragged to the women in the canning factory what a lady her daughter was getting to be. It was near the end of the sophomore term that Anna received the wire.

It told her that Florence had eloped. The young man in question had a local radio shop. Nice boy.

Florence didn't get in touch with her mother. Aside from that first small wire there was never a word and Anna was too hurt to make the first move. She did a little weeping, and a little watching of the mailman. And a year went by without a word.

Then the ageing mother pocketed her pride. She bought a ticket for a long train ride and went to see her daughter. She got off at a little station and inquired the whereabouts of a family named Jordan. They told her, and she found the house, it was a nice, roomy house with a curving walk in front. And plenty of shrubs. And a brass knocker. And a mat with 'Welcome' on it.

When she saw her mother, Florence was surprised — and a bit embarrassed. She kissed Anna, and then they sat very formally and talked. Florence said her husband was a rather peculiar person and that she didn't want him to get any funny ideas about her family.

'That's why I never wrote you,' Florence said, 'and that's why I'd rather you hadn't come here until I sent for you. My husband thinks I come of a very fine family, so I never bothered to tell him differently. I'm happy now, and I see no reason to disturb things.'

Anna stayed a little less than an hour. Then her daughter escorted her to the door. 'And please, momma,' Florence said, 'don't write or come again until I let you know. After all, this is my life. You led yours...'

After her mother left Florence ran upstairs to the baby's room. She took the infant from the nurse and hugged it fiercely.

'Children are wonderful,' the nurse murmured. She was watching Florence fondle the newborn daughter. 'When you're good to them they bring so much happiness...'

_____________

52: Sacrifice DeLuxe

WELL, it seems that Alex was in a bad spot. Nat bad enough for a goodlooking young fellow fellow to want to die, but bad enough to make him desperate.

To understand Alex's problem you must make yourself aware of Alex's hobby. It was girls. He collected them like stamps or butterflies. He liked each one a little but not too much. He liked to take them to quiet places for dinner and to flirt with love.

One night he lost his mind for a moment. He proposed. And— oh, misery of miseries— the girl said yes!

It happened so very suddenly. No reason for the whole thing, really. He had gazed into the moonlight reflection in his cocktail, smiled a sophisticated smile, and said dreamily: 'I'd marry you, Evelyn, if you'd have me.'

Alex enjoyed listening to himself say it. He always did. The words sounded cute, if a bit meaningless. They sounded mellow as they floated away. And they had never brought him the slightest bit of trouble. But Evelyn was different. She was one of those shilly-shally blondes who never knew the time of the day. And instead of acting as all the others had done when Alex tossed off his kidding proposal, she grabbed him around the neck and belted him with badly-aimed kisses.

'Oh, Alex!' she shrieked. 'Oh, my darling! Oh, I'm so happy! Oh, of course I'll marry you!'

Alex looked very pained. He glanced at her the way a friendly pup does when someone has booted him in the pants.

'Well, er, we mustn't be too hasty.' he said. 'After all, it's strictly impossible. I mean, your folks would never hear of it— I mean, after all, who am I?'

BUT Evelyn wasn't the type to take woe for an answer. She pressed a ruby-nailed finger over his lips and looked exactly as though she had just won a sweepstakes.

Alex swallowed hard. He knew it was best he said no more that night. He took Evelyn home, and then went home himself.

But he couldn't sleep. Suppose she got serious about this thing? Suppose she really wanted to marry him? Suppose he refused— and she sued? Suppose it all came out in the papers? Suppose the gang at the office learned about it Suppose, because of this, other women in his past decided to sue, too?

No, Alex didn't sleep that night.

THE following morning, bright and early, Evelyn phoned him at the office. He spoke very sternly. 'Now look here. Evelyn,' he said, 'You must realise my situation. I have a responsible position here, and I haven't time to fritter away on personal calls.'

He didn't worry her in the least.

'I only called you, dearest,' she cooed, 'because I iust thought of something. There's an obstacle in the way of our marriage.'

'Huh?' Alex gulped. 'There is?'

'Oh, you mustn't be alarmed, pet,' she stated reassuringly. 'It's dad I was thinking of. He's rather strict, you know, and he'll be in town on Sunday. I phoned him this morning that we were gonig to be married, and he said he wanted to look, you over first. So don't make any dates for Sunday.'

'No,' he murmured slowly.

'No, I wont.'

WHEN he hung up the idea was already in his mind. He went home that night and sat around with a bottle for three hours in order to polish the idea. No doubt about it. He'd have to displease the old man in some annoying manner.

Evelyn's father was one of those rich men who came up from nothing. He admired success, and it's generally very easy to displease a man like that.

His first notion was to get himself good and drunk before the meeting with the old man. It sounded good, but suppose the old man was fond of a little drink himself? He might even like Alex more because they spoke the same lingo.

Then he thought it would perhaps be wiser to walk in very belligerently and say: 'So you're old sourpuss in person, huh? I've heard about you all right. You're the disgusting type that can't talk anything but money. Well, let we tell you a few things: I don't like the way you part your hair—  I don't like your choice in clothes, either. I don't even like your choice in daughters, you fathead. You wanna make something out of it?'

Yes, that was good. That was wonderful. The old man would have to go for a line like that. The least any decent father could do would be to maim the man who said it. Yes, that would do it.

But— there was always the thousand-to-one chance that father might be amused. He might even laugh. Suppose he did? Suppose he turned out to be one of those men who'd go for a gag like that? After all. it could be.

Alex grew more and more frightened. The more he thought about marriage, the more the thought about being dumped into a dungeon for life. It couldn't be happy to him. It just couldn't. As Sunday grew nearer he grew increasingly desperate— And suddenly he pounced upon a fool-proof idea. It was an extremely expensive idea— but it had to be done.

He quit his job.

He sent his resignation to the big chief, and then refused to discuss the matter. He walked out of an office in which he stood very well, an office in which he figured some day to be top man. It hurt. He lost seniority, prestige, money—

He had carefully weighed these things against marriage with Evelyn— and now that it was over he had nothing to worry about. He knew that no father, especially a self-made man, would permit his daughter to marry a jobless man. Alex knew he'd have to start somewhere else. He knew it would take years and years to get back where he had been. But it would teach him the greatest lesson of his life at the same time. It would teach him never to stare into a moonlight cocktail and make cute remarks!

On Sunday, Alex dressed his worst, didn't shave, and went to Evelyn's house. He stepped in quietly under a butler's nose. Evelyn was almost in tears, and Alex looked at her hopefully.

'What's the matter?' he asked eagerly. 'Is it all off?'

She nodded. Then she began to sob.

'We can't get married, you mean?' Alex was putting on a great act. 'Why, he can't do this to us!'

Evelyn practically jumped Into his arms. 'Oh. Alex, my love! It's so good to know that you love me this much! Oh. Alex!'

'Now, now,' he said,' with masculine authority, 'you dry those tears.' His heart was staging, but he managed to look worried. 'You tell me just what your father said. There may be some way—'

'Well,' she said, 'he arrived in town on Friday and got a lot of reports about you. He even found out you're general sales manager of a liquor concern. And he says that unless you quit that awful job right away he'll forbid our marriage!'

________________

53: Some Are Experts

MR. THOMPSON started talking when a pre-dinner cocktail was served— and he then held the conversational fort all through the soup, the roast, the salad, and the butterscotch pudding. Which is strictly super-talking.

Afterward, while the ladies cleared the dishes and exchanged such phoney remarks as, 'No, let me do it. You go on in and sit down.'

Mr. Thompson's tongue, far from tired, kept right on wagging. There was no stopping the man.

First it was Europe. The war. Mr. Thompson was a boss at the plant, and if the boss doesn't know what's wrong with the world, how would you expect ordinary guys like Fred and Charlie and Tom to know? More, since they worked for Mr. Thompson, they had to listen. Even Fred, who had invited the boys and their wives to the dinner, contributed nothing to the discourse, except a profound head wag in the right spots.

Mr. Thompson prattled on, covering domestic politics, religion, labour, why double features were bad, and insanity.

How he ever reached that last subject no one will ever know. But he reached it just the same. And he told them, with an unassuming flair of the hands, that, while he didn't like to boast, he was probably one of the greatest lay authorities in the world, on mental diseases.

BY this time, the women had dried the dishes and now sat quietly around the fringe of men, listening respectfully. Now and then Martha, Fred's aunt, got up and poured a round of drinks, and heaped a dish with cheese tit-bits. But that was the only disturbance.

'The ordinary classifications of mental ills,' Mr. Thompson blooped, 'are no longer sufficient for the true mental scientist. Manic depression, dementia praecox, schizophrenia— those are outmoded now. Thoroughly outmoded.

'Today we subdivide each of the major groups into countless smaller ones. For each, there are new, prescribed treatments— some of the shock variety— which take a lot of the terror out of such cases. These are new treatments.

'I hate boasting.' he continued, as he boasted prettily, 'but I must tell you that doctors— good doctors, too— have asked me to help them in diagnosing certain difficult cases. I have the ability merely to glance at a person, listen to him speak, and I can then tell you not only if he is insane, but what his particular, affliction is.'

'Oh, it's really no trick at all,' said Mr. Thompson deprecatingly. 'Any bright person can master it, if the proper application of mind is employed. All I do is give the subject a steady look, and then listen for a moment. The manic depressive babbles like a bird, the pathetic is mealy-mouthed, the—'

Which was when Aunt Martha entered the room with a tray. 'Drinks are waiting,' she said

That interruption broke the spell. Mr. Thompson seemed nettled, and he couldn't be coaxed into talking further about himself. The women seemed tired, and yawned at one another. The men reluctantty drank their drinks and made passes about going home.

And thus, after awhile, they left, Fred saw them to the door. But Mr. Thompson didn't leave with them. He was still sitting, still brooding over his drink, when Aunt Martha sat down beside him.

'I'm awfully sorry. Mr. Thompson', she said sincerely. 'I hadn't meant to interrupt. I just spoke without realising.'

He glanced up sharply. Then he softened. 'Perfectly all right,' he smiled. 'I was probably boring everyone stiff, anyhow.'

She shook her head vigorously. 'Oh, no, indeed,' she said hastily. 'Quite the contrary. I wanted to ask you a question— a rather personal question— Mr. Thompson. It's something I should like you to keep in confidence.'

Mr. Thompson nodded. 'You have my word.' he stated. 'I will not repeat anything you may wish to ask me.'

Aunt Martha hesitated for a moment. Then—

'My husband,' she confided, 'is a very good man. But lately he has taken to sulking a lot. I mean, he goes around the house for hours, without saying a word. And then, suddenly he brightens up and he talks about getting a big raise from his boss, and buying a car, and things like that.'

Mr. Thompson drummed the arm of his chair. 'I see.' he mused. 'And how long has he been acting this way?'

'About five or six weeks.' replied Aunt Martha. 'Sometimes, as I say, he's perfectly all right. But other times he's very low.'

Mr. Thompson reached over and pressed the woman's hand. In a professional gesture, of course.

'I don't like to frighten you,' he said: 'But since you asked me, I must tell you frankly that your husband's behaviour suggests maniac depression. It's a periodic thing. He can be cured and sent home. But later it will come over him again.'

Aunt Martha wept frankly. She got up and went out into the kitchen. As she left. Fred came in. He saw her weeping.

'Sad case,' he said to Mr. Thompson.

'It is indeed.' returned Mr. Thompson.

'Sad, but very simple to diagnose. I solved the thing very quickly.'

Fred sighed. 'Poor Aunt Martha.' he murmured. 'Been nutty like that for years. Thinks she's married.'

_____________

54: Gamblers In Session

MILLER dealt. The green-shaded light threw its expanding beam down on the five faces and the scaling cards. Miller plopped the deck on the scarred table.

Miller had a sharp pinched face. He was a druggist— at least that's what he liked to call himself— and this was his back room. He had a wife who helped him out in the store. She knew that Miller was hanging out with a girl from the big jute mill. But she didn't care. She was too tired to care much about anything.

Burke said: 'By me.'

Burke wasn't Irish. He was a second-generation Scot. A union organiser at the jute mill, he was a little guy with brick hair. He always made speeches while standing in front of an American flag. He was quiet unless he was making speeches. Then he yelled, and pounded his fists, and shouted at Capitalism.

Siello said: 'It's open,' and he tossed a white chip on to the centre of the table. Siello was a holy guy. He missed church once, and that week his mother died of a heart attack. He said it was his fault. and he had gone to church every morning since.

Blunt said: 'This hand is rotten. I'm out.' He threw the cards face down on the table. Blunt was a timekeeper at the mill. He was a roly-poly drunk, and he breathed as though he had a piano on his chest.

Gordon tossed in a white chip. He knew he wouldn't win, but his face was bland and impassive. Even Miller couldn't detect the hatred in his eyes.

Gordon hadn't always hated Miller. The feeling had developed during these weekly poker sessions. Gordon never won. He always dropped five or six dollars, which was a lot of dough to a guy who earned less than twenty-five a week. More, he always dropped the money to Miller. So he hated Miller.

Miller picked up the deck. 'Cards?' he asked.

Burke took one. Siello took three. Gordon took three. Miller took three for himself. Siello threw a chip on the table. Gordon did the same.

'And two better,' said Miller.

Burke tossed his cards in and poured a round of drinks. Siello dropped out. too. Gordon glanced at Miller. 'Your two,' he said, dropping the chips into the pot, 'and two better.'

'I'm calling,' said Miller quietly. Gordon said: 'Tens up,' and he showed a pair of tens and a pair of fours.

Miller smiled. 'Guess you don't live right.' he said. He put down a pair of tens and a pair of eights.

GORDON drained his drink and stood up. 'I'm through,' he announced casually. Siello sighed and said he'd have to go, too. Blunt poured himself another drink and then reached for his coat. Miller smiled.

'Did it again, boys, didn't I?' he said. 'Sorry— '

'Aw, don't give us that guff,' said Burke sourly. 'You never lose. I'm sick and tired of supporting you and this crummy drug store.'

Everybody smiled, although they all knew it was kidding on the level. They paid off, got their coats and hats, and shuffled out through the store. Miller opened his little store safe and threw the dough into it. Gordon stood behind him— and Gordon was the only one who noticed that Miller forgot to lock the safe.

Out on the sidewalk Gordon did some fast thinking. He knew he was going to rob that safe. But he didn't know when or how.

Suddenly, Gordon made up his mind. He took out a cigarette and patted his coat pockets.

'Nuts,' he said. 'I left my cigarette lighter on the card table.' Miller struck a match for him. Gordon sucked on the cigarette, and he could see the red glow on Miller's face.

Miller whipped out his store keys. 'I'll get the lighter for you,' he said.

Gordon placed a restraining hand on his arm. 'Never mind,' he returned. 'I know just where it was. I'll get it myself.'

He took the keys from Miller, opened the door of the store, and went inside in the darkness. When he came out more than a hundred dollars were stuffed in his trousers pockets.

'I found it all right,' he announced, handing the keys back to Miller. 'Thanks.'

'Okay,' said Miller. 'See you guys next week.'

The group broke up. and Gordon hastened home to his room to count the money. He knew he would have to quit his job and blow town. He knew he'd never play poker with the gang again. But it was worth it. He knew, as did the others, that Miller was barely hanging on to the store. This hundred might well ruin him and kill his store. That made it worth while to steal the hundred. That made it worth while to lose job and character. That made it worth while to flee. In less than an hour he was gone.

BURKE dealt. He said the cards were both greasy and rotten. Blunt was drunk. He was trying to read the cards, but his pupils kept diIating and the cards appeared to overlap.

'Misdeal.' Burke said suddenly. 'I dealt five hands. I keep thinking Gordon is here.'

Miller tossed in his cards. 'Too bad about Gordon.' he said. 'The chump didn't have to run away.'

Burke riffled the cards. He shivered slightly.

'This garage is damp,' he said. 'Me, I like the store better.'

Miller's eyes held a faraway look. 'I say again.' he murmured, 'that I'll never understand why Gordon ran away. I don't hold no hard feelings. It wasn't his fault.

'Besides, I really owe him something.' He shrugged. 'Everybody knows my back was to the wall. The store was folding. Now, with the insurance money I'll get from the fire. I'll be on easy street. Gordon did me a big favour by being careless with that cigarette.'

_________________

55: We Two Alone

HE SAT beside her. He held her hand. He stared, unblinking, into the soft, cool depths of her eyes. A small, persistent feeling in his heart had grown for this blond wispy girl— and now, I now that he had proposed— I he felt that he never wanted to leave her side again.

'Oh, Johnny, darling,' she whispered. She rubbed her cheek against his lips. 'I'm so terribly, terribly happy.'

He held her very close.

'Me, too, dearest.' he murmured. 'I'll be the happiest guy alive when the ceremony is over. We've wasted a lot of time as it is. Irene. Why didn't I think of marrying you a year ago?'

She could have told him why. She could have said it took an extra year to jockey him into proposing. And now, after working harder than any girl should to land a man, she had finally won the chump.

Yes, she could have said H these things— but she didn't. Instead she smiled at him very prettily. 'Just think, Johnny, darling,' she cooed. 'In a little while it will be just we two, alone.'

'We three.' he said softly.

She giggled.

'Later, perhaps.' she replied. 'But in the beginning, just two of us.'

He shook his head. 'Oh, no, dear. You forget my mother.'

Irene felt as though she had been jabbed with a pin. She knew that Johnny's mother was a widow. But what the devil— she didn't want to share her young man with his mother.

She felt awful about it, but she said nothing. Time enough after the wedding to kick the old lady out. There were a number of ways to do it, and you can just bet that Irene would find the best way.

And so these cooing lovebirds were married. Momma came to live with Irene and Johnny. They shared a four room apartment. And momma immediately showed Irene that she was going to be very difficult. Because she was nasty enough never to do anything wrong. She never gave Irene a chance to complain. She minded her own business. She went to the movies freouently, so that she was never in the way. And wonder of wonders, she never handed out any motherly advice.

But it made no difference. Irene still didn't want the old lady around. And no matter how nice Johnny's mother might be. she was going to be bounced out of that house. And quickly.

Every once in a while when they were alone. Irene would hint to Johnny that his mother might like a little place of her own. But his reaction was always the same.

'Look, honey,' he'd say. 'My mother is a widow. She only draws forty dollars a month on the pension Dad left her, and that's not enough for her. I'm going to take care of her for life— and that's no more than any decent son should do. is it?'

We two, alone

Irene kept thinking of those word. 'We two, alone.' And the more she thought, the angrier she became. She wanted to be alone with her man. and getting rid of Momma became an absolute obsession with her.

Came the day when that she hit upon what she thought was a very swell idea. If Momma couldn't leave because ner pension money wasn't enough, then a job ought to help. Conceding that the old lady wouldn't go out and hunt for a job, Irene decided to do it for her.

The following morning Irene went to the department store in which she used to work. She looked around, and she made a lucky stab. She told the boss that his baby counter was not what it should be.

'You need a motherly woman at that counter,' she advised. 'You need someone who's had experience as a practical nurse.

'New mothers always ask a million questions. You've got a young, single girl working at that counter now, and that's all wrong. She may be a nice girl, but what does she know?'

The manager agreed. He nodded solemnly and said he most certainly could use a middle-aged woman with practical nursing experience. And Irene, as you suspected all along, knew the very lady for the job.

Next trick was to convince momma.

And Irene went at that notion the moment she arrived home.

'I just walked in to say hello to a few of my old friends,' Irene said. 'I was talking to my old boss. Mr. Shor, and he told me he'd pay twenty-five a week for a good baby-counter woman. I told him I had the right woman for him, and he said I should send her to the store.'

Irene paused for a moment. Then— 'Of course, mom,' she went on, 'it makes no difference to me whether you take the job or not. After all, you have a home here with Johnny and me, and you're as welcome as the flowers in May. You and I get along fine, touch wood.

'But, I know it hasn't been much fun for you here.' She waved a hand. 'Oh. you don't have to deny it. I know. You're used to your own kitchen and everything— and gosh. you're so polite that you won't even make yourself a cup of tea without asking permission. It isn't right, mom. You're not living, really.'

The old lady choked up. 'You're awfully sweet to me, Irene. You couldn't be nicer if you were my own daughter.'

She raised her head and smiled a wan smile. 'I think I'll take that job. And I'll get myself a little flat.'

Chalk up a win for Irene.

SO momma took the job, and then went apartment hunting. Irene smiled herself to sleep, thinking of how extraordinarily smart she had been. Sometimes her own brilliance actually made her gasp. And she kept thinking, just before momma moved out, of how nice it was going to be. At last she was going to have Johnny all to herself. 'We two, alone.'

It was the day before momma moved out that Johnny sat down on the sofa with Irene. He was beaming with happiness.

'You like my mother?' he asked, grinning.

'None better.' Irene lied. 'Best in the world.'

'Gonna miss her?' Johnny asked.

'Of course.' Irene was puzzled. 'Why do you ask?'

Johnny hugged her tightly. 'Ma is a real peach.' he cried. 'She insists she's now making enough money to keep you and her in the new little flat. And that frees me for a lifelong ambition: I'm gonna join the Navy!' .

_______________

56: Burden Of Guilt

IT was Monday morning. All the clerks were at the desks when Tom Matthews walked in. When he had been a clerk himself, all the others had liked Tom. But since he became department manager, no one liked him. Now he was tough. Adamant.

He had tossed old friendships into the waste basket. He was a different man entirely. He was out to set a record for efficiency— and he didn't care whose head it cost. You've met men like that, haven't you? Of course you have. There's a man like him in practically every organisation in the world

The head bookkeeper followed him into the inner office. Tom hung up his hat and coat and glanced briefly at the other man.

'Well,' he barked, 'what is it this morning?'

The head bookkeeper spoke very quietly.

'Johnny Grimes drank poison last night,' he said.

Tom Matthews stopped half-way between the clothes tree and his swivel chair. His mouth fell open. His eyes stared blankly at the other man. 'Grimes... did... what?'

The head bookkeeper nodded slowly. 'It's true,' he repeated. 'Johnny Grimes took poison.'

Tom Matthews grabbed the edge of his desk and guided himself to his seat. He plopped down hard. He looked hurt. Humanly hurt. Hurt badly.

'It's my fault,' he said slowly. 'All my fault.' His voice was shaky. 'I did it as surely as if I'd held a gun to poor Johnny's head. I fired him. He came in drunk, and I told him to get his pay and clear out. That was Saturday. Only two days ago.'

He covered his face with his hands. 'Tell me.' he asked. 'Did he— is he—?'

'No.' The head bookkeeper shook his head. 'A doctor got to him in time. They say he'll probably pull through.'

'Thank God!' breathed Tom Matthews fervently. 'Thank God!'

He arose suddenly. He grabbed his hat and coat from the tree. 'I'm going over to Johnny's house right away. I'm going to make amends on this thing. It may buck him up. Make him want to live.'

He slammed the door. No one had ever seen him look so frightened. He used the stairs, instead of the elevator. Downstairs he grabbed a cab. And in ten minutes he was ringing the bell at the Grimes home.

A. youngish woman opened the door. 'My name is Matthews. Tom Matthews, from the office.'

There was fear in his eyes. She saw it. But she couldn't understand it.

'Do come in. Mr. Matthews.' she said. 'I'm Mrs. Grimes.'

They walked into the living room. She asked him to sit down. He couldn't. He paced the floor nervously.

'How Is he?' he asked.

'Much better,' replied Mrs. Grimes. 'Very much better. Of course, the burns around his mouth are terribly painful. But he's lucky.'

'Lucky!' Tom Matthews echoed the word dazedly.

'Yes, he's lucky. So am I lucky. Were all lucky. Because this thing could easily have turned into a horrible tragedy. Horrible.

'Now listen. Mrs. Grimes: As soon as he's well enough, you're to tell Johnny that his old job is waiting for him. You understand?'

The woman nodded. She didn't say antbing. She seemed about to cry.

'Johnny's a fine man,' Tom Matthews went on. 'I need, him around the office. Just tell him I was too hasty last Saturday. Much too hasty.

'Sometimes I'm too quick in my actions. We all are, I guess. He had no right to walk into that office with liquor on his breath. But that's all forgotten now. I certainly never thought it would lead to anything like this.'

'Hell be so happy, Mr. Matthews. So very happy.'

'Good!' Tom Matthews waved a hand. He left.

Outside he mopped his brow. He only wished he had always known how sensitive the poor guy was.

IN THE Grimes household Mrs. Grimes was talking on the 'phone to her mother.

'...and the funny part of It is, I got the impression from Johnny that this Matthews was a very tough guy. Tough? Why, he's got a heart as big as Texas! Johnny gets his job back, and he gets paid while he's sick, and everything's well.

'I do hope Johnny stops drinking now. What?.... Oh, no. I didn't mention that. Mr. Matthews blames himself for the whole thing. He thinks Johnny tried to commit suicide after being fired. He doesn't know that it's really my fault for putting cleaning fluid in an old whisky bottle!'

______________

57: Sacrifice in Vain

PAUL got up. He sat on the edge of the bed, storing at his slippers. He looked over into the mirror and saw himself. He saw the wrinkled blue pyjamas, the pale and fired face, the lines of desperate worry under the eyes.

Alma came in. She took a long and slightly contemptuous look at him. She said that coffee was ready. Then she walked out.

Paul wriggled his feet into the slippers and took a bathrobe from the clothes tree. He walked into the kitchen and sat down opposite Alma.

'Feel like talking?' she asked. Her voice suggested that she didn't care much whether he talked or not. He looked at her appealingly.

'No,' he said.

They sat in silence, sipping. He plugged in the toaster and made two slices. He buttered one piece slowly and thoroughly, looked at it a moment, and then got up suddenly and went inside.

Alma followed him into the livingroom.

'Tell me about it,' she said. Paul shrugged his shoulders.

'I hit a man.'

Her eyes popped.

'With the car?'

He nodded.

'But when?' she cried. 'How did it happen?'

He apparently didn't hear her questions.

'Alma,' he said. 'Am I what you would call a teetotaller?'

She looked at him, puzzled. 'In a way, yes.' she replied. 'Alcohol in any form generally gets you pretty sick.'

'Last night,' he stated, 'I had my fourth drink since we've been married. The boss's wife finally had her baby.'

In bits and pieces, almost agonisingly, Paul told his wife the complete story. The boss had insisted that they celebrate. This baby was his first. So he and Paul went to an exclusive club. The boss had a great many drinks. Paul had two. He hadn't wanted either of them, but the boss had proposed a toast to the infant and everyone at the bar was practically compelled to drink it.

Then a judge walked in, and there was another, more profound, toast. Paul had to have a sip of that one, too. He stuck with the boss, but after that, he drank ginger ale. And when he noticed that the boss was practically rolling Paul asked him if he could take him home. The big man agreed.

Paul picked up his brand new car at a downtown garage, and then poured the boss into it. Paul wanted the boss to notice the car, because he and Alma had sacrificed a lot for it. But the boss was too stewed to notice much of anything.

They got to the corner of Bearman Street, going rather slowly. A man lurched out from between parked cars. Paul saw him, but it was too late to stop. The car bumped. And the man flew into the air and sprawled out, rolling along the street.

Almost immediately, the boss had sobered up. He and Paul picked up the victim.

'I was too shaken to do much of anything,' Paul said. 'The boss pushed the poor fellow into a taxi and rushed him to City Hospital. And I just stood there, trembling like a leaf.'

Alma was very sympathetic.

'You musn't blame yourself for all this.' she said. 'I thought you had done something that was purely your fault. But you haven't, darling. Why. what's happened to you could happen to anyone.'

Paul was very bitter. He stood up 'Yeah,' he muttered. 'I know.' He went into the foyer and made a 'phone call. In a few minutes he came out into the living room again.

'I just checked the hospital,' he announced. 'The man I hit is in bad shape. Compound fracture of the right leg, possible skull fracture, and internal injuries. Isn't that pretty?'

Alma sank into a chair.

Paul hurried inside and dressed. When he came out Alma begged to know what he was going to do. Paul didn't reply. His face was grim— and suddenly very old. He left without a word.

AN HOUR later Paul was home again.

'What have you done?' Alma wanted, to know.

'Sold the car.' he answered shortly. 'And please don't make a fuss. Alma. It's sold— and there's nothing that can be done about it now. I signed the bill of sale and handed over the car to the first used car lot owner I could find.'

She glanced at him. 'How much?' she asked.

'A hundred and fifty,' he returned.

'Oh, Paul!' It was really a cry of anguish. 'That was a brand new car. We slaved and scrimped, and I made that mangy old coat do for another year just to get that car. Oh, Paul!'

Her husband shrugged, doggedly. 'I've been taught a great lesson, Alma,' he jsaid. 'I've punished myself for taking a drink before driving a car, and it's a punishment I'll never forget. We've given up our car, but I'm still better off than that poor devil I hit.'

'But it wasn't your fault!' Alma was on the verge of tears. 'You only had two drinks— and that car was everything to us. Now we can't even take a Sunday drive into the country. Now...'

The bell rang. Alma answered it— and Paul's boss hustled in.

'Does she know?' he asked abruptly.

Paul nodded. The boss turned to Alma. The grin he wore was a thing of beauty.

'Did you ever hear of anyone as lucky as your husband?' he asked. ''Honestly now— did you?'

'Lucky?' echoed Alma. 'Did you say he was lucky?'

The boss looked surprised. 'You bet he is,' he cried. 'He hit a man with an automobile— and out of all guys he might have hit, he whacks a drunk. The drunk glides through the air and, when I get him to the hospital, they find out he isn't even scratched. Which, of course, cleared Paul fine.'

The boss beamed.

'When I think of what happened later,' he went on. 'I must smile to myself. This morning, in the hospital, they give the stew his hat and coat, and they tell him to beat it. He starts out,falls down a flight of stairs— and now he's back in with a compound fracture of the right leg, a possible skull fracture, and internal injuries.'

____________

58: Labour of Love

CHINK MASON gazed through the blue veil of smoke that crept up his face from his mouth. He wagged a finger at Daisy, his beloved hotsy totsy. She was an overpainted girl whose heart was as false as her eyelashes. Chink thought she was cute. He tossed off a drink and coughed slightly. Then he continued his lecture.

'When you do five years, baby— like I done— you get to know people. It ain't like bein' home. Up there in the caneroo, you get tossed in with guys and, whether you like it or not, you get to know them guys like you know yourself.'

He paused again for another swallow of liquid punctuation. Then he talked on. 'Up there. I met a guy named Pinkey. He's strictly a sucker for the dames. That ain't never important to me— but when he spills the information that he's in gaol for bein' a jewel thief, and that he's got a hundred thousand bucks' worth of sparklers hid away somewheres, why I just natchally got interested. I figgered you and hint might get on very good.'

'You mean.' said Daisy, 'that you want me to play this mug until I find out where them jewels is hidden?'

Chink regarded her proudly.

'Kiddie,' he murmured. 'You are not only beautiful: you are also practically a genius.'

Daisy's task, therefore, was to have Pinkey fall in love with her, so that he would not hesitate to tell her where the baubles were. This end was to be obtained even if she had to marry the dope.

Lovely romance, don't, you think?

THE FIRST meeting was well planned. Chink took his pal Pinkey to a restaurant. They had a few drinks, and a blonde breezed by.

'Why,' said Chink, in great surprise, 'I know her. She is strictly on-the-level. You don't meet many like her.'

He called to her and coyly, Daisy sat down. She took one look at Pinkey, and felt a stroke coming on. For Pinkey was a giant of a man, with a head like the business end of a tiger shark. When he smiled, the effect was ghastly.

Daisy was not exactly what you might term a gentlewoman, but she wanted to quit immediately. Chink frowned at her, however, and she had to play the game.

She gushed in Pinkey's general direction, and called him handsome. Handsome went for her in the accepted manner, and tried to ditch his dear pal Chink. That was exactly what Chink wanted. When he left. Pinkey and Daisy were holding hands. End of part one.

IT WASN'T exactly an easy job. To be truthful, it was extremely tough. Daisy did her best to egg him on, but Pinkey couldn't be pushed.

The gal pushed the I'm- just- an- old- fashioned- girl- at heart business, and poor Pinkey promptly became an old-fashioned boy. The romance went on apace, and Daisy made daily reports to Chink. Said Chink had to ante up money for new gowns, for living expenses, and for incidental expenses to keep the romance flourishing. He was rapidly going nuts. And to make matters worse, Daisy was always on the verge of quitting.

'Listen,' Chink told her one afternoon. 'I seen Pinkey this mornin', and he's just about ready to take the leap. He's daffy about you, kiddie, so it wont be long now. I'll betcha it's no more'n a week before he proposes. And when he does. Babe, that's when you'll find out where the jewelry is hid. Right after that, you and me is goin' places. To South America maybe. Or even Brazil!'

Daisy sighed heavily.

'Gee, Chink,' she said, 'I hope so!'

CHINK was right. A few nights later, after three long movies and two short ice creams. Pinkey stood in Daisy's doorway and stammered to the point.

'Look, Daisy,' he blurted. 'I gotta tell you somethin'. You're the swellest girl I ever knew, and you sure are much too good for me. But I gotta ask you. Daisy, 'cause you got me goin' round in coicles.'

At last! Daisy put on her best come-to-mother expression

'You mean— ?' she fluttered. 'You mean— ?'

'Yeah,' said Pinkey hoarsely. 'That's it, Daisy. Wouldja marry me? Wouldja, hah? Wouldja be my wife?'

She kissed him lightly. 'My little boy,' she murmured. 'My little boy.'

'Gee. Daisy, this is the goods!' The man was in heaven. 'I'll make you the happiest dame in town. Only there's somethin' I gotta tell you right away, and I hope it won't make no difference. I— I been in prison.'

Daisy gasped. 'Oh, Pinkey,' she cried, à la Katherine Hepburn. 'Not you!'

'Yeah.' The man hung his head. 'I done a few jewelry jobs in my time. Matter of fact, after the last one. I hid about a hundred thousand bucks worth of diamonds and stuff.

'So that's why I wanted to tell you about it, Daisy. I want to promise you that I'll never do it agin.'

'Pinkey,' she said softly. 'I never did like no crooks, but you comin' clean this way makes me change my mind. So long as you promise not to do it no more, I got to forgive you.

'Now, you hand all that stuff over to li'l Daisy so that you will be away from temptation. It's dishonest stuff, and you ain't gonna get a minute's happiness outa it. Ain't I been preachin' honesty to you for months?'

Pinkey nodded vigorously. 'You sure have, honey.'

He clutched her in an embrace that left her dizzy. 'You been clean, and sweet, and wunnerful. You are like a dream girl, almost. And that's why I wanted to marry you as an honest guy.

'So you know what I done? I dug up every piece of that jewelry this mornin' and sent it back to the people I stole it from!'

_____________

59: Advice From The Heart

THE kid drank desperately. The bartender wiped the bar and kept a beady eye on the kid at the same time. He was waiting for the lad to fall. But the kid didn't fall. As a matter of fact, he didn't even get drunk. He kept thinking as he poured himself those stiff hookers. The kid spoke to no one.

Then the old man came in, but the kid didn't even see him. The old man frowned just as if he thought it a shame for a young man to drink so much. He finally walked over to the kid. His voice was kindly, and there was a soft smile on his face. 'In trouble, son?' he asked.

The kid looked up. He stared at the old man. You would have laid five-to-one he'd tell the old man to mind his own business.

'Yes,' he replied. 'And it's terrible. Terrible.'

'Can I help?'

'Nope.' he murmured. It's nice of you— nobody can help. Because I'm in love!'

The bartender chuckled. The old man patted the kid on the shoulder. 'Bad as all that?' he inquired.

'I guess not,' he returned. 'Not really. She's really wonderful. What worries me is that I don't know whether to get married or not. Doesn't mean much to you, I suppose. But to me it's a helluva problem.'

'That's what you think,' The old man nodded wisely. 'Look, son, and take a tip from an old codger: If she loves you and you love her, there's only one course open. Get married.'

The kid poured himself another drink. 'Maybe you're right,' he said, 'but it's not quite as easy as that. So many marriages turn out wrong. When it's time for me to go into the Army. I'll go gladly. That's a simple decision. But the question of marriage is something else again.'

The old man grew pontifical. 'My boy,' he declared. 'I don't know you from Adam. Never saw you before in my life. But that doesnt stop me from telling you that marriage is the most wonderful thing in the world. It's a pearl beyond price. It's a happiness that you can neither buy nor beaueath. It's beautiful.'

'That's all very good,' said the kid. 'But, as far as I can see, the divorce courts are full of people who thought it was going to be wonderful and beautiful.'

The old man placed a hand on the boys shoulder. 'You listen to me for a moment, son.' he said, 'and be sure you listen carefully. I'm far from being a youngster, and the romantic side of marriage has long since faded for me. But I could no more dispense with my wife than I could with my right arm.

'She's a part of me. We like the same people, dislike the same stupidities. We go to shows, visit our friends, play cards. We enjoy our beer together, and we have many a laugh at the expense of the world.

'When times were tough, she not only sympathised, but she helped me get back on my feet. Twenty years ago I was worth a fortune. But what happened? I lost it all. Lost it all overnight, mind you. And you know what that does to a man?

'I wanted to quit,' the old man went on. 'I thought my life was over. But my wife wouldn't let me. No, sir. She kept arguing with me; pleading, begging.

'At first I wouldn't listen. But after awhile I saw the light. I tried a comeback, and luck was with me.

'I was well on the road to my goal when I fell sick. Believe me, son, I was shaking hands with Death. The doctors gave me up and told my wife there was no hope.

'But once again she refused to stop struggling. she nursed me back to health. It took a long time, but she brought me out of the shadow of Death. And then I went back to work.

'Of course. I'm not worth what I was at one time,' he shrugged. 'But who cares? I have my health, I have a bank balance, and I have my wife.

'You can take the first two from me and I won't say a word. But my wife is indispensable to my happiness.'

The kid grinned.

'Thanks, mister,' he said sincerely. 'Your picture is very different from the advice you usually get from married people.

'But— well, you'll probably be happy to learn that you've made up my mind for me. I'm going to get married.'

The old man extended his hand. 'That's the way to talk,' he beamed. 'And. believe me, you'll never regret it.'

Soon, the old man left.

THE bartender wiped the bar and eyed the kid. The boy was grinning at himself in the mirror.

'It's wonderful to meet a character like that,' observed the kid. 'He gave me an entirely new slant on marriage. When he's through talking to you, you feel clean and decent about the marriage question.

'Look how old he is.' he mused. 'Yet he made a success of marriage.'

The bartender leaned forward. 'He sure did, buddy,' he returned slowly. 'But there's one thing he didn't say. He forgot to tell you that it took him four marriages to do it!'

____________

60: Gamblers Know Best

I DO not know how old this story is, nor how new. It was told to me a few weeks ago by a gambling man of Reno, and he insists it is true. It is the story of Dink Bronson.

Dink was a huge, apple-headed man with a persuasive voice and soft hands. For forty of the sixty years life had doled out to him, he had been a gambler. At the right odds, he would take a chance on anything.

Well, after all those years, he had finally landed himself to a sweet spot. He went out to a wealthy little town on the West coast. He knew there was a great deal of money in the town, and he knew that a well-run gambling house would clean up. All he needed was the okay.

It took him almost two years, but that okay; two years and more than $100,000. A lot of time, and a lot of money. But when the okay finally came along, it was worth it.

His was the only gambling house the town allowed to operate. He had it rigged up with crystal chandeliers, deep rugs, bowing servants, the finest of free foods, and more trick gambling devices than you've ever seen outside the movies.

The place made so much money that it was actually a crime. And crime is the right word, too. For Dink, always more than cautious, had everything fixed so that nobody ever won more than Dink wanted him to. And yet the sons of society, and the sons of money, and the sons of— well, they all fought to get into the joint.

Yes, Dink was one smart guy. Others knew it, but he knew it better than anyone. It was his favourite boast that he never paid an outside nickel to anyone— except to the right people. He was still paying for his okay, of course. Okays have a strange way of disappearing if the money isn't right on the line.

But Dink could well afford it now, because he was headed for the millionaire class. Nothing could stop him now— unless they closed his joint.

DINK SAT in his office one evening, dreaming of the sweetness of life, when the door slammed suddenly. He looked up to sec an elderly woman standing beside his desk. In a flash he caught the grey hair, the diamond earrings, the beautiful solitaire. He also caught the desperate look in her eyes. Dink smelled trouble.

'I think,' he said softly, 'that you are in the wrong place, lady. This is my private office.'

'You're Mr. Bronson,' said the woman, in a shaky voice. 'You fit the description I've heard of you. My name is Chambers, sir, Mrs. Lionel Chambers.'

Dink almost fell from his chair. Lionel Chambers was the multi-millionaire society reformer. He was the man who owned most of the town's real estate: the man who made and broke mayors, the councilmen, the cops. And this— this was Mrs. Chambers.

The gambler coughed. 'Sit down Mrs. Chambers.'

The woman sat stiffly.

'Mr. Bronson,' she said, a trifle more calmly, 'I am going to have your place closed. I'm going to have the Chief of Police raid this— this den— and smash everything in it.'

'I— I don't quite understand.' said Dink. 'If that's the case, why do you warn me?'

'Because,' returned Mrs. Chambers rapidly, 'I don't want to feel responsible for you going to prison. I want to give you your chance to leave town first. That's why.'

Dink thought rapidly.

'Just a minute. Mrs. Chambers,' he cried, with that prop smile of his. 'After all, you're a very sensible woman. 'If my joi— establishment, that is— is broken up, another will take its place. You can't kill the gambling instinct with a raid. And. if you don't mind my asking, Mrs. Chambers, what caused you to take this step?'

The elderly woman pounded the table. 'My son, Richard. My only child. He was a good boy until you allowed him in here— but now he does nothing but gamble. He has already lost his six months' allowance, and yesterday I caught him with pawn tickets.

'That boy has already pawned a brooch and a ring of mine. Luckily, for you— for all of us, perhaps— my husband hasn't found out. For the boy's sake. Mr. Bronson, I cannot tell his father. But if it's the last thing I do, I'll see that this place is closed, forever!'

DINK BRONSON felt his forehead growing very warm, indeed. He had beaten all types of raps in his day. But this was a new one. This one couldn't possibly be fixed. Even the Mayor couldn't help him now.

So Dink perspired, and Dink talked.

He talked as he never talked before in his life. He said he didn't blame Mrs. Chambers; in fact he agreed with her. He never dreamed his place was making boys steal from their own homes. It took him the better part of an hour to make her change her mind. He told her every sob story he had ever heard.

And finally, by pleading for just one more chance, he got her to relent. He gave Mrs. Chambers fifteen thousand in cash. Forced it on her, really.

The money meant nothing, she said. Her boy was all that mattered. And she swore that, if he ever permitted her son to enter that place again she'd have Bronson run out of town. When she finally, left, Dink tossed off four hookers of his best bourbon. And still he didn't feel normal.

THE following night, when he entered his establishment. Dink's eyes almost popped out of his head. For there, standing contentedly at one of the roulette wheels, was young Chambers! He rushed up to the kid and told him to get out.

The young man looked puzzled.

'What is all this?' he asked,

Bristling with sarcasm, Dink told the boy the entire story.

When he was finished, the boy nodded slowly.

'That's a fine story, Dink,' he said, 'and you certainly proved yourself a smart man. But when you gave that woman $15,000 you should have given her the keys to the joint, too. Because my mother has been dead for seven years!'

_______________

61: Study in Grief

CURLED in the big fireplace armchair, she sat and wept. The tears welled big and shiny on her lower lids, lingered a moment, darted down the young roundness of her cheeks, and finally dropped off to make black splashes on her plaid skirt.

Yes, this was grief— poignant grief— where once there was only the bubbling effervescence of youth.

It would have been extremely difficult to convince any newspaper reader in the United States that Marilyn Ann Symms was actually crying. Because this was the very Marilyn Ann Symms who had smiled her way into millions. Marilyn was a taffy-haired kid in the front line of the Chez Wilkerson Hour show. She had smiled her way into the hearts of old Henry Symms, richest corporation lawyer east of the Rockies. She kept on smiling— and she smiled her man right up the centre aisle, where he feebly said: 'I do.'

Marilyn kept that smile for the front pages, too. And all the world had studied her young face and said: 'More power to her. She'll be a wealthy widow within a year.'

Everyone agreed it couldn't have been love. Symms was an old man, and, between his asthma and his tired heart, he could have held no attraction for a lovely, lively, luscious Ihing like Marilyn Ann. So the argument was irrefutable. She had married him for his money.

Yet here she sat. weeping bitterly. The tears were real, and so was the intensity of her grief. She couldn't be play-actor, because she had no audience. She was all alone in the beam-ceiling room before the fireplace.

Then the butler walked in.

'Excuse me, please.' he said gently.

She jerked red-rimmed eyes upward questioningly.

'Your mother is here,' he stated.

Marilyn blew her nose and wiped her eyes. 'Send her in,' she ordered.

Arms outstretched, an attractive middle-aged woman, with greying hair walked into the room. Marilyn ran to her and buried her face in the woman's bosom.

'Oh, mamma!' she moaned. 'Mamma, mamma, mamma!'

Her mother patted her shoulder. 'There, there.' she said. 'I just heard about it. I came over as soon as I possibly could.'

The girl sobbed again. 'Oh, mamma, mamma!' she cried. 'You'll never know how I feel. I loved him so.'

Her mother guided her to one side of the room. 'Come; over here and sit down,' she said. 'And please compose yourself, my dear.'

They sat on the big divan, the girl with her legs curled up under her, her eyes red and blinking; the mother sitting prim and straight, listening. she let the girl talk herself out. It seemed the best thing to do.

When the tears stopped for a brief moment the older woman spoke. 'It is useless to go on like this.' she said. 'You must realise that these things happen to all of us. No one lives forever. And the older I get the more convinced I am that the sorrow should go to the survivors— and not the deceased.'

Marilyn sat upright. 'Why, mother; how can you talk like that?'

Her mother shrugged. 'Skip it,' she advised. 'I was only voicing an opinion. No matter whom you love or what you love, it must pass on sooner or later. And every time that happens you're going to feel just as you do now. Your world will collapse each time, and you won't want to continue. 'But you must continue, just the same. So the quicker you're over your grief the better.'

The girl heaved a prodigious sign. 'But he was so grand, mamma. So gentle So kind. So considerate. I'll never find another like him.'

Her mother permitted herself a sly smile. 'Of course, my dear.' she agreed. 'No doubt about it. But time will do strange things to you. This wound will heal to a scar, and then the scar will fade, and— '

'That's ridiculous.' the girl interrupted acidly. 'I'm not shallow, even though you seem to think so. My affection doesn't run hot and cold from one minute to the next. I'll never forget him the longest day I live. Never, never, never!'

The older woman examined her 'Got a cigarette?' she requested.

Marilyn moved a tray of them to her mother's side. She kept right on sniffling, and dabbing at the underlids of her eyes.

Her mother lighted a cigarette and emitted a long exhale. 'Have you made any arrangements?' she asked.

The girl bit her lip. 'I phoned Henry's attorney,' she returned brokenly. 'He'll take care of everything. I wish I could, but I can't. I'm a wreck. I've been taking bromides all afternoon.

'Honestly. I can't realise yet that he's gone. I kissed him this morning and helped him out on the lawn for his morning's sun. The first thing I knew'— the tears began to well again— 'the butler came in and broke the terrible news.

'Oh, mamma, mamma!'

The mother was growing highly impatient. 'Take hold of yourself, Marilyn,' she said crisply. 'I want you to stop crying. It's gone, and all your tears can't undo it. People would laugh if they knew you loved him that dearly.'

'I know,' the girl sobbed. 'It would be silly to them. But they didn't know how really swell he was. He was so wonderful, so affectionate, so kindly, so devoted. Oh, mamma, mamma!'

This time her mother was definitely angry. 'Oh, mamma, my hat!' she barked. 'Stop that snivelling, will you?'

'Don't you ever cry?' Marilyn moaned. 'Didn't you cry when daddy— '

'No!' Her mother slapped the table. 'Naturally, I felt badly. But I didn't make a fool of myself the way you are. I had my cry, and that was that.'

Her daughter blinked through her tears. 'Oooh, how callous you are. I never knew.'

'Oh shut up.' Her mother waved a hand, I'm honest. and that's all I ever hope to be.'

That silenced Marilyn for the time being. They didn't speak for awhile. The mother puffed her cigarette and studied the broad beams in the ceiling. Suddenly the girl shook her head in self-pity.

'I can't understand it.' she murmured brokenly. 'That old fool upstairs— my husband— lingers on and on. While the only thing I ever loved— my little dog— had to be killed.'

______________

62: Pete The Dreamer

IN a small town on the west bank of the Mississippi Pete the dreamer enjoyed the dubious distinction of being the neighbourhood boob. He wasn't a bad boy, but he had dreamy ways. And the only people who are paid off for that are the Spiritualists.

From the time he was 14— and that was 10 long years ago— Pete the Dreamer had worked very hard in Baldwin's Emporium. Said store was the only such spot in town. If you wanted anything from a can of beans to a high hat, you had to go to Baldwin's.

Quite naturally, as the only clerk in Baldwin's. Pete the Dreamer knew everyone in the small town— and everyone knew him.

The villagers knew him, too, because if old man Baldwin was not in the store, Pete could generally be depended upon to forget to collect for an item or two. And that made everything even, really. Because old man Baldwin was always trying to collect for a number of items he had never sold you.

Pete lived by himself in a small shack near the store, and there he did some of his finest dreaming.

What did he dream about? Oh, the future, mostly. But many of his dreams took a peculiar twist. His visions, mostly, were mixed up with the bandits and tough guys. Big, important rascals who stood out, before our Pete and quaked in terror. Brawny desperadoes who begged him to let them off easy. Killers who fell to their knees before the vengeance of Pete the Dreamer.

He could, for example, hear Adolf Hitler pleading with him for just one more chance. He could see his own face, strong and righteous. And he could see the tears of remorse streaming down Adolf's kisser as he begged Pete the Dreamer to go easy. After awhile he could fee himself relenting. He could see Hitler's gratitude as Pete spared his life. And the vision would end with Adolf, in later years, leading the choir in the town church.

Oh, yes. Our Pete was a tough baby all right— in those dreams of his. He knew in his heart that he was the bravest man alive. And the only thing that troubled him was his very obvious inability to meet some of these bandits and killers who needed taming. To offset this he always attended the gangster movies— and he'd dream himself right into the leadership of the righteous coppers who break down the door at the last moment and shoot the villain in the fade-out. (Which is a fine place to shoot a villain.)

Things went on like this for a long time. And then, as he idled in the store one afternoon, he read a magazine advertisement that changed everything. 'Buy yourself a Zowie pen!' the ad. urged. 'Protect yourself at all times with this latest bandit-chilling device! When in danger, you merely press a lever— and gas renders your antagonist unconscious for 10 minutes'.

The effect on Pete was immediate. He clipped the ad. carefully, filled in the information, clipped two dollars to the paper, and mailed the whole thing with a stamp and a prayer. Within a week the mailman brought him the coveted fountain pen.

He was itching to try the gadget, but he didn't know where he could get more gas after the first load had been used. So, with a new arrogance, he attended to his duties at the store. He was confident that, very soon now, he would be a hero. And the best kind of hero, too. A live hero.

But someone must have tipped off all the bad men in the vicinity, for our Pete waited and waited, and nothing happened. He was beginning to feel he had wasted his money.

And then, after he carried the pen almost a year, the big moment arrived. Just before closing time in Baldwins Emporium, a tall, broad-shouldered man walked into the store. In fact, the lights in the windows were already out and Pete was affording himself the luxury of a prolonged yawn when the stranger strolled in.

Instinctively, Pete smelled a large rodent. The customer was a man Pete had never seen before. And a stranger in this town was as rare as long underwear on Sally Rand. Pete felt for his fountain pen and smiled to himseIf. It was there! He walked over to the stranger.

'Something I can do for you. sir? ' he asked.

'I should hope so,' grunted the man. 'What are you here for?'

'Well— er— er,' stammered Pete. 'I didn't know— ' The stranger waved a hand. 'Stop jabberin',' he advised. 'Just show me a suit of clothies.'

'A suit?' repeated Pete brilliantly. 'What kind of a suit?'

'What kind yuh got?'

'Oh,' returned the nimble-witted Pete, 'we just got in a stock of nice lavenders. Would you like to see one of those?'

The stranger scowled heavily. 'You tryin' to kid me?' he growled. 'Just show me somethin' in a blue serge. Size forty-six.'

'Yes, indeed,' said Pete.

Well, to make a short story fit nicely into this space, Pete brought out a number of blues. Some of them went back to Civil War days, but Pete displayed them proudly just the same. And he finally nodded with satisfaction. 'That one fits you nicely,' said ventured. 'I mean, you look as if you were made for that suit.'

'Okay,' said the stranger. 'I'll take it. Where's the boss?'

Pete felt for his pen and then coughed.

'The boss isn't here.' he smiled. 'I'm all alone.'

It was the stranger's turn to smile. 'You don't say,' he grinned. 'Well, if that's the case, just make believe you're reachin' for a bird's nest— and stay that way.'

And. as he spoke he whipped out a large revolver and pointed it at our hero.

Pete felt as though he were looking into the large end of a megaphone. But he didn't have the brains to hold up his hands. Instead, he reached for the fountain pen in his inside pocket. The villain didn't shoot. He swung the revolver at Pete's head with a mighty swipe, and Pete ducked. If the stranger had connected with Pete's skull at that moment— but it didn't happen that way. He missed.

Pete got the small pen out. He pointed it at the hold-up man and gave a triumphant cry. This was his big moment! He saw the big headlines and the bigger medals. His dream was coming true! He was about to 'be a hero! He pressed the lever on the pen, and a jet of gas shot out

And when he came to, half the town was standine about, pointing and laughing at him. Mr. Baldwin was shaking his bony arms at the ceiling and making strange, incoherent sounds. The bandit had left— and so had half the contents of the store. For Pete the Dreamer had made a slight error. He had aimed the pen at himself!

_______________

63: Salvation

MRS HEZEKIAH SPULTZ said that, as president of the Ladies' Welfare, she was proud to be able to present John Blank.

As members of so-called society, Mrs. Spultz asserted, the ladies would hang their heads in shame when they heard his story.

The women— and there must have been fifty or sixty of them? listened attentively to Mrs. Spultz, and glanced now and then at the tall, thin man on a cane chair to her right. He kept crossing and uncrossing his legs, and he studied his worn shoes nervously. He was quite thin, and he looked hungry alongside the charlotte russe bulk of Mrs. Hezekiah Spultz.

'I tell you, my dear friends.' cried Mrs. Spultz, 'that civilisation has wrecked this man. It has done terrible things to John Blank. It has taken from him his happiness, his peace of mind, his health, his chance to earn a living, and his faith in human nature.''

She paused. The women leaned forward. 'From time to time,' she went on, 'I, as an expert on human conditions, have tried to bring before you examples of undeserved misery. Many of you will recall the woman with seventeen children: the doctor who lost his right hand, the brilliant youngster from the orphanage, and others.

'But I feel that John Blank, here, is the greatest example of all. He is a living lesson of a fine man who was ruined by our so-called penal system. And on that statement I will stake my reputation for knowing human nature.'

There was scattered applause.

Mrs. Spultz's voice grew increasingly dramatic. 'At the age of fourteen.' she continued. 'John Blank stole a pair of shoes. It was February, and his feet were frozen— but he was sent to a correction school just the same. When he got out, a neighbourhood bully taunted him by calling him a jailbird. John Blank hit the bully, and was promptly returned to jail.

'His life, dear friends, has been an endless succession of persecution tactics on the part of society. Ever since he took that one pair of shoes, he has been in and out of prison. Ironically enough, in every case except the original one, he was innocent. But the various district attorneys bolstered their weak cases by screaming 'John Blank has a record... John Blank has a record!' And thus, the record fed upon itself.'

Mrs. Spultz was in her glory. She loved to talk, and. once she had a decent start, nothing could stop her— with the possible exception of a battery of field artillery. She went on and on, covering every arrest of John Blank from the shoe theft to murder. And she proved to everv woman in the hall that all the evidence was manufactured, and that John Blank was as innocent as Shirley Temple's Christmas dolly.

Then, at the correct moment, she asked for donations for John Blank. 'Give whatever you can,' she urged, 'to start this poor man back on the road to happiness. It may not be too late, and this is the season for giving. I'm sure we can do a little to restore his faith in human nature.'

And so they gave— and the collection amounted to almost 60 dollars. Everybody applauded, and everybody felt very warm inside for having helped this unfortunate creature. Suddenly Mrs. Blair, one of the richest women in town, stood up.

'I'd just like to say,' she announced, 'that I'm going to speak to my husband to-night. I'm going to ask him to give John Blank a job.'

The women went wild. They shouted and stamped their feet. They knew that when Mrs. Blair 'asked' her husband Mr. Blair wouldn't dare say anything but yes. They all knew who was boss in the Blair household.

Then Mrs. Hardey jumped up. 'Let's hear from John Blank himself!' she screamed.

'Yes,' chorused the other women. 'Yes!' We want to hear from Blank himself!'

So John Blank climbed slowly to his feet

He was hardly an imposing figure. He stooped a little, as though he was always noticing an untied shoelace. He had a pallor that no sun could bleach out. And he had large, heavy-lidded, sad eyes, that were full of reproach for the world.

'I wish,' he began softly, 'that I could speak like Mrs. Spultz here.'

They all giggled, as Mrs. Spultz smiled acknowledgement.

'But I can't. I ain't had the opportunity nor the schoolin'.'

He paused for a moment, as though marshalling his thoughts.

'A guy,' he said finally, 'could meet a bunch of ladies as nice as youse are. And don't get me wrong— I ain't sayin' that because of what you just done for me.'

The women applauded. They suddenly realised that they were cheering themselves, and the applause died out.

'What this country needs,' John Blank went on, 'is more ladies like youse on the parole boards. Our parole boards today ain't got no heart at all. Them muggs is all free, see? They don't have to worry about goin' back to no cell, so they don't care what happens to the man inside.

'Like my case, f'r instance. I never did none of them things I was charged with. Youse can take my personal woid on that. If I was guilty, I wouldn't be able to stand here in front of youse right now with my head up.' He held his head up. The women roared approval.

John Blank tapped his pocket. 'It sure was swell of youse ladies to give me this dough,' he cried, 'and I gotta tell youse it's gonna start me off on the right road again. And it ain't so much the money, mind youse. It's the spirit of how it was did.

'It makes me feel that— well, that the whole woild ain't fulla tramps like I always thought it was. And that job— if the lady gets it for me— is sure gonna be great. I'll woik awful hard to show youse my 'preciation. Just youse wait and see.'

He fumbled around for a way to end the speech. He looked helplessly at Mis. Spultz. She smiled maternally. And John Blank's voice was choking when he spoke again.

'All I can say right now is thanks,' he stated. 'You've put me on the right road, and I'll never have a wrong thought no more. And let me wind up by tellin' youse this:

'If I ever hear of any mugg sayin' so much as one woid against any of youse ladies, I swear I'll cut his throat from ear to ear and heave him in the river.'

_______________

64: First Love

THE woman peered over her glasses at her husband. Her fat face creased. She gestured impatiently. When she spoke to the man her voice was sharp.

'Luke!' she cried. 'There you go again. You're spilling ashes all over the floor!'

He straightened suddenly. His hand, holding a cigar over the arm of his easy chair, came up stiffly. He looked sheepish.

'I was just thinking, Agnes,' he said apologetically. 'I forgot about the ashes. I'm sorry.'

'You're sorry!'

Agnes' voice was rasping. 'I work day and night to keep this house clean for you and the children. But do you appreciate it? Humph! It doesn't look that way!'

Luke sighed heavily, but he didn't bother to reply. He picked up a newspaper and began to turn the pages idly. But only for a moment-. Soon the paper dropped into his lap, and he sat there quietly, his eyes half closed.

His thoughts wandered back to the old days. His thoughts did that very frequently these days. He liked to remember the days before his marriage to Agnes; the days he now realised were far and away Ihe happiest of his lite.

True, more than 12 years had slipped by since then. True, he now had two children and a wife who never stopped reminding him of his obligations. True, the whole picture, was vastly different from the life he had led 12 years before.

But you can't kill a guy for dreaming, can you? Even a dictator might stop somewhere short, of that. So let's extend Luke the right to enjoy his memories on this particular ntght. And lets examine the content of those sweet memories.

Nothing complex about them. They might be mine or they might be yours. We all like to feel that we have a monopoly on sweet memories— but it's surprising how often the other fellow's dreams are strangely akin to yours. Different locations, of course— but the same emotions.

So Luke thought now of that quaint apartment in Greenwich Village. His studio, he called it. His ambition then had been to do something very great in the world of art. He smiled softly as he scissors of his memory sheared the years away. He thought of the parties in his studio, and of the grave discussions about bettering the world. He thought or his friends in those days, and he wondered if any of them had achieved their ambitions.

And then— as always— he thought of Puff. Yes, that was her name. Puff. Silly name for a girl— but it had suited her nobly. She was so tiny, so cute, so feminine. Yet she had a keen mind and a definite knowledge of what she wanted from life.

For hours and hours, nigh after night, he would sit with Puff in that tiny speakeasy near his studio. And it seemed to him now that he could remember almost every word she had ever uttered.

'No, Luke.'' Puff's voice had been very soft and gentle. 'I can't help myself, but I don't believe in marriage. People should be absolutely free.'

'We could be,' he had argued. 'We wouldn't be like other people. because we look at tilings differently. With you by my side I'd go places with my painting. I feel— '

But she had shaken her head, smiling at him the while. 'Freedom is the most wonderful thing in the world, and I must belong to myself. No man can own me. or my spirit, or my thought's. I have no desire to share anyone's life. Not even yours, Luke, much as I love you.'

He was persistent at that point. Very persistent.

'But it would all work out,' he had argued. 'Our love would carry us through. Puff. I haven't a dime now. But I could put my painting aside and get a job, and— '

'Never!' She had placed plenty of force in that interruption. 'That would be a deadly existence for both of us. It would make you just another wage slave, and it would kill your ambition. 'And— well, what about me if I agreed to marry you? Tell me, Luke, can you honestly picture me in a suburban house, with elector bills and children and meals to worry about? You know I don't belong in that picture, don't you?'

Puff had been right, of course. She generally was. Lord, she was a pretty thing! So sweet— so adorable—

'Luke!' The man sat up with a jerk. His wife's voice yanked him back to reality. From force of habit he answered obediently.

'Yes. Agnes?'

The woman spoke sharply. 'You're sitting there as though you're half doped. What are you thinking about?'

'Oh, nothing.' There was a suilty note in his voice. 'Nothing in particular.'

'That's about all you're able to do,' she rasped. 'Think about nothing. You'd be better off if you'd try to think of some way to have your boss yive you a rise. You haven't had one in two years now— and it's no fun. believe me. trying to run a house on what you earn.'

'I'm sorry. Agnes,' was all he said. She glared at him. Her mouth was hard, her eyes cold. Luke glanced at her without expression.

No matter where their conversation started it ahvavs wound up on that note. The house. The children. The bills.

How different it had all been in thosee dear, dead years? How different were those evenings in the village! How different were his friends who would rather talk than work— and did exactly that! How different from Puff was Agnes! Everything was changed now. Everything was gone. And, saddest of all— Puff was gone, too....

Luke stood up suddenly. He slapped the newspaper on the table and crossed j the room. He stood behind his wife's chair and placed a hand' on her shoulder. '

'Puff, dear,' he said quietly, 'I'd like to tell you what I was really thinking about. I was thinking of the Puff who— '

She looked up at him angrily. 'I told you the day we were married,' she stated harshly, 'that I would never use that silly nickname again. Will you please forget it?'

Luke withdrew his hand. He shrugged. He walked slowly back to his chair. And soon he was dreaming again.

________________

65: Some Men Worry

VINCE told he was worried and that he had to have a drink. He said he simply had to have a drink when he worried like this. Mort said it was a silly time to have worries — but he ambled into the jammed bar with his pal.

Vince was a nice little guy and all that, but sometimes he got on Mort's nerves. Mort was older, and he never worried about his home, or his wife, or his kids, or anything except maybe his job.

They moved up to the bar and ordered drinks. Mort was irritable.

'What's eatin' you now?' he asked.

'It's the missus,' said Vince sadly.

'She sick?'

Vince shook his head. 'Nope,' he returned morosely. 'She's upstate with her folks for a week.'

'She's away!' Mort blinked. 'Say, are you kiddin' me? If she's not sick and she's up with her folks for a week you should be the happiest man in the world! Why, I'd have my old lady with her folks for a week every week in the year— if she had folks. And you're worryin'!'

'I got a right to worry.' Vince stared sullenly at his drink. 'How do I know who she's prancin' around with at this very moment?'

Mort pounded the bar. 'Look, kid— the chances are a thousand to one she'll spend every minute with her mom.' He gulped half his drink. 'Forget about it.'

'But you don't know my Muriel.' Vince was practically whining now. 'She's the kind of girl who— well, she likes to be admired.'

'That's remarkable,' said Mort sarcastically. 'That's sure makes her unique among all the dames in the world.'

'Aw, that ain't the idea,' Vince muttered. 'The point is that Muriel likes to go out with her old boy friends. She tells me there's no harm in it; that they're just old friends who knew her back in her kid days.'

'If you ain't a dope!' Mort gazed pityingly at his friend. 'There's only one way to settle a thing like that. Just forbid her to go out with those guys.'

'I did.' Vince heaved a prodigous sigh. 'Not once — but a hundred times. We had more fights about that than we ever had about me playin' the horses.'

Mort smiled like a ham on a second act curtain line. 'Then there's your solution, you cluck,' he chirped. 'You quit horses; she quits wolves. It's practically a photo finish.'

'We did that.' said Vince simply.

'Oh, did you?' Mort seemed a bit disappointed. 'If you already promised to quit horses and she promised to quit goin' out with her old boy friends what the devil are you worryin' about? Don't she keep her word?'

'Yeah.' It was a somewhat worried agreement. 'I guess she does, more or less. But a week up there in the country— well, you know how it is. There ain't nothin' to do and nobody much to talk to, and the minute she gets there those old friends will start askin' her to go out.'

'Aw, you're nuts.' Mort waved a deprecating hand and spoke with the wisdom of the ages. 'If she's a woman that keeps her word you got nothin' to worry about. And if she's one that doesn't all the worryin' in the world ain't gonna stop her.... Come on. Drink your drink.'

Vince gulped it down. 'I want one more,' he announced dejectedly. 'I'm still thinking things I don't like to be thinkin'.'

'Okay,' said Mort. 'One more.' He poked a finger at the bartender. 'The same thing, Johnny,' he ordered. 'And make it snappy.'

'Oh. snap out of it, Vince.' Mort was growing a bit annoyed. 'You're gonna have yourself daffy if you keep this up.'

'She's the most beautiful woman I ever saw,' murmured Vince.

'Then why don't you put her in a mink-lined cage?'

Mort suggested. 'You're kiddin',' said Vince tiredly, 'but I'm not. If I was only really sure about her. I— '

'Aw,' Mort growled, 'what man is ever really sure?'

'That's it!' Vince came to life. 'That's it! You can't trust one of 'em. They're all alike. Turn your back and you don't know what goes on!'

Mort looked at his friend for a moment and then draped an arm around his shoulders.

'Look, Vince,' he said honestly. 'Let's be sensible about this. You gave up horses— and she gave up her old boy friends. You both promised, and you got no real reason to think she might be crossin' you up.'

The crowd at the bar began to disperse. Vince finished his drink. Mort hooked his arm in Vince's, and the two men walked out. They strolled out into the bright sunshine. They heard a bugle. And there, far to their right, a red-coated rider led a parade of horses up the track for the start of the first race

______________

66: Example

BILL SWANN could always think better lying down. He stretched out now with his hands clasped behind his head, and studied the cell door. There were some things, he knew, that he could never forget— and one was that cell door.

For three long years he had stared at it, and his hands had gripped every one of the black, vertical bars many, many times. He used the middle cross-piece to rest his mirror on when he shaved, because light came in from the opaque window across from his cell. The bottom cross-bar was a foot rest for tying shoe laces.

No, he'd never forget that cell door. Nor the principal keeper who had a trick of punching a man in the back where the short ribs are, if you didn't obey him quickly enough. The punch wasn't terribly hard, but it left you breathless and a little saggy in the knees. He wouldn't forget that either, he guessed.

But what was most vivid of all nas the calm, clinical voice of Judge Browne as he sentenced Bill Swann to a period of not less than five years, nor more than ten, for the crime of larceny.

That rang in his ears. And rang. And rang. And rang.

'You,' Judge Browne had said quite calmly, 'are worse than the common burglar, because he steals from persons he doesn't know. You are worse than the hold-up man, because, in most cases. his gun is merely a threat to back up his demands. You are worse than the maniac, because the maniac does not know the nature of his acts.

'You are a traitor. Your employer trusted you. He promoted you to cashier and by your own confession, you stole six thousand dollars from him. You played the horses and you lost. You lost, not your own money, but his. He trusted you implicitly — and now you have made him bankrupt.

'You are not fit, William Swann, to be allowed the freedom of society. The court promised no leniency when you pleaded guilty— and the court has no intention of granting any leniency.

'I am giving you the maximum sentence of five to ten years, because you are a treacherous man and because you betrayed a trust.'

Undoubtedly, that was the most vivid memory of all. It was done so coldly, so dispassionately. Something like a doctor jabbing something with his scalpel and saying: 'This is a diseased liver.'

Bill had felt himself growing smaller and smaller as the judge talked that day. He had felt his face burn and his eyes grow misty until he really couldn't see the judge at all. He had wondered how many people were listening, and if his mother was still tearing her handkerchief the way she had been doing when he was led in.

He found out later she had fainted, and they had carried her out into the corridor. No, he could never forget Judge Franklin Browne: never in a million years. During the three long years he had spent in prison since these words were delivered, the speech had come back to him time after time.

It came to him most clearly late at night, when he could not sleep. Then he could hear the judge plainly, and he could see his mother tearing the handkerchief and biting her lip. And when it was finished the words would start all over again, and he'd go crazy trying to make them stop.

Bill Swann didn't hate Judge Browne. He wanted to— but he couldn't make the grade. Because Judge Franklin Browne was right. Bill Swann was a crook. He was a traitor. He had driven poor Mr. Burnham into bankruptcy. He deserved the limit— and he got it.

The judge's words kept ringing in his ears, but— the newspaper cutting told its own story.

The only excuse Bill made for himself was that he hadn't intended to steal. Some men figure these things coldly and deliberately. They set out to take so much, do so much time for the crime, and then live easily after their release.

Not so with Bill Swann. He had started out by 'borrowing.' He had won a little and paid the money back to the cash drawer.

Then, when he spent his winnings, he had to so back for more. He placed the money on a 'sure thing.' The horse ran out of the money, and Bill knew the game was over.

He had gone to Mr. Burnham and explained everything. He could have run away, of course, and taken a gamble on not being found. But he had thought it best to come clean to the old man.

Mr. Burnham raised the roof. He had screamed, and hit him in the face, and called the police. And when he found that the big bills hadn't been paid and that Bill had taken the money for himself, the old man went right into bankruptcy. Business had been bad anyhow, and this was as good an excuse as any. It gave Mr. Burnham a chance to get out with a few bucks.

He took his hands out from behind his head and rubbed the right one hard. It had gone to sleep, and pins and needles were shooting through it. He yawned. In a few minutes the lights would be going out in the corridor and then he'd undress and go to sleep. He wondered if his mother would remember to bring cigarettes next Sunday.

Twice she was so nervous, she forgot. He loved seeing her, but he wished she wouldn't always cry. It made him feel worse.

The rest of the family wouldn't come to see him. His married sisters said he had disgraced the family. They had told their mother to suggest to him— in a diplomatic way, of course— that, when he got out, he should go West somewhere and start all over again. He smiled bitterly. He had lovely sisters, all right. He didn't doubt for a second that they had agreed with every word Judge Franklin Browne said about him

He sat up and started to untie his shoe laces. He was too tired to go over to the cell door and do it. He yawned again. Then he reached over and pulled out that newspaper clipping again. He'd just read it once more, he told himself, and then he'd hit the hay.

He shook out the clipping and held it up to the light.

'Judge Franklin Browne,' the clipping read, 'was sentenced to-day to from five to ten years in States prison for grand larceny. He was convicted last week by a jury of violating his trust as executor of the Allen estate and stealing $60,000 dollars during the last seven years.'

_________________

67: One Man's Curse

IT was late, and he looked young as he came in and turned on the light in the living room. He flung his hat on the couch. And then you could see the gray, and the puffy little pouches under the eyes.

He held a small package in his hand, and he took off his coat without putting the package down at all. Then he walked into the kitchen, switched on the light there, and set the package down on the drain.

The place looked as though it had been lonely a long time. It smelled dead. It smelted very dead. He made a mental note to open a window. A moment later he forgot it. He ripped the brown paper from the package. Through force of habit, he put the paper in the refuse can. Then he studied the bottle of whisky.

'You're what ruined my life,' he said aloud. The sound of his voice in this dead place startled him. He said nothing more. He went over to the cupboard and rummaged around for a glass. He found one, and stared through it at the kitchen light. Yes, it was clean. He was very particular about glasses. The slightest bit of fog and he wouldn't use them.

Minnie used to say 'You gotta eat a peck of dirt before you die. So be a little less picky about your glasses. After all, my fingers can't reach to the bottoms.'

He shook his head as he thought about Minnie, because whisky had caused her to leave him, too. Yes, that little bottle over there on the drain. And all its brothers, and sisters, and uncles, and cousins. He had tried to stop it, but no go.

And after a long while, Minnie had made a dignified curtsy, and stepped out of. his life forever. He brought out a corkscrew and twisted it into the cork. Then he rocked the cork out of the bottle, and listened to it squeak and squeal.

This little bottle had cost him his job, too. Losing Minnie wasn't enough; his job had to go in the bargain. And he'd been working in that office so long that the clerks used to say he went with the woodwork. But he knew it was all over the day that old man Furhman called him into the inner sanctum.

He knew by the way Furhman played with the letter opener. He knew by the way Furhman refused to look up. He knew by the false gruff tone that Furhman used. He knew by the hemming and hawing. It was then, for the first time in his life, that he was out of a job. The bottle had done a beautiful job on him. It had cost him Minnie— and then it had cost him his good job.

He wondered now why he had not looked for a job since then. He should have, but he hadn't. Discouragement. That was it. Whisky discouragement.

His mind began to turn towards Paul. He tried very hard to think of other things; how lonely the apartment was and how much he missed Minnie. But his mind was not to be cheated. It kept swinging doggedly back to Paul.

Suddenly his throat made a swallowing gesture, and tears came to his eyes. Yes, the bottle had cost him Paul, too. The other breaks had been rotten. But Paul had been something akin to a rock of affection; something he expected to cling to through the years. And now Paul was gone. His very own Paul. A kid just past twenty, the image of his mother, as fine a laughing lad as anyone could ever want to meet. Bright, too.

The bottle had come between him and Paul, and it wasn't long before the boy was gone, too.

'Of all the rotten things a despondent man could think about— !' he shouted.

The words shrieked through the dead rooms, piling against the lavender drapes in the bedroom, crashing disconsolately against the maple set in Paul's room, caroming around the ghostlike living room, and sweeping back to him in the kitchen. Because Paul was gone. Irrevocably gone, and there was no use thinking about it. No use waking up at night, thinking that Paul was at the door and had forgotten his key.

There was no Paul at the door. Never. And there was never any mail from him either. For a while he had been positive that Paul would not forget his father. He had been positive that the bitterness about whisky would fade in Paul, and that it would be only momentary.

He had been positive that Paul would come back. Or at least write. He wished fervently that he didn't love Paul so much. He wished he hadn't placed all his affection in Paul when Minnie left. His heart, and soul, and mind were all in Paul.

Paul knew when he left that it would hurt his father infinitely more than it hurt him. The father had said: 'Please, son. Don't let a couple of drinks come between us.' And Paul had snarled: 'You make me sick.' And walked out.

He raised the glas to his lips. He closed his eyes.

This was the stuff that had ruined his whole life. This and nothing else. It had taken his Minnie away to an asylum, an incurable drunkard. It had robbed old Furhman of his brains until he became a bankrupt and lost his business.

And it had started to take a hold on his beloved son Paul. When he asked Paul to stop drinking, Paul left. He was determined now to find out why all these things had happened.

And so for the first time in his entire life, he now raised a glass of whisky to his lips.

_____________

68: Love's Sweet Song

SHE had a mouthful of hair-pins, and her hands made exquisite doll-like motions on top of her head. Meanwhile, she kept reading and rereading the little yellow telegram that stood against the vanify mirror.

'I love you. Stop. Arrive three-forty-two Union Station. Stop. I love you. Stop. Be there on time or I'll break your lovely neck. Stop. I love you. Bob.'

When she was ready, she folded the telegram carefully and put it in her purse. Then she gave herself a final critical gance, and stepped out of the apartment.

It was exactly 3 o'clock, and the station was only five blocks away. So she walked tt. Her pretty little brain was full of the romance of the situation. For breathes there a woman with a soul so dead who never to herself has said: 'Gee, he sure is nuts about me!'

She and Bob had been in love for a long time. Bob was a tremendous chap, with wavy hair and very blue eyes. He was impetuous. He wanted to do great things. He wanted to make millions— and he was willing to devote at least 90 days to the job. He wanted to many her. Now. This instant. He wanted to stand in the centre of Times Square and kiss her. He was that crazy a guy.

But Marion wasn't that daffy. Two years before, when he had an offer to work in an Oklahoma oil field, she had told him to go.

'Go Bob. Concentrate on work. Try it for two years... And after that, if you still want me I'll marry you... Because, darling, I love you.'

Bob didn't like it. He wanted to marry first, and then go to the oil wells But Marion won. And she had stood in this very station two years ago sobbing bitterly as his train pulled out. She was sure he'd forget her; sure that he'd never come back But she was wrong. Dead wrong. Bob not only remembered but his love flourished with absence. It grew until time staggered and he despaired of living through the two long years. And now he was coming home. This crazy wonderful kid who had never stopped loving her for an instant.

MARION sat down in the waiting room and opened a magazine. Her eyes skimmed over the pages and the advertisements and the story illustrations. But her mind saw none of the things her eyes reflected. Her mind was on Bob.

Marion was flipping through the pages once again— pages that couldn't hold her interest— when she suddenly felt what is known as a presence. She looked up, and out of her came a little, high-pitched squeal.

She jumped to her feet, and the big oaf in front of her picked her up and whirled her in a circle.

'Darling!' he cried. 'Oh, Marion, my darling!'

An old man who had been sleeping, came to suddenly and dropped his paper. The big chap pressed Marion to him. Then he set her down carefully, as you would a thin china tea cup.

'You look wonderful!' he exclaimed. 'Beautiful!'

'Just a minute,' Marion shouted. 'It's my turn to look at you.'

He stepped back stiffly, chin up. She placed her fingers beside her cheek and studied him in mock seriousness. Then she grinned.

'You'll do,' she laughed.

He scowled heavily. 'I'd better.' he returned, in a deep voice. 'I've been waiting for vou for a long time, and I'm a very dangerous man to put off.' He leaned down and kissed her briefly. 'As a matter of fact. I feel a rampage coming on right now.'

'Grrrrr!' He bared his teeth. 'Look out for me. young lady. Grrrrr! I'm the wildest man you ever knew!'

The only people who did stop to watch them were the people who were rushing for trains.

One skinny woman looked at them for a moment and then turned up her nose.

'Huh!' she said. 'Exhibitionists!'

But they didn't care. They talked in circles, asking each other about whozis and whatzis. And between their questions and answers, there was very little of a sensible relationship.

'Listen,' he suggested, 'how's about grabbing something to eat while we talk? He stretched his arms. 'How would you like a steak this big? I used to know the finest place you— '

His voice trailed as Marion pouted. 'I'm disappointed in you.' she said. 'How can you think of lood at a time like this?'

He stepped back.

'Me?' he said. 'Why, darling?, I'm not even dreaming of eating I just wanted to make sure that you weren't hungry. That's all.'

He looked at his watch.

'Say,' he cried, as though he had just made a sensational discovery. 'I've been standing here four minutes— and I've only kissed you once.'

She tried to push him away but he kissed her several times.

'Let's find a quiet spot.' he said seriously. 'Some out-of-the-way place where we can sit for hours and talk. I've got so much to tell you. And besides I want to look at you alone.' He waved airily at the station. 'Without all these yaps sharing the look.'

She shook her head. 'Let's sit here,' she suggested.

'Oh, no.' he said. 'You've put me off before. Marion. But not this time. Long time no see my darling. So now we go somewhere.'

He tried to take her arm.

'No please,' she said seriously. 'I'm sorry, but I can't. I'd like to? But I really can't.'

He frowned.

'Give me one good reason,' he demanded.

She shrugged. 'I'd really like to, Joe,' she said honestly, 'but it just can't be done. I'm waiting here to meet an old boy friend named Bob— and then I have to hurry right home and cook my husband's dinner.'

____________

69: The Reformation

IT was late in a Summer afternoon. A damp coolness settled deep in the cup of the hills and a whisper of a breeze came from the West, where the sun hung like an embarrassed fat man, staring red-faced over a fence.

On the porch two women sat, rocking back and forth. Their coats were thrown over their shoulders to guard against the evening chill, and they talked desultorily about the weather, and children, and husbands.

'If only,' observed Mrs. Adams, 'if only people would mind their own business and let a girl pick her own husband. Until you decide to marry, you, never hear how awful your man is.

'Everybody tells you he's no good. They tell you he gambles, he drinks, he's headed for perdition, he's a criminal, a thief— oh, they fill your head with dreadful things.'

Mrs. Adams continued to rock. She squinted her eyes against the dying red of the sun. 'The things they told me!' She shook her head. 'My own father and mother didn't even attend my own wedding! Imagine such a thing!'

Mrs. Bergen shrugged. 'That's because people are hot-headed,' she stated. 'My people got sore at my sister just exactly like that— and they never spoke to her again until the day she died.' She shrugged again. 'People are sure funny,' she added.

'Well,' said Mrs. Adams, 'you know my George. He's a nice-looking man, and he makes a neat appearance. But when he first came to our house, my father put him out. Right, smack out."Get out," he says. "I haven't got room in my house for gambling loafers!" And he slammed the door in my George's face.'

'People are funny,' said Mrs. Bergen.

'Of course,' Mrs. Adams went on, 'I didn't blame my father in a way. He was a strict man and he lived a strict life. And he was very strict with us children, too. He had heard that George Adams was a high-lifer who gambled and drank, and he didn't want me to be seen with a man like that.' She stopped rocking and tapped Mrs. Bergen's wrist for emphasis.

'I told them that George loved me and that I would reform him. But do you think they believed me? You bet they didn't. They laughed and said I was crazy. And they assured me that, if a man didn't retorm for a girl before the marriage took place, he certainly wouldn't do it afterwards.'

She smiled grimly. 'I wish they could see him now. He hasn't touched a drink for over two years. He never stays out late any more. And as for gambling— well, you can't even get him to play a game of casino or checkers.' Her eyes were hard. 'Oh, I'd like to tell them a thing or two!'

Mrs. Bergen sighed. 'People are funny,' she murmured. 'You take my Aunt Addie, for example. She never took a drink in her whole blessed life, until one day a doctor told her to take a swallow of gin every now and then for her gallstones. And so, for the next, twenty years, she was as stiff as a board.'

'Did it cure her gallstones?' asked Mrs. Adams politely.

'I don't think so,' said Mrs. Bergen sadly. 'She died from alcoholism in the end.'

Mrs. Adams coughed slightly and returned to her favourite topic. 'My George wasn't a bad drinker.' she mused, 'but he was a. steady one. Every day he'd have a few, and every night he wanted to sit with the boys and play poker.

'He never used to get to bed before two— and when we were first married. I really despaired of ever reforming him.' She looked smug. 'But I did it. And he admits he feels a hundred per cent better since he stopped all that carrying on. And he looks better, too '

'I'll bet he does,' agreed Mrs Bergen. 'But people sure are funny. My brother Mickey used to play the horses. Nobody could keep him away. And one day, when he didn't have any money, he put up father's cuff links on a horse.

'The horse won, and those whaddya-call-it fellers who who take bets gave my brother Mickey the cuff links and five dollars. When my father heard about it, he got hopping mad and said the cuff links were worth fifty dollars. So he went out and beat up the bet man. The judge gave papa ten days for doing such a thing.'

Mrs. Adams sniffed. 'Well, my George never got into scrapes like that.' she said, somewhat haughtily. 'But, as I was saying, the whole world was against our marriage. Even my own bridesmaid told me I was a fool. But I showed them. I showed them what a woman can do if she makes up her mind to help her man.'

'Maybe your man was different,' suggested Mrs. Bergen. 'People are funny. Some men you can reform; some you can't. Your man was a good man underneath. All he needed was a good woman to put him on the right track.'

'I wish some of my relatives thought that way,' observed Mrs. Adams. 'Only a handful bothered to come to the wedding. And when they kissed me after the ceremony was over, they cried as though I had just died.'

'People are funny,' said Mrs Bergen sagely.

'Naturally. I could see George's true worth,' Mrs. Adams rambled on, 'but nobody else could. After the wedding, he kissed me and promised he'd never card nor drink a drop again.

'Of course, he broke that promise many times before he got the will power to keep it. But keep it he eventually did.'

The sun had modestly retired from the scene, and purple filled the valley before the porch. The women continued to rock and talk, and Mrs. Bergen finally repeated the story about her aunt Addie and the gallstones.

This caused Mrs. Adams to say she'd have to be going in soon to see whether George had awakened from his nap.

'What a blessing it is,' she murmured happily, 'to know that he hasn't touched liquor in two years, and that he's in bed every night by ten o'clock!'

'You're lucky, all right,' said Mrs. Bergen. 'But tell me— whatever made him reform two years ago?'

Mrs. Adams looked very modest indeed. 'It was undoubtedly his great love for me,' she explained shyly. 'But I don't like to say so. All I know is that he's been a model man— ever since we came here to the Old Folks Home two years ago.'

_________________

70: Easy Stages

THE little lamp sputtered inside its dirty glass chimney and sent thin ribbons of black floating to the ceiling. The young man was too tired to turn it down, and yet his eyes obediently followed the tortuous type of Gray's Anatomy. His lids twitched spasmodically from exhaustion, but he couldn't afford to go to bed.

Robert Grant was studying to be a doctor. He was prepared to make sacrifices like this— and poverty augmented the sacrifices. Text books and tuition come high, and the only item Robert Grant found cheap was living.

He spent $10 a week for a room and $12 a week for food. That left him $13 out of the $35 he earned weekly, working in a livery stable mornings and week-ends. And he always made a few dollars extra, helping to clean up the pathological lab. after class.

His routine never varied. He arose at dawn, dressed, and left for the stable. He cleaned harness and groomed horses until nine. Before attending medical classes, he'd stop for a glass of milk and a roll. At 5.30, when he had finished classes and his odd jobs around the school, he would allow himself a simple dinner. Then, from eight o'clock onward, he sat by this little lamp, studying and dreaming.

Robert Grant had no crusading ambition to cure the world. By no means. His ambition was centred in ease, and luxury, and dignity. He chose the life of a doctor because he thought that, eventually, it would embrace those three things. One more item: He wanted to marry a woman who was socially prominent. She wouldn't have to be beautiful, but she would definitely have to have caste. A little money wouldn't hurt, of course— but caste was essential. He wanted to be loved by someone who had been bom on the right side of the tracks.

Often, when his eyes burned from study, he'd rest his head against the back of his chair. And he'd close his eyes and dream.

'Success!' he'd murmur. 'It's the one thing I need— the one thing I must have above all else. Success!'

THE FAT LADY put on her clothes and sat fidgeting at the doctor's desk. He paid no attention and adhered to his task of filling out a prescription blank. She thought: How handsome he is! No wonder Mildred gave up family and social position lot him! I would too— and gladly— but he doesn't know I'm alive. I wonder what his fee will be? They tell me he wouldn't stoop to take a cinder out of your eye for less than twenty-five.

Doctor Robert Grant, in his middle thirties and extremely good-looking blotted the prescription. He handed it to the fat one.

'My examination.' he intoned, 'shows nothing of a serious nature. I suspect you're the victim of your own introspection. I'm prescribing a mild sedative for your nerves. But for a complete cure of these imaginary ills I'd advise you to take up some engrossing hobby.

The fat one leaned forward.

'Yes, doctor?' she said eagerly. 'Such as what, for example?' He shrugged.

'Children might help.'

The woman gasped, but the doctor went right on. 'Go to some charitable institution. Interest yourself in orphans. You'll find them more appreciative than most other types of humans. Or if you don't like children, find something you do like. Surely that won't prove too difficult a task.'

The fat one stood up. 'What is your fee, doctor?' she asked. And her voice was cold.

'My secretary will see you on the way out,' he replied

He knew he had hurt her. He knew she wouldn't be back. He knew he should have been sympathetic. He knew that was the proper routine, because he had been doing it for years. But now he was fed up. Sick. Nauseated. He didn't want to pander to rich ladies any more. He wanted to cater to an Italian bricklayer with a smashed finger; a child with a cough; a poor woman; anything real. He was sick of his wife.

True, she had helped him socially. But there hadn't ever been any real happiness with her, and now she was no more than a well-bred stranger who hardly called him by his first name. He was tired, too, of his club friends, who measured everything in terms of dollars and wealth.

He wanted to go out into the country— into some poor hamlet— and be a real doctor. He leaned back in his chair.

'Freedom!' he murmured. 'That's the one thing I need above all else. If only I had my freedom!'

DOCTOR Robert Grant, still handsome in a tired way, sat at his desk expectantly — but no one rang the office bell. He looked at the clock. It was 7.30 and the sign out front said: 'Office hours, 7-9.'

He guessed that no one was coming. Well, he reasoned, perhaps it was for the best. It would give him time to catch up on his medical journals. These periodicals, still wrapped, had piled up month after month. New men were making medical history now and he hadn't found time to study their papers. They were using sulphanilimide derivatives on everything but fractures, and he knew practically nothing about it.

Oh, yes, he had liKed the small town for a while. It was peaceful and quiet: He had bought a respectable little house and employed an elderly Irishwoman as his housekeeper. He liked her because she kept the place clean and minded her own business.

Most of the money he formerly had was given to his wife to bribe a divorce from her— and he had come out here with freedom, the thing he thought he needed most.

But now he discovered that he was slipping behind the parade. He once marched right up with the band, but now he could barely hear it in the distance. That kid doctor who opened an office across the street was up with the band. He had boundless energy, greater nerve, newer scientific weapons, and a gracious bedside manner.

Wearily, Doctor Robert Grant reached for a magazine and opened the wrapper. He sighed an explosive sigh and began to read of medical discoveries of which he had never dreamed. Laboriously, he followed the type— and the thought of those days, long forgotten, when he read Gray's Anatomy by the light of a lamp.

The type danced crazily and he closed the magazine. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes to the empty office.

Then he spoke aloud to himself:

'Youth!' he murmured. 'That's the one thing. If only I had youth!'

________________

71: Hard Win Victory

HARRY Jackson, as we will call him, had one thing in common with many other people. He desired mightily to be wealthy, but his desire was not great enough to force him to do anything about it.

That, however, was before he discovered the Wilsons, who occupied the apartment next to his. Harry met Mrs. Wilson several times in the hall. She was not a beautiful woman, nor one to command attention. And Harry gave her scarcely a glance— until he learned that she was worth fifteen thousand dollars.

It came about this way. Harry had a telephone and the Wilsons had not. Late one night Mrs. Wilson tapped timidly on his door and asked if she might use his phone to call the doctor.

'You see.' she explained, 'my husband is very ill. To-night he took a bad turn, and I hate to leave him long enough to go out to the drug store.'

Harry said that she might, inneed, use the telephone— and was extremely happy when she didn't overlook leaving a nickel for the call. By some unexplainable generous impulse, when the lady started back to her apartment, he offered to stay with her until the doctor arrived.

During: that short interval Harry learned many things. He learned that Robert Wilson was afflicted with an incurable disease. They were going out West his wife said when he was strong enough to travel. They would have gone long ago but they hadn't the money.

A few weeks ago, Mrs. Wilson explained, a relative had died and left a small fortune: fifteen thousand dollars to be exact. She was going to spend the money in an effort to regain Robert's health.

When Harry returned to his own apartment he was thinking of that fifteen thousand dollars— and he found many opportunities to call upon the Wilsons during the days that followed.

Henrietta Wilson had become extremely attractive in his eyes by reason of the small fortune she possessed. When thev were alone he took no pains to conceal the fact that he greatly admired her.

Finally, he told her outright that he was very much in love with her.

'But Harry,' the lady protested, 'we have no right to act this way with Robert so sick and all. It isn't right.'

'You do like me, though, don't you?' Harry persisted.

Henrietta nodded reluctantly. 'Yes.' she admitted. 'Yes, Harry, I do like you— very much'

Harris was happy over that, but for a very short time. So far, so good. Without a doubt Henrietta would marry him after Robert was gone, but by that time most of the money would be gone, too.

Then, again, Henrietta was making plans to get out West— and there was always the chance that Robert would recover sufficiently to last a long, long time. Harry would have to see that that didn't happen.

He had a long talk with Wilson one evening when Henrietta was out. He wasn't too outspoken, but he allowed Robert to see exactly how things were. He hinted that Henrietta and he were very much in love, but that marriage was impossible under the circumstances. He dwelt upon the sacrifice that Henrietta was making.

'That's the tough part of it,' Harry said sadly. 'It's just unfortunate. I guess, that the little woman's life must be ruined. Oh, well, can't be helped, I suppose.'

As he talked he fingered a bottle of sleeping tablets on the table beside the bed.

'Kinda dangerous things to have around, aren't they?' he queried. 'I mean a guy might take a couple of extra ones by mistake some time. Well, so long, Wilson. Take care of yourself.'

Robert murmured something. He was staring at the bottle of sleeping tablets.

It was only a few days later that they found Robert Wilson dead. He had died from an overdose of sleeping powder. Whether it had been taken by accident or design no one knew.

Harry Jackson for one didn't care. The only thing that interested him was the fact that the last obstacle in his path to Henrietta and the fifteen thousand dollars had been removed. He went to her as soon as he heard of her husband's death.

'Harry,' she murmured, 'I feel guilty about this somehow. You don't suppose Robert found out about— about us, do you?'

'Not a chance,' he reassured her. 'I suppose I should say I'm sorry, but I can't and be honest. You know what this means to us, don't you, darling?' Henrietta drew back.

'Please,' she begged, 'we can't talk about that now. Perhaps some time later.'

Harry nodded. 'Yeah, I guess you're right about that,' he agreed. 'It wouldn't look right. Listen, dear, I'm going out of town to-morrow. I'll write and let you know where I am. Then, when this is all over, the funeral and everything, you'll come to me, and we'll be married. In a month say. Will you do that?'

Henrietta said that she would.

During the following four weeks he was more or less uneasy. He was worried that something would happen to cause Henrietta to change her mind. But nothing happened. She wrote to him at the end of the month, said she was coining, and that they would be married as soon as she arrived.

Harry dashed about happily, making arrangements for the big event.

When Henrietta's train pulled in he was at the station to meet her, and he hustled her immediately to the office of a justice of the peace. And so. as the saying has it, they were made one

Harry was a very happy man, indeed, as he rode away in the taxi at the side of the lady of his choice.

'Happy, sweet?' he murmured. Henrietta nodded and snuggled close.

'Indeed I am, Harry,' she murmured. 'I must confess that for a a short time after Robert died my conscience hurt me. It was almost as though I thought I were to blame in some way for his death.

'But now everything is different, dear. By buying him a beautiful tombstone I feel that I have atoned for everything.'

Harry gulped. 'You bought him a beautiful tombstone?' he repeated nervously. 'What— what did it cost?'

Henrietta smiled happily. 'It cost me the money,' she replied grandly, 'that I planned to use to get him well. Exactly fifteen thousand dollars.'

_______________

72: The New Man

IT was warm, and the apartment door was open. The old man stepped inside, glancing from one side to the other, until he came to the kitchen. His daughter Virginia was peeling potatoes. She ran to him and threw both arms around his neck. "Daddy, darling!" she said, kissing him warmly. "It was exactly what Joe needed to give him confidence.

The old man might have been mystified by such a conversational opening— except for the fact that he had been trying to give her Joe confidence for a year. Joe was a fine boy. No doubt about it. But Joe was the type of man who couldn't land a job if he owned a factory. Since his Martha died Virginia had been everything to the old man. And when she married Joe, why, the old man had Just naturally adopted him, too.

Then Joe got into a fight with his boss. And the only thing he won was a one-way invitation to the cashier's

Joe went after jobs, but other bright young men got them.

It wasn't long before Virginia was drawing her savings out of the bank faster than she had put them in. Virginia had to scrape how to make her earning pay for electric, and gas, and rent, and food. She even tried to budget a few dollars so that Joe could buy some clothes. But Joe drew the line

"No woman," he said, pridefully. "is ever going to pay for a stitch of clothes on my back. It's tough enough to watch you keeping house."

IN A SHORT while the only serviceable suit Joe had left was an ancient blue double-breasted, with shiny sleeves, a seat in to short match the sleeves, and a couple of very dejected lapels. He wore it defiantly, and, of course, if it was tough to get a a job before, it was now almost impossible.

So the old man began to worry, really worry. He knew the kids were having arguments And he knew that a new suit of clothes was now the crux of the matter.

The old man knew that if he bought Joe a ready-made suit, no matter how it would be sentsent back. So that was out. There was only one other way, and it was a very difficult way. Buy the boy a custom-made that would fit no one else, a suit that, once made, would be valueless if sent back. But how to get Jo's measurements? And, worrying thought, how to get the money?

He answered the last problem first. The seventy dollars represented doctor and hospital money in case he necded those ltemt, He had always nursed a dread of hospital charity. So he thought the matter over for a long while. Then he stood up in his little room and walked over to the chest of drawers and kissed the picture of an elderly lady that stood on top. He withdrew a tiny box from the top drawer, and he took green bills from the box. Then he walked out.

He went over to the kids' apartment. There was a note.

"In case you drop in, daddy," it read, "We've gone to a movie "

He looked in the closet, and his eyes popped. The blue wasn't there, but an even more decrepit tweed was hanging in a corner.

The old man grabbed the suit and rushed from from the house, and an hour later, when want he was to about to this leave the tailor, he counted out seventy dollars, his very fortune

"I didn't want to spend this much," he said, "But as long as you say its the finest material."

The suit would be ready in ten days.

BY EXCERCISING superhuman control the old man kept his mouth shut. Now he had walked in. And hls dear Virginia had thrown her arms around him.

"Daddy darling, it was just what Joe needed to give him confidence."

"Now, now," he smiled. "It was nothing. Really nothing at all."

Suddenly the smile faded. He remembered, with a panicky feeling, that it was only five been days he had given the tailor the order. The suit couldn't have been delivered yet.

"What," he gulped, "what are you talking about?"

His daughter looked at him in surprise.

"I'm talking about Joe, of course," she returned. "I thought maybe you'd heard. He enlisted in the army this morning!"

_________________

73: Masterpiece

IN PRISON again at the age of fifty, Jim the Scratch was a bitter man. He had no friends and he wanted none. He looked at the world through morose-colored glasses and he growled at everything and everybody. Jim was decidedly proud of his nickname. There wasn't a better forger than Jim in the entire nation, and to be rated as a good scratch man in the underworld is mark of distinction. As a child, even before he went to school, Jim always had a pen or a pencil in his hand. From the day he started school until the day he finished, Jim never brought home a bad report card.

Not because he was a good student. He simply found out, even at that early stage of the game, that he had a decided knack of copying signatures. A short time after he left school, he landed a job with large wholesale concern, worked there for several weeks, but the work didn't appeal to him. Finally, after a crap game one night, he signed his employer's name to a cheque and cashed it. It was his first venture into real thievery and, unfortunately, he wasn't apprehended. That decided him. If money was that easy to make, why bother working for small wages Let the boobs do that; he was gifted with a special ability. So he went looking for the right connections. And it wasn't long before he was working with a regular mob.

WITHIN a short time, he was clipping banks from one end of the country to the other. He brought tears to the eyes of bank presidents long before the depression was ever dreamed of. In Florida, one season, the mob was pinched. All, that is, but Jim. And it was then that he pulled the trick that Rave him his greatest fame. He forged the name of the judge to a phoney bail bond and liberated the entire mob in one swoop. From coast to coast there was an appreciative response from the underworld. Our hero, to his great delight, became known as Jim the Scratch, the ace of forgers. What a reputation!

It wasn't long before the Bankers' Association got after Jim. Protecting millions, and with the greatest detective force in the world, they soon caught up with him. He was given his first gaol sentence— and from then on his bits were many. It wasn't because he was falling down In his work; it was merely because he was too good. As soon as a bank was clipped, the usual roar went up: "Get Jim the Scratch. This looks like his work. Get Jim the Scratch!"

And they generally got him....

SO AT 50 Jim, a broken and bitter man, was in gaol again. Jim's cell-mate was a poor, harmless mug named Ed. It had been Ed's first pinch. He had worked in a bank, and his young wife had envied the clothes, of other women. The man couldn't withstand the temptation— and he had stolen some money. They had given him three years to think it over.

Now, it's a sad but true fact that when you place any two people in a cell for any length of time, they must eventually grow to hate each other. When one wants to read, the other wants to talk. When one wants to forget, the other wants to remember. Soon It becomes unbearable. And so it was in this case— only a trifle more so. To Jim, his cell-mate was just a chump? a dopey first offender. His talk, as far as Jim was concerned, was cheap and dull and stupid.

But above all, it was the letters that Ed received that made Jim hate the man from the very depths of his soul. Three times a week, and sometimes oftener, Ed would receive a letter from his wife, proclaiming her love and loyalty. She would tell her husband that she cared more for him than for anything else in the world, and that she was counting the hours until he would return to her. The letters were meant to cheer the heart of a man who had done a foolish deed, and they accomplished their purpose. He awaited their coming eagerly. They were more to him than meat and drink.

But to Jim these letters were a curse. Ed would read each and every one— and as the other man read the forger would shake with anger. He had nobody; nobody wrote to him. Bit by bit, and letter by letter, Jim's hate grew to be a very vital thing. He began to plot a revenge of some sort.

Eventually he hit on a plan. It was a cold and brutal thought, but Jim carried it through. He took one of Ed's letters and studied the handwriting of the wife. It was a simple task for this master's forger to copy the style in every detail. More, it was something of a pleasure. He wrote a letter in the wife's hand-writing, addressed it to his cell-mate and then gave it to a "trusty" to be mailed from New York.

It was actually one of Jim's masterpieces. So perfect was it, in fact, that he placed a little mark on the corner of the envelope to distinguish to the counterfeit from a real one that the wife might write.

Jim then went to the mall clerk, whom he had known for many years. He explained the situation. He was playing a harmless little joke on Ed, and he hoped the clerk would Help him out. If two letters came for Ed on the same day, would the mall clerk be kind enough to deliver the one with the little mark on the corner— and hold the other?

"Okay by me," nodded the clerk. "He'll get the one with the mark."

Two days later. Jim rested in his bunk and watched Ed open the phoney letter. The youth looked bewildered, frightened, amazed. "It can't be," he Kept repeating. "It just can't be. You look at It, Jim. Read it— and for God's sake tell me that I haven't seen what's there. Please, Jim." T

he forger accepted his own handiwork. He read the letter as though it were something entirely new to him. I can't fool you any longer, Ed," he read aloud. "All the letters I have been writing before this were just so many lies. I am going away with the man I really love. This is the end. Good-bye."

He tossed the letter back to his cell mate.

"That's nothing new to me." he said. "I expected you to get a letter like that sooner or later. That's why I told you all the other mush was junk. You can't trust the best dame in the world, and the sooner you get wise to that fact, the better off you'll be."

All the fancied agony that Jim had suffered through Ed's greats happiness he more than made up for that now. His cell-mate seemed on the verge of insanity. He cried and he raved. He cursed his wife, and he cursed the world. He didn't sleep all night.

From his bunk, Jim watched him with a curious expression; the kind that came over his face when he experienced a weird form of happiness. When the cell door was opened the following morning. Ed. made a mad dash into the corridor. He raced to the end of the tier and, with a horrible cry, hurled himself over the railing. When they reached him he was dead.

The other inmates discussed the matter in hushed voices, Ed had been a good kid, they all agreed, and it was just too bad. But Jim made no comment whatever. In his strange mind, the suicide was a perfect climax to his little joke.

Some ten minutes later the mail clerk heard of the death, he became extremely frightened because of his participation in the case, and quickly confessed to the warden. An immediate investigation was; ordered, and Jim the Scratch was; eventually given another sentence that practically dooms him death in prison.

When Ed's body was ready to be sent home, the warden ordered the other letter— the one that had really come from his wife? to be opened for the right address.

"My dear husband," read the real letter, "I must tell you this and get it over with. I love another man and I am going away with him. I'm sorry, but that's the way it must be. Good-bye."

____________

74: Suicide

HE THOUGHT of how quickly, how easily this weapon could ease all worry. It was, he knew. he solution to the insoluble. The answer to a difficult question. The escape of the imprisoned. The cure of the coward.

A gun. A round barrel, a long flat handle? and a leaden messenger awaithing the call to duty. That's all you needed.

He had heard people say that when the trigger is pressed, that is all there is to it. You never even hear the report. Never feel the pain. Never even know...

He wondered if his life would unreel quicklv before his mind's eye. They said it happened to drowning people, so maybe it, would work here. too. Probably the bunk, though. Probably nothing to it. But, as he sat there, the intense despair of his life welled Into his eyes, scene on scene.

In the early years, John had always been what some people call happy-go-lucky. He had light wavy hair, bright blue eyes, and a complexion that made the girls say "ah". As he he grew older, the hair deepened in color.

He seldom studied in school. He had an older brother, Paul, who was what everyone called "smart." Paul studied. Paul planned and schemed. Paul won all the marbles from the other boys.

But John didn't care about planning or winning or working. He liked to sit on the curbside and watch the carriages go by.

Paul went to college, and graduated with high honors. The day after his graduation, he stepped into an automobile concern. The job was waiting for him, because he had planned everything, John went to college, too— but he didn't care much about it. He liked the fun, but the work annoyed him. After two years of poor marks, he finally gave it up. And, at that, he barely beat the college to the same point.

Meanwhile, Paul was doing exactly as people had said he would. He was serious, dignified— and extremely shrewd. He did well in automobile line, and then shifted to the shipping business He sold his brains at high prices and made a lot of money. A whole lot.

And so it was that, in time, John came to resent Paul's success. Not because of Paul— but because people were using his brother's success to taunt him. "How come you're not more like Paul?" they'd ask him. "Look at him, a big success. A nice home, swell wife— and two lovely children. Plenty of money in the bank. A substantial citizen."

These comparisons began to hurt. Hurt badly. Lord knows. John wanted success now. And he tried hard, too. But the best he could do was a precarious mechanic's job in a garage.

One break came his way when he married a nice girl. Her name was Mildred, and John was daffy about her. She was a rather intelligent little person, and she tried very hard to make a better man of John. But. somehow, it never quite worked out. John simply could not do the right things.

As the years passed, Mildred tried to prod him onward by using Paul's name. It only angered John. In time, he came to abhor his brother. He ignored invitations to Paul's home. He "forgot" to ask Paul to any of the three christenings at his house. He rarely mentioned Paul at all. Still later, John lost his final Job. He applied for relief, and moved to a spot that was little more than a shanty.

Mildred became embittered, She berated him ln front of the children. And John sat against the back wall of the house, puffing a pipe and saying little. One morning, he went for a walk. When he came back, the children were dressed and crying. Mildred was putting on a pair of gloves.

"I'm going, John," she said flatly. "There's no use living on this way. It's just Impossible. "You're a failure. You can't even support yourself. The children aren't getting enough fresh vegetables and milk. They need clothes, and I need clothes. We haven't even any heat here."

John nodded. "I know," he replied softly. "Where are you going?"

"To my mother's. She'll take care of all of us for the time being, and I'll get a job to help out." She shrugged. "It's for the best, John. I love you, and I guess I slwsys will. But it isnt fair to any of us this way. Want to kiss the children goodbye?"

After that, loneliness knocked the props from under what mental facultles he had left. He stopped reading the papers when he saw too many pictures of Paul's family at shore resorts, in Europe, and at horse shows. Now he read nothing, knew nothing. He said hello on the streets only when someone greeted him first. He ate little. A neighbourhood plumber offered him a job. John turned it down.

He was at that desperate stage of life when the victim feels tired all the time. When there is no interest in anything. When self-pity makes a man burst into tears over his own plight, and he buries his head in a pillow to sob. To him, there was nothing left now but an endless succession of daylight and dark, daylight and dark

On the kitchen table rested his beloved pipe, cold and burned put like him. He stopped drinking, because he felt no more interest in it.

Most of the time, he sat staring. Thinking. Pondering. Wondering when he's be able to scare up the ambition to give himself a merciful exit. And now, here he was. Sitting and staring at the smooth, shiny automatic.

John had gone over this— all of this— in a few minutes. Thinking about it hadn't improved his position any. His thoughts left him exactly the same. When it was over, he was still the same abject, despairing figure. Then he straightened up suddenly. He handed the gun back to the two detectives who sat across the table.

"Yes," he said slowly. "That's Paul's gun, all right. I'll identify it for you. But why he should have used it to commit suicide, I will never know."

____________

75: Final Message

WE sat the other night in one night in one of Hollywood's restaurants. At the table were Damon Runyon, Gene Fowler, Jimmy Kern, and a number of others who were familiar with the New York scene in the Twenties and the Thirties.

The conversation drifted to various characters we had known in those days. And it was Mr. Kern who came up with a gangster yarn that was new to me, and to both Fowler and Runyon as well.

Accordingly, with your permission, I'll tell it here. It may hand you a wallop.

IN THE YARN there are three characters. Chuck Williams, Bill Jordan, and Blinky Smith. Let's take them in order:

Chuck was a New York mobster. One of the biggest. Strong, dumb, illiterate. He knew what he wanted and he stopped at nothing to achieve it. Lacked— and missed it greatly— an education of any sort. Which was why he employed Bill Jordan.

Bill Jordan was a combination of bodyguard and valet. It was his job to make up for the boss' deficiencies In education. Not only did he dress Chuck, and guard him when necessary, but he always was brought along to supply the right remark at the right time. Chuck liked Bill a great deal. Bill was devoted to Chuck.

And that brings ns to Blinky Smith. Blinky was also a mobster, but he was a far smaller figure than Chuck. He considered himself a wise guy— and he was known far and wide as a ribber. A ribber, in case there is anyone left who is not familiar with Broadwayese, is a bird who will offend anyone in order to get a laugh.

A ribber is a pest, an annoyance, and a very obnoxious person. Since be cannot obtain laughs legitimately, he gets them by clutching at the very heart of the victim. And if the victim is made miserable by these offending personalities, what's the difference? A laugh is a laugh. That's a ribber.

So you have your three characters. Chuck, the illiterate tough guy; Bill, an educated valet and bodyguard; Blinky, who would gladly leap into the sewer for a laugh.

Now we can proceed.

CHUCK'S wife died. In his own way he had loved her devotedly through the years. He felt very sad and very alone. Bill Jordan, who might have cheered him a trifle, was in the middle-west on a certain important deal. He would not be back for a week.

With Chuck in his hour of grief sat Blinky Smith. For once the latter man had little to say.

"Tough, Chuck," was all he said. "Very tough."

The wires began to arrive. Many mourners came, too-but Chuck would see none of them. He wanted Blinky to sit with him, and that was all. Someone , handed a wire through the door. Chuck opened it mechanically. It was from Bill Jordan, in the middle west.

"Profound commiseration,'' it read.

Chuck blinked at the message.

"Only two words," he grumbled. "Youda thunk Bill woulda sent more. But they're long words, anyhow."

He tossed the wire to Blinky Smith. The latter man read the two words— and a terrible rib popped into his mind. Perhaps it was more than a rib this time; perhaps he was looking for Bill's job. But whatever the reason, he smiled broadly. Chuck clenched his fists.

"Wot's the idea of laughing?" he demanded. "Wot's funny about dat telegram? Wot do dem woids mean?"

Blinky shrugged.

"I don't know what Bill had in mind," he lied easily, "but he sure has said a tough thing. 'Profound commiseration' simply means that you're better off now without your wife. Bill seemed to think that maybe your wife wasn't on the level with you."

For a moment Chuck Williams sat perfectly still. His face turned a ghastly white, except for two red pinpoints that appeared in his cheeks. Then he sprang to his feet and seized the telegram from Blinky Smith.

"Get out!" he screamed. "Get out, before I kill you!"

Blinky, trembling visibly, ran from the room. Too late, he realised he had gone too far.

Back in the room Chuck pressed his fists against his temples. He shivered slightly. And then, with sudden decision, he picked up the telephone and called a number in the middle-west. He talked for three minutes, and when he hung up the receiver he was smiling coldly.

Bill Jordan never came back east. His body, riddled with bullets, was buried where it was found. In the middle-west.

IT WAS perhaps a week later that another friend was talking with Chuck Williams about the two misfortunes that bad hit him so suddenly.

"Mighty tough break. Chuck," sighed the friend. "First your wife had to go— and then Bill Jordan has to get himself knocked off by somebody. Rotten breaks. I'd call them. Bill sure loved you."

"Yeah?" growled Chuck. "Mebbe dat's wot you tink— but it ain't so. Bill Jordan was a rat. Oh, you don't have to look surprised. When I say a guy is no good, you can betcha I know wot I'm talkin' about.

"I ain't showed dis to nobody else, but I guess I can show it to you. Here, take a look at dis rotten telegram wot de guy sent me fore he wuz killed."

He produced the wire that Bill had sent- His friend regarded it curiously.

" 'Profound commiseration,' " he read. He looked at Chuck. "Why, what's wrong with that? It's just the kind of wire that Bill would send. It shows he felt very badly and that he didn't want to say too much."

Chuck's lower jaw began to tremble.

"You mean," he asked slowly, "dat dere's nothin' nasty in dem woids? I mean, about my wife bein' bad or somethin'?"

His friend seemed shocked.

"Not at all, Chuck. Where'd you get such a rotten idea? It just means that Bill was telling you from his heart how much he sympathised with you."

Chuck's eyes grew very, very cold.

"I see," was all he said.

EXACTLY seven hours later the body of Blinky Smith— small-time mobster and notorious ribber— was found in a ditch. It was riddled with bullets.

For a while a great many people suspected that Chuck Williams had had a hand in the killing. But they finally determined that he couldn't have had anything to do with it. For at the funeral the largest floral offering to arrive came from Chuck Williams himself. And on it was a very appropriate card.

"Profound commiseration," it read.

___________________

76: The Last Gesture

THE OLD Irish landlady stood at the door of the furnished room. She watched the young man pack the second suitcase and saw him lean heavily on it before it was closed. Then he clinched the straps and glanced around the room. There wasn't a personal item left in it; nothing but a chair, a bed, and a bureau. The young man sighed.

"I guess that's about everything," he said.

The landlady handed the young man a letter. "This came for him this morning," she announced sadly. She shook her head. "That pneumonia," she observed, "is a curse. Yes, sir, it's a real curse, it is, to take away a fine young man like Mr. King." He took the two suitcases and the envelope and he thanked her as he left.

At the corner he stepped into a restaurant and ordered coffee. Then he studied the envelope.

Mr. Robert King," it read. "2641 Fifth Street, City." Well, he mused, there is no more Robert King. He was my best friend and he was buried yesterday. He's gone, forever. So who can object if I, Frank Williams, read this letter? No one. And least of all, Robert King.

He opened the letter. It was from an office equipment firm, saying that Robert King's qualifications had been examined and certified. And, most important, the job for which he had filed application would be available on Monday.

Frank Williams read the letter again and again. This was the break King had been praying for months. Now it was here— a day after his funeral. Frank Williams never touched his coffee. He sat there, thinking. Thinking hard. Finally, he made up his mind. He had all of Robert King's clothes, effects and identification. Beginning Monday, he, Frank Williams, would become Robert King. Who, in the tremendous city, would identify him? Nobody

When it came time to appear for the job, he was a little bit shaky. He knew he wasn't as smart as Robert King. Yes, he was nervous— but it didn't make the slightest difference. A few minor questions, and the job was his.

He quickly schooled himself to answer when someone yelled "King!'' or "Bob!"

He moved from his old neighborhood into a new section, under the name of Robert King. And quietly, he dropped the few friends he had and began a brand new life.

TWO YEARS went by. The weeds were thick and ugly on Robert King's grave. They obscured the name on the cheap headstone. And Frank Williams was far too busy to visit the resting place of the man whose life he was leading.

More years flew by. Five of them.

Frank Williams became a departmental manager. He had a small, glass partitioned office and a secretary. By this time he felt that he really was Robert King. He didn't even think of himself as Frank Williams any longer. He was terrifically ambitious. He worked hard. He devoted long and tedious hours to the tasks in hand. He didn't even permit himself the possible joys of a minor romance. He was much too busy for that.

The years marched on and on in the parade of time. Frank Williams grew older, and he looked older. He had a thin spot on top of his head, and patches of grey at the temples. He was vice-president of the entire company now. Only the president remained ahead of him. And Frank Williams had plans to put the skids under him when the time was right.

Came an afternoon, then, when he felt moody. He didn't know what was wrong with him; all he knew was that he had an attack of the blues. He sat at his ornate desk, thinking. And suddenly, for the first time in years, he thought of the real Robert King.

He stood up, took his hat and stick, and told his secretary that he wouldn't need the chauffeur. He took a bus and went to the cemetery. He walked to the grave of Robert King. He looked at the weedy, sunken mess at his feet. And he looked at the small tilted headstone.

"Bob," he murmured, "I've been a long time coming. I'd be a better man, and I'd feel better inside, if I had come here long ago. I took your name and it gave me the break I needed in life.

Yes, I should have come here long ago— but at least I am here now. I don't know how it will help you, wherever you are, but I'm going to try to make amends. So long. Bob."

He went to a stone cutter near the cemetery. He ordered the finest and most luxurious monument that the stone cutter could make. And then he went home.

Frank Williams felt better now. He had done right by his old friend. It had taken years; too many years. But, after all, what did time matter to a man who was dead for all eternity? The big thing was that he had finally discharged a part of the tremendous debt he owed Robert King.

THE NEXT DAY, when he appeared in his office, his mood was good. He beamed at his secretary and ordered her to take the day off. He handed her a twenty-dollar bill. "Seems to me that you've been working too hard lately," he said. "Blow yourself to a good dinner and see a show. You deserve a little relaxation."

The woman gulped, thanked him, and left before he'd be able to change his mind. She wondered privately if some woman had wrought this miraculous change in the old grouch. In all the years she had worked for him, he had never told her to take so much as an hour off— and most certainly he had never given her an extra dime, except at Christmas, when he cut loose with five dollars.

Frank Williams felt finer after that, he called in the office drudge and told him that beginning the following week, his salary would be two dollars more a week. He felt relaxed. He realised now that he had been keyed up for years. That he had never let himself go. That he had never learned to smile .

PRECISELY two weeks and two days later, the solemn men in the silk hats carefully side-stepped the mud as they threaded their way back to the funeral cortege. They walked in silence as their cars sleek and shiny, purred in the dirt roadway. The president of the company paused at the door of his car. He turned to the assistant general manager.

"The only way I can figure it out," he said softly, "is that, when the doctor told King he had heart trouble, poor Bob must have figured he was going to die very shortly. Otherwise, why would he go to the bother of ordering such a beautiful tombstone with his name on it?"

___________________

77: Found Guilty

THE WOMAN'S eyes were wide open with surprise and fear. Her hands were locked together tightly.

'It gave me kind of a start, meeting you this way, Joe.' She smiled thinly 'I mean out of all the people in the city, to think I should run into you.' She hesitated. 'Have you been— been out long?'

'A couple of months now. I got some time off for good behaviour. I tried to look you up, but I didn't have no luck.' His eyes were pleading. 'I thought you might let me see Curly. Would you do that, Gertrude— just let me see the kid?'

She waited a long time before she spoke. The man who had been her husband waited uneasily, shifting from one foot to the other. 'I married again, you know,' Gertrude said at last, 'And I never told my husband that you were in— in prison. 'I couldn't tell him. You see that, Joe, don't you? He's a fine man, respectable, and all that And then on account of Curly, too, I didn't want people to know?'

Joe nodded.

'That his father was a gaol bird,' he returned bitterly. 'I don't blame you, Gertrude. You done right. It's best that way for him. I never was any good But I would like to see him, just once. Couldn't you let me, without letting him know who I was? He'd never find out from me.' The man's voice shook with earnestness. 'You needn't worry about that. I'm glad you're happy, you and Curly.'

Gertrude opened her pocketbook and took out a pencil. She scribbled an address on a piece of scrap paper. 'Here. We're living over near Coney Island. You'll find it easy enough. You can come tonight if you want to. Any time before eight o'clock. My husband gets home then.'

'You needn't worry,' the man repeated. 'He won't ever find out from me.'

He watched until she had disappeared into the subway. Then he turned away with a slight sigh. When six o'clock came, he walked slowly over to the subway.

THE house was a small, single-dwelling affair. It was neat and attractive, with appropriate shrubbery. There was a light in the living-room window, and the shades were partly up.

Joe crept close and peered into the room. He wanted to be sure that Gertrude was alone before he rang the bell. There was no one with her. and the quiet street was deserted. At least, Joe believed it to be deserted.

But when he stepped out of the shadows, a hand fell on his collar and he was yanked suddenly back toward the walk.

'A dick!' he groaned. The other man smiled grimly. Joe swallowed hard. 'You ain't takin' me in, are you?' he cried. 'I wasn't doin' nothin.' I done time — sure I did. But I been goin' straight ever since I come out. Honest to God!'

'Oh, sure.' The detective tightened his grip on the man's collar. 'All ex cons, always go straight There's been a series of breaks around this neighborhood for the past six weeks— and now I find a mug like you round, peeking in windows, I suppose?'

''Wait a minute.' Joe interrupted quickly. 'I got a reason for that.' And then he stopped. He had promised Gertrude he would tell nobody who he was or why he had come. But this was something else again. This might mean another long term in gaol. And, after all, what was it he had said? Merely that he wouldn't let her husband find out about him. He opened his mouth, prepared to blurt out the true reason for his being there. But the words were never spoken.

For the detective talked first. 'It's a good thing I was relieved early tonight.' he growled, 'especially since my wife and stepson are alone in the house, and it's mighty unlucky for you, bud, that you picked out my house to prowl round.'

_________________

78: The Greater Sin

THE starchy nurse went through the ward, propping pillows, taking temps, jotting notes on charts that hung over the foot of all beds, listening to complaints, confiscating cigarettes, administering, medicines. examining wet dressings and tersely asking one and all how they were.

She was Mary Casey, short, broad beamed, and in charge of the ward, Under her authority were two probationers who had not vet achieved a starched apron.

When Mary Casey finished her chores she went to the porch she always reserved Josiah Porter for the final morning duty. Josiah was an ancient sack of yellow skin, eternally sitting on the ward porch in a wheel chair. No one, except Miss Casey and Dr. Marberg, knew exactly how long he had been in the hospital, or even what ailed him. He was a sad, lonely character who sat and brooded on the porch all day, moving only when he was wheeled inside for meals.

Miss Casey flashed him a smile on this particular morning. She propped his pillow and asked him how he felt. For Josiah Porter was her favorite patient. She liked the old man in the affectionate way that some young people grope for a father after they have lost their own.

He leaned against the porch rail. "I've got some news for you," she said. He looked at her. He didn't smile. He just looked. She waited for him to coax her about the news, But he didn't.

"It's wonderful news," she declared. "Dr. Marberg says you can go home in a week."

She waited for the full import to dawn on him. He blinked his eyes in the sun and his bony hands grasped the rubber wheels. "My goodness. Mr Porter," the nurse cried, "doesn't that give you a thrill? Didn't you hear me? Dr. Marberg says you can go home in a week!"

The old man nodded.

"I heard you," he said softly. Then he put a weary hand over his eyes. "I don't want to go. Oh, please. Miss Casey. I appreciate it so much, but I don't want to go,"

Miss Casey stared at him.

"Now look, Mr Porter," she asserted patiently, "you're almost well again. You're a nice guy and you're positively my best boy friend. I like you— but you can't stay here. No one in his right mind wants to stay in a hospital."

But Mr Porter was very evidently not in the mood for Miss Casey's bright dialogue. As she talked, he kept shaking his head vigorously. And now he looked up at her, and there was tragedy in his eyes.

"Home," he said, bitterly. "What is home to me? A cheap little furnished room, that's what it is. Sitting alone, wishing I could die and get it all over with.

"No one to talk to. Drinking a bottle of milk. Going to bed. Trying to read an old newspaper until my eyes get tired. That's home to me, Miss Casey."

The Nurse looked hastily away at the other hospital buildings. She cleared throat and then turned back to him.

"No children?" she asked.

He said no.

"Wife die?"

He said no. And then suddenly, as she kept prodding him with questions, lie started to talk. It came out of him easily and softly, as though it were a story none could tell so well as he.

"We were married over thirty years," he said. "Myra and I were very happy. Oh, we had our spats now and then, but we always made up.

"I was a man of habit. Myra used to make fun of me. She said I always combed my hair the same way, and that I always shaved exactly the same way, and that I'd even wear the same shoes forever, unless she bought me a new pair now and then.

"Well, Miss Casey, that marriage ended on the rocks after one terrible night. I made the mistake of going out and getting drunk."

The nurse was startled.

"And she left you after all those years?"

The old man nodded.

"You see, Miss Casey, I don't drink. I mean, I don't ever drink." He seemed to grow a little fearful now as he went on with his story. It was as if the memory of that one frightful night had haunted him silently ever since.

"I'm very much a creature of habit," he continued. "I was born that way and I stayed that way. Whatever came over me on the awful day I'm speaking of, I don't know. I'll never be able to explain, but I suddenly tired of being a creature of habit.

"And do you know what I did, Miss Casey? When I got my pay that day, instead of bringing it right home to Myra, I opened the envelope!" He paused to permit the enormity of his action to seep into Miss Casey's brain.

"Yes, I opened it," he said, "and I counted the money myself for the first time. Then I took a cab— a cab, mind you— and I went downtown and bought me the swellest dinner you ever heard of. Then I went to a cafe and I drank highballs.

"Well, I got to talking with some of the men, and I bought them highballs. They were young and they started calling me Pop. I think maybe I liked that 'cause Myra and me never had chick nor child. Pretty soon they said they knew a cabaret where I'd have at lot of fun. No, not a cabaret. They call it something else. A night club. That's it. A night club. So we went there, and I knew all the time they were only sticking me with the bill."

He covered his eyes again. "One of them had a car," he went on, "and when we left the night club, I was drunk. Yes, Miss Casey, I was drunk. We rode through the night through woods and towns, and you could hear the tyres scream when the car turned.

"Then a siren sounded behind me and the fellows said 'step on it,' and the driver did. And soon there were shots, and they all fell on the car floor, and they pulled me down, too.

"Was I scared? Miss Casey, I really said my prayers on that car floor. Then I passed out. I don't know what happened, but the next thing I remember it was morning and I was walking to my house, and my coat was torn, and one cheek was bleeding.

"When l went into my house, Myra was gone. Forever."

Miss Casey's face held a puzzled frown.

"I just don't understand it, Mr Porter," she said. "After all, it was only one silly escapade in thirty years. It teems a shame she left you for that."

The old man looked at her.

"Oh, it wasn't for that," he returned. "No, indeed. Her note said I could never break any habits— and she was sick and tired of me leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor!"

_______________

79: A Trifle Too Good

THERE was a little festival that day. And not without reason. Little Alphonse Iwas graduating from school!

The old man and the old lady beamled with pardonable pride as the principal or the school called the name of Alphonse Dubois.

The kid looked very neat in his blue suit. His hair was plastered down and his shoes fairly glistened. He accepted the ribboned diploma, bowed, and walked back to his seat.

Then, back home, there was a little party. Not too much. Just right. Mama Dubois made chicken casserole and papa brought out some white wine he lad hidden in the broom closet.;

Mama and Papa were very happy. Happier than they had been for years! For Alphonse was their youngest, and by far their brightest, son. Their other two sons? Jaques and Andre— had been foolish. They had thought themselves too smart. They wouldn't listen to mama and papa Dubois. So Jaques and Andre had been in and out of gaol for a number of years.

All of which broke the hearts or mama and papa They were good people respectable people. Papa had sweated for those boys for years.

After the other kids had left the arty, papa took Alphonse to one side.

"Alphonse," he said. "I want to talk to you." He held up a hand. "Not a big speech. Just talk." His ruddy face creased in a huge smile.

"You are a good boy, Alphonse. A fine boy.

"But now you grow up a little. Soon you wear long pants. Then you be a man, and maybe you feel nobody can tell you nothing. So one little thing I want to tell you now:

"You see how your brothers Jacques and Andre have break your papa's and mama's heart? Well, you must make up for them. You are the last one, Alphonse, the a last one of all. So you be good and make mama and me happy. Huh Alphonse?"

Alphonse put his arms around the old man.

"I'll be different, pop," he said. "I know what's right and what's wrong. You and mama won't, ever have any thing to worry about."

ALPHONSE was no howling success overnight. He found odd jobs from time to time, but they never amounted to much. He went one day to another town and applied for a job in a small restaurant. The boss wanted to know if he could cook.

"Sure I can cook," Alphonse told him. "Best in the world."

He got the job, and It was one of those things. The boy actually turned out to be a cook— and a good one. It wasn't long before business was improving in the little restaurant. The boss, unlike so many bosses, was smart enough to know why. And he very promptly gave Alphonse a raise. The boy sent money home. Mama and papa were delighted. They never tired of telling the neighbors just how wonderful a son their Alphonse had turned out to be.

Maybe he will never turn out bad, those neighbors told one another, but that is because Alphonse is lucky. He will never need money, because he is a good cook. He can get a job anywhere, and that is what will keep him out of trouble.

"Otherwise, he would be exactly where his brothers are today. In gaol..."

Yes, Alphonse was certainly a good boy. But being good today, sadly enough, is no guarantee that the future will be good to you tomorrow. As Alphonse learned one night about 11 o'clock, when there were no customers in the restaurant. Alphonse was sitting behind the counter, reading a newspaper, when a drunk walked in. This was a tough drunk. Very tough. He demanded food. He pounded the counter. He threw a sauce bottle against the wall. And then he said he didn't like Alphonse's face at all, and what was Alphonse going to do? The boy tried to reason with him. He tried to laugh the stew into a better humor. But the drunk was too far gone. He took a violent swing at Alphonse and the boy was forced to punch back.

As the drunk went down he hit his head against the edge of a table. When the doctors arrived the drink was dead.

The trial was short, and not sweet at all. Practically everyone in town said that the dead man had always been the mildest of humans. He seldom drank they swore and he had never been known to seek trouble in any form. Absolutely never.

Alphonse, of course, told his side of the story. The complete and true story. But it did little good. And when it was alI over Alphonse was handed a 20-year rap for manslaughter.

THUS, like his brothers, Alphonse Dubois went to jail. Papa and mama were disconsolate, broken. The neighbors rubbed it in. They wanted to know how her fine boy was doing— in gaol.

Alphonse took it like a man, worked as hard inside the gaol as he had ever worked on the outside. When e heard that the prisoner who cooked for the warden was leaving gaol, he applied for the job. The warden was a tough man, but he gave the boy a trial. After a week, he wouldn't have parted with the kid's services for anything. Yes, Alphonse made good in his tough surroundings.

Even in prison he made good. As a fact, it would have for him been much better for him if he hadn't known how to cook so well. Remember how mama and papa Dubois felt about his cooking? Remember how the neighbours said it was the only thing that would keep out gaol?

Well, today, it is just the opposite. Alphonse's name has been brought before the parole board at least twice in the last four years. But he won't be a free man until he has served many years more. The warden always opposes his release. Likes his cooking too well!

_____________

80: Man In The Middle

TIM COULD talk— but he had never quite mastered the trick of stopping. His listeners sometimes started backing politely away, mumbling timid "so longs," while he was getting his second wind. But they seldom got more than a step or two before Tim button-holed them and finished his story.

At the moment, Tim had Otto Schmidt on the spot— good old Otto, with whom Tim had gone to school. It was evening, and Otto was on his way home. And fast, too. For Otto had a wife who always had a mad on. She'd hit him with a mop just for luck. And if anything in the world made her positively screeching mad, it was Otto trooping in a few minutes late for dinner.

So it was Otto's luck to meet Tim at a time like that. On his way home swiftly, hoping that his lovely little wife would be less angry than usual. And he meets Tim on the corner.

And Tim grabs his lapel and starts to sob.

Otto pats his shoulder. And Tim regains control after a super-human struggle and much blowing of the nose.

"Margie left me," he says.

"Aw, g'wan," says Otto, measuring the distance around the corner. Tim nods.

"It's true," he states. "She lit out on Friday night. Yes, sir. That's what she did. Lit out on Friday night."

"Friday?" echoes Otto. "Now I know you're kidding. Because Friday is pay night. And no wife in the world walks away on a night like that unless she's clean out of her mind."

Tim sighs and says that, nevertheless, it was Friday when little Margie left his bed and board. He knows it full well, he says, because he walked in with ten dollars missing from his pay envelope.

Whereupon it's Otto's turn to sigh. "You were lucky she only left you," he says. "Why, if I was short only five bucks, my wife would not only leave me, but she would stick a knife in me first."

At that moment a tall, wavy-haired guy passes by. He has long, up-swept eyelashes and eyes like blue soup plates. He has skin like an army officer's boot, and shoulders like one of these 1941 handsome wrestlers. He is what every factory girl dreams is going to walk in some day and propose to her, while kneeling on a certified cheque for a million.

Tim grabs Otto's arm. "There he goes," he cries. "That's the guy that broke up my home!"

Otto looks quick. He admits the guy has his points, and he is unkind enough to intimate that maybe Margie got tired of looking at the wart on Tim's nose. Tim prefers to ignore the crack. Instead of answering, he wants to know if Otto remembers a kid named Franklin. Otto says no.

Tim says Franklin was a bright lad and used to sing in the church choir. Otto looks around, but the handsome guy is gone. Whereupon Otto says he wouldn't remember a guy who sang in church.

Tim goes on to say that, anyway, this Franklin had a crush on Margie. Even, mind you, in the old choir days. In her folks' parlor, he used to sing quite a snazzy alto to her soprano— and finally, it became a toss-up as to whether she'd marry Franklin or Tim.

"Naturally," Tim goes on, "she finally picked me as her husband. Ah, those were happy moments!"

By this time, Otto is sure that Tim is only getting up a full head of steam, and he is beginning to wonder if he should go home at all. Ever. But while he is wondering, Tim goes right on talking. He says that he and Margie lived happily for a little while, but that arguments began to pop up. Mostly about money. Or, rather, the acute lack of it.

Then, after a while, the inevitable happened. She began to kick herself out loud for not accepting Franklin instead of Tim. She pointed out what a wonderful fellow Franklin had been, and what was Tim? After listening to these speeches for a stretch, Tim says he almost blew his top a couple of times. Indeed ,there was one occasion when he came this close to hauling off and knocking her for six behind the kitchen table. But all this was years ago, and nothing tremendously serious arose that would split their heaven-made match asunder.

Until, one day, Margie tuned in on some radio station and heard a guy warbling. Yes, you've guessed it. The singer was Franklin, and Margie recognised the voice at once. She could hardly wait to write a gushy letter to the station, asking for more of the same and stating what a wonderful singer this Franklin was. She signed it: "An Admirer."

But that didn't cause Tim to pack his shirt and shorts and leave. He waited, because he figured that sooner or later the world of radio would get wise that this guy Franklin was lousing up their airwaves. Instead of which, Franklin grows more and more famous, and finally goes on a national hook-up for a manufacturer of invisible mouse traps, or something.

"Please, Tim," he pleads, "won't you finish your story some other time? I want to get home now, while my wife will still possibly be content to only break my arm."

Tim brushes this plea to one side with a wave of his hand. He tells Otto not to be rude, and that he will finish his story in another minute or two.

Anyhow, Tim relates how one day recently he and Margie have it out hot and heavy. She says she is sure that Franklin still loves her, and that he'd marry her in a minute if she'd only give him the right nod. That does it. Tim gets very mad and slams the door on his way out. When he finishes work, he takes his pay and goes right into the nearest saloon. He wants to get drunk in the worst way—  and he figures the worst way would be whisky with beer. Then he walks home and planks down his pay, and his wife counts it and hits the ceiling.

She wants to know where the extra ten bucks are. Whereupon Tim gets snippy and tells her that, if she wants it so bad, she can ask her good friend Franklin for it.

So she grabs her hat and leaves, pay envelope and all.

OTTO CAN'T resist the temptation to ask a question. Hurry or no hurry, he can't leave yet.

"Tell me," he inquires, "is your wife going to hook up with Franklin?"

"Naw," replies Tim. "That was only a stall to get me mad."

Otto is puzzled. He points over his shoulder. "Then what about the guy that just passed?" he asks. "I thought you said he broke up your home."

Tim nods. "He did," he returns. "But not in the way you think. That was a guy I met in the saloon that night. I only had two whiskies and two beers, and that guy came in and sold me two five-dollar tickets— which is why my pay envelope was ten bucks short and which is what caused the whole split. But I couldn't resist buying the tickets— because they were to a benefit for Franklin, who is now down and out!"

__________________

81: 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 felt the following week, without bothering even to say good-bye to Muriel. What would be the use? he felt Good-byes 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 be wanted someone to call his own. He knew now that he wanted to be like the 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 Peaches, 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 our 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. Good-bye— and thanks."

"Good-bye," 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 tbe paper from the gift basket. And there, between two pieces of fruit, he saw a note.

The actor grinned as he picked it uop. A mash note, no doubt. And the mother had sent her son with it. Doggone if some of these woman 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 succesful. 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 much good for anything. But keeps hunting and hunting. But he can find neither Muriel nor the boy. The boy, did I say? It's hisboy! 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 being good? Who are his friends? 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 pat his hands on the boy's shoulders and gaze into his eyes. Just once, Just once.

It's just a simple little story, you see, of an actor whose eyes are bewildered— and whose hair has grown very grey.

______________

82: Man Who Remembered

CHICK was back again. You'd bet a million he wouldn't be. You'd have sworn that a bot is a bot and a crook is a crook. But here he was, back on that same little street again and looking for that tiny old lady with the Dresden china face.

It was almost three years ago and Chick had first shuffled into this town. His shoes had flapped Ioose on on his feet. His pants were shiy and had big knobs on the jknees. His torn white shirt was blanket grey. His skin was yellow, and his body bony. His eyes were overly-bright, and his heart was weary and beaten.

Chick had summoned the strength to walk up to the screen door. I The old ladv came to the door.

"Yes?" she had said interrogatively. Chick couldn't make a panhandler's speech at the moment, he just leaned there and said slowly that he was hungry.

The old lady wasn't afraid. She opened the door, Chick stumbled through the cool, dark hallway into the kitchen. She poured iced tea in a tall glass. Then she cracked two eggs on the side of a black frying pan. Chick heard their protests as they fought the hot butter. He smelled the fine smoky odor of bacon. And he sat there, elbows on the white tablecloth, gulping and hoping he could last until the food was ready.

Eventually it was ready. She put it all on a big thick plate and told him to eat up. There was a stack of bread and a plate with butter. And more iced tea. And slab of home-made apple pie. And more tea. He was almost finished eating when he heard the bell ring. The old lady excused herself and went to answer  In a moment she was back.

She walked over to a cupboard and dug her hand into an old crock. The hand came out with money in it.

"It's the milkman." she said apologetically. "I have to pay him. You go right on eating."

She walked out and Chick thought fast. No, he couldn't do lt. Not to a woman like this. He needed whatever money was In that crock almost as badly as he had needed food. But he couldn't take it. There was a limit. His skinny hands braced themselves on the table and he watched himself get up. He moved slowly across the room, and plunged a hand into the crock. It came out with three bills— one ten, two ones .

The skinny hand dropped the ones back into the crock, but it held on to the ten. He neatly placed that ten in his pants pocket. Then he went back to the table and sat down. She didn't go near the crock this time. She merely asked him if there was anything else she could get him. He shook his head. He had had plenty, he said, and he was very thankful.

"Don't thank me," the old lady said with that same sweet smile. "I just can't stand to see anybody hungry. And If you're in the neighborhood again, just you stop right in. I live alone— my husband was killed in a railroad job— and get a pension that keeps me going nicely with the plainer things.

"So, if you're hungry, you're welcome."

That did It. Chick couldn't stand it any longer. He murmured a hurried thanks again and left. All the way down the street and out into the railroad yards he kept telling himself that the only reason he took that ten-spot was because it was difference between being a bot and being a man.

Oddly enough, Chirk was right. That tenner was the difference. He got to a big town a few dats later and he spread that ten futher than any other man in history. He got his shoes and suit fixed, and he had a hair cut and a shave and a Turkish bath and a new shirt, and a 25-cent tie.

Cleaned up, he then found work. It wasn't much; messenger boy in a garment house. But it was a living, and it took him out of the bot class.

In his heart, however, Chick felt that he was still a crook. He had stolen and it wasn't ordinary stealing. He had taken money from an old lady— a kindly soul who had been willing to feed him. That made his stomach feel like jelly. And he fiercely resolved that if he never did another thing he'd go back and leave that ten-spot in that crock.

In three years. Chick worked himself up to shipping clerk's job.

It was three years, almost to the day, that he left the big town and took the train for the little one. He had a lot of thinking to do on the way. He had nice clothes now. As though it were yesterday, he got off the train and walked across the railroad yards. He knew every inch of the way. When he reached the little street he walked more slowly. He watched the house carefully. And then, suddenly he saw her.

Yes, there she was. That same little woman, looking not a day older. She came out the front door. She had a market basket under her arm, and she locked the door and put the key under the welcome mat. She walked up the street without even glancing his way.

He waited several minutes. Then he stepped briskly forward, opened the door and walked out into the kitchen. It too, was unchanged. Chick smiled as he looked him. It was three years since he had been in this room— and yet he breezed across it to the cupboard as though he had lived there all his life.

His hand went into the crock and came out with two tens and a five. He pocketed the dough and grinned contentedly.

How nice know a place like this, he thought, when you run short before pay day!

_______________

83: Pearls of Wisdom

VERY, few people ever heard of Judge Henry Bolster. He wasn't political enough. He was a quiet, little elderly man who never looked quite at home on the bench. In the State in which he held office, Judge Bolster presided over the Court of Marital Relations. Here he was known as the great conciliator. For it was his practice, sometimes in the middle of lawyers arguments, to summon the man and wife to his private chambers. There he would speak to the unhappy couple. And his words had often had the effect of bringing the man and wife together again. All of which was either very good— or very, bad— It depends entirely on your point of view.

WHEN the case of Jordan against Jordan came up, Judge Bolster studied the young couple carefully. Eva Jordan, pert and pretty, was suing hubby John, tall and tired, for divorce. There were two children, both very young. The charge was incompatibility. The lawyers called witness after witness. The case droned on.

Judge Bolster pounded his gavel suddenly. He cleared his throat.

'I think, gentlemen,' he said, 'that we shall have a recess.' He stood up. 'Bring the respondents to my office.'

Then he left.

Mrs. Jordan's attorney made a face.

'If that meddlesome old buzzard thinks he can bring those two together again,' he observed, 'he's got another think coming.'

John Jordan's attorney nodded in complete agreement. There was no mention made of the fees involved.

JUDGE Bolster was sitting behind a plain desk when Mr. and Mrs. Jordan entered. An attendant brought them chairs. They sat down without glancing at each other.

'I will not make much of a speech,' the judge began. 'In many of the cases that come before me, I try to reconcile the couples. You've undoubtedly heard that. But in your situation, I will not lift a finger to bring you together. Because, frankly, you're both well rid of each other.'

John Jordan looked shocked. So did his wife.

'You, Mrs. Jordan, are unquestionably a nagging woman. And you, Mr. Jordan, seem to be a sour and grumpy man, deserving of neither a wife nor children.'

His Honor smiled sweetly.

'But all this,' he went on, 'is beside the point. I brought you in here to tell you a strange story. It serves no particular purpose, except to take our minds off the dull court routine for a few moments.'

He settled back in his chair. 'Shortly after the turn of the century,' he said, 'a couple of kids decided to get married. They loved each other dearly. We'll call the boy Charlie. And the girl'— his tone grew reverently soft— 'Elsie.

'There was nothing very beautiful about Elsie. Nor anything very smart about Charlie. He was a young lawyer, struggling to earn a living. And she was a young wife who was very much in love with her husband.

'It was the old, old story. Charlie devoted too much time to his office, and not enough to his wife. His secretary was rather attractive, and Elsie began to fret when her husband came home late for dinner. And the day came when Elsie accused Charlie of being in love with his secretary.

'Now, that was absolutely untrue. Charlie was terribly in love with his wife. But the false accusation made him furious. And one night, after a quarrel, he walked out on his wife.'

Mr. and Mrs. Jordan looked at each other.

'The man ate his heart out,' the judge continued, 'pining for his Elsie. She still loved him. He still loved her. But, Charlie had too much foolish pride. He felt he was right, and he refused to budge. Elsie hoped and prayed he'd return— but he didn't.

'Three years later, Elsie died.' The old man's brow was troubled. 'Died, they said, of a broken heart. And the lawyer stood beside the grave and watched that casket sink into the ground.

'It was then that he made a vow. He vowed he would never love another woman, and that he would spend as much time as possible in an effort to bring young couples together again.'

Jordan's hand was touching his wife's. Judge Bolster's voice was very low. 'You understand, of course,' he continued, 'that I was young Charlie. And Elsie was my— my wife.' He stood up. 'I'm not trying to moralise, Mr. Jordan,' he said, 'but don't you really love your wife?'

Jordan gulped and nodded. His wife sobbed, and buried her head on Jordan's shoulder. Judge Bolster sighed.

'Then go home,' he advised. 'And if you ever think of splitting up again, remember what happened to me. I'll arrange matters with your attorneys. Go home.'

AN hour later, the attendant grinned as he helped the old judge with his coat.

'Make the same speech again, judge?' he asked.

'Yes, Tom,' said the judge. 'The same speech.'

He walked to the door and paused a moment. 'I wonder,' mused Judge Henry Bolster, 'if the Supreme Judge will give me a severe sentence for all the lies I've told? I've only tried to do good by it.

'I'll bet I've told that story five hundred times in thirty years. And coming from a man who's never been married, it sure does work wonders!'

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84: The Tightest Alibi

YOU'D NEVER figure these two men to be pals. They didn't think alike, and they very certainly didn't act alike.

Pop, much the older of the two, was a mild-tempered soul who never harboured a dishonest thought. He was a kindly man, and the simple things in- life interested him most. His entire interest was centred in the small store that afforded him his humble living.

Joey was a crook. He looked on an honest day's work as if it were enough to turn a man's stomach. He was young, but he had already spent more time in gaols than he had in the open air. And he looked it, too.

Yet, in his own peculiar fashion, he held a liking for Pop. Almost a fondness, really. During the short intervals between stretches he spent much of his time hanging around the back room of the old man's store. And that's exactly where the two men were on the evening this story began.

Pop was contentedly counting the day's receipts, but Joey didn't look any too happy. He had something on his alleged mind. In another part of town there was a lovely safe that was just yearning for the touch of his practised hand. There would be nothing to the job.

Joey's fingers itched as he thought of that delightful safe— and yet he hesitated. Because he needed an alibi— an absolutely air-tight alibi— in case the finger of suspicion should point his way. Which was something the finger usually did.

Speculatively he glanced over at Pop. The old man, he knew, would never lie for him— and the cops would know that, too. His reputation for complete honesty was very solid. So if Pop could unwittingly be used as an alibi Joey would be all set.

He stared at the old man. and a suspicion that had been in his mind for some time took definite shape. It was worth a try, anyhow. He took a dollar bill from his pocket and tossed it in front or Pop. 'If you don't mind, Pop,' he requested, 'gimme five singles for that five-dollar bill, will yuh?'

The old man picked up the bill and fingered it.

'Okay,' he said hesitatingly. 'Just take 'em off that pile there.'

Joey took a deep breath. Just as he had supposed! The old man was verging on blindness, and he couldn't distinguish figures any longer. Joey knew, too, that Pop was sensitive: That he'd never admit his eyesight was going. And there was Joey's air-tight alibi! He glanced at the clock. It was almost ten o'clock.

'Say, Pop,' he exclaimed, 'it's almost eleven o'clock already. Guess I'll Wow along, you ought to be gettin' to bed, too. Eleven o'clock is too late for a guy like you to be stayin' up.'

The old man looked up at the hands that pointed to ten o'clock. But he could not see, and it was merely a gesture.

'So it is.' he nodded. 'Time sure does fly. Didn't feel like eleven yet. Well, good-night. Joey. See you tomorrow.'

Joey fairly flew out of the store. He was all set now. It wouldn't take him an hour to crack that safe And then, at eleven o'clock, he'd breeze into some joint where plenty of people could see him, and stay there until dawn. If the coppers came for him, as they almost certainly would. Pop would swear he'd been in the store until eleven. The subsequent alibi would take care of the rest of the time. This was one time they weren't going to pin anything on little Joey! He hurried across town, covering his movements carefully. He didn't want anything to slip now. Everything was too perfect.

THE JOB was a cinch. By 10.30 the safe was empty— and at eleven o'clock Joey was seated in a restaurant. He conversed idly with the proprietor. And then, a few hours later, he wandered into an all-night coffee shop, where he lingered until dawn. Joey knew that those movements covered him. but he figured he might as well blow town just the same. No future in this city any more.

So, in the early forenoon, he packed his few belongings and departed for the station.

Unfortunately— for Joey, that is— he never boarded the train he had in mind. He wasn't in the station five seconds when a detective placed a hand on his shoulder and requested the pleasure of Joey's company as far as headquarters. Joey went along, to the tune of the customary protestations.

'What's all this about?' he demanded. 'What phony rap am I charged with now? I ain't done a wrong thing in years.'

The detective nodded. 'That's fine, Joey,' he said, 'The boss will sure be happy to hear that. Meanwhile step along a little faster.'

A few minutes later Joey faced three men across a table.

'It's good to see you again, Joey,' grunted one of the men. 'And just to sorta make it like old times, suppose you tell us just what you did last night.'

Joey grinned.

'Last night?' he repeated. 'Well, lemme tell you somethin', wise guys. If you got me here on somethin' that was pulled last night, you're nuts. I wasn't even around last night, and I can prove it.'

'Yeah?' said another detective. 'Well, we're sure glad you got an alibi. Go ahead, Joey. Tell us just where you did go last night.'

Joey drew a long breath. 'Well,' he began. 'I never left my hotel until nine o'clock. Then I walked over to the West Side, and I dropped into the store that Pop Jenkins owned. And you wanna know how long I stayed there?'

'Sure,' said the first detective, softly. 'Tell us.'

'Until after eleven o'clock.' cried Joey triumphantly. 'So I guess that shows you?'

'That shows us, all right,' the detective interrupted. 'Do you want to sign a confession now, and save everybody a lot of trouble?'

Joey regarded the three men who were staring at him strangely. Cold perspiration popped out on his forehead.

'What's the matter with you fellers?' he trembled. 'I ain't done nuthin'. '

His voiced trailed off. He glanced down at the morning paper that was lying on the desk. A headline screamed up at him.

'Shop Keeper Murdered!' it read. 'Robbery the motive! "Pop" Jenkins, proprietor of small store, was found slain in the back room of his shop early this morning.'

And on and on.

Joey tried to tear his eyes away from the printed page, but he couldn't. Then he came to the last line, and he almost collapsed. For only a lover of irony would have appreciated the grim jest it contained.

'The time of the murder,' it stated, 'was definitely placed by the medical examiner as between 10 and 11 o'clock last night.'

______________

85: Man of Vision

HE was a wealthy young man with a red face, and eyes to match. He looked as though he lived in a cocktail lounge. And as a matter of fact, that's pretty much what he did.

The girl with him now was poor, pretty, and purposeful. She actually loved this rich young man. But to prove to you there is no end to the surprises in Hellinger short stories, she was not interested in his money.

'You've asked me to marry you, Arthur,' she said earnestly, 'but how can I? What sort of home life would we have?' She gestured toward the bar. 'I enjoy dropping into a cocktail lounge like this, but I don't want to make a career out of it, the way you're doing.

'Your father left you a lot of money. Nothing wrong with that, I admit. But you could certainly do better things with your money than drinking it up. You're wasting your life, Arthur. And you're too nice for that.'

The young man looked positively bewildered. 'But if I didn't come here, honey,' he asked plaintively, 'where else would I go? I'm nuts about you, Hazel. What do you want me to do?'

Hazel regarded him thoughtfully. Then she smiled gently. 'Tomorrow is Saturday,' she said, 'and I don't have to work. I want you to meet me at one o'clock at my home. We're going to take a walk, dear, and much will depend upon it.'

THE following afternoon, shortly after one, Arthur was walking with Hazel. They strolled through the modest neighborhood, and entered the small nark a few blocks from Hazel's home. They sat on one of the benches, a few feet away several small children played while an older sister watched patiently. Across the path, a worried-looking man fussed anxiously over the blanket that covered the knees of a frail woman.

'We won't talk, dear,' Hazel said. 'We'll just watch.'

Arthur shrugged and watched.

People came and went. It was all very peaceful. Then Hazel nudged Arthur, and they walked again. They went to an open-air beer garden where, at a table beside them, an elderly couple sat silently and contentedly. It was a place in which people drank for sociability, and not as a life's work.

At dusk they dined in a small restaurant where the simple food was good, the service jovial. Then after another walk through the quiet suburban streets, they went to a movie. It was a neighborhood house, and the customers didn't do much criticising. They were too busy enjoying themselves with tears or laughter.

After the movie, Arthur and Hazel walked home slowly. When they reached the front steps of Hazel's apartment house, Hazel placed a hand on Arthur's arm.

'Arthur,' she said, 'I'm going to ask you a very important question. Your answer will mean a great deal— to both of us. Did anything impress you today? Of all the things you saw or heard, what stands out in your mind?'

Arthur thought for a moment.

'It was something that happened earlier in the day,' he replied quietly. 'Remember that little brown bungalow where the woman and the small boy were sitting on the steps? And do you remember the man coming down the street and the youngster running to meet him?'

Hazel's heart bounced. And how she remembered! The weary man coming home from work. The child's whoop of joy as he ran to meet his father. And Arthur had seen it, and understood!

'Oh, darling!' she cried. 'That makes everything so different between us! You saw, and you understood, and you're not unfeeling, and we can be happy together! Oh, Arthur!'

It was as easy as that. Two minutes later, Hazel was wearing the ring Arthur had been carrying round— and five minutes later they were in Hazel's apartment, breaking the news to the happy girl's parents.

After a while, mom and pop went to bed and Hazel sat very close to Arthur on the sofa.

'You'll never know how glad I am that I brought you out here today,' she murmured blissfully. 'I just had to find out certain things. And I found them out when you noticed that man coming down the street! Tell me, darling. Was it the love and worship in the little boy's eyes that impressed you? Or was it the tenderness in, the man's face?'

Arthur looked very puzzled, indeed.

'Love?' he echoed. 'Tenderness? I didn't see anything like that. It was the man's clothes that impressed me. You saw how he was dressed, didn't you? With a blue shirt and a brown suit he was wearing a green necktie!'

______________

86: Spotlight

SUCCESS was the worst thing that could possibly have happened to Fritz Black. If he could only have remained a struggling butcher— weighing pork chops with a song in his heart and a thumb on his scales— Fritz would have led a happy existence. But success came to this man. And with it— despair.

Back in the old days Fritz had a little shop on the corner of Third Street and Brand Avenue. He lived upstairs with Millie, his wife, and Eric, his son— and everybody in the neighborhood liked him immensely. They had reason to like him. If you were short of cash and didn't owe him too much, you could always get a supply of meat at Fritz's. He was a smiling, affable, kind-hearted man.

At night, after he closed up, he liked to sit near the front window with Millie and his pitcher of beer, and watch the people below. He wanted to be near Millie always, and he loved her fiercely. He wouldn't think of spending a dollar, or buying a suit, or even going out with the boys, without first asking her. She was the boss, and that's the way Fritz wanted it to be.

She showed him how to make money; she taught him how to save. An amazing woman, this wife of Fritz Black's. She sat back and watched him grow big and fat. She pushed him into the wholesale meat business and saw the bank balance hit six figures.

GRADUALLY, then, Fritz became a millionaire. It was all because of Millie, and Fritz knew it better than anyone. So he very promptly did two things. He sold his business for a tremendous sum. And he left Millie flat.

Yes, success was bad for Fritz Black. It made him hungry for spotlight. He wanted fame, adulation. He told himself that what he needed was a woman who would attract attention to him; a smart, glamorous, sophisticated woman. So he looked around for such woman. He shopped for one in much the same manner as though he were going to buy another butcher store.

And then, at a party one night, he was introduced to Trixie LaDean.

Trixie had big black eyes, and lashes like ferns, she laughed too loudly. Her conversation was vulgar— or, as they say— smart. She wore clothes well. She had dramatic ability. And she had a honey of a past.

Fritz was nuts about her— and Trixie was nuts about Fritz's meat millions. Too many times had she been without a lamb chop to her name!

So she cuddled up to Fritz. "I never thought this could happen to me," she sighed. "Oh, it's so wonderful to be in love!"

Fritz swallowed all this hooey and begged for more. He didn't have the nerve to face Millie, so he sent his lawyer. Millie asked only enough money to take care of herself and Eric. Fritz, suffering a slight attack of conscience, offered more. But Millie wouldn't take it.

So, before many months had gone by, Trixie LaDean was Mrs Fritz Black.

The newspapers duly recorded the facts, and Fritz beamed all over the place. He felt that, at last, he was on his way toward becoming a prominent man.

But newspapers are fickle instruments. They became woefully apathetic after a while, and no more stories appeared. Fritz didn't like that; he spoke to Trixie about it.

"Darling," was her reply, "if you want publicity, there's only one thing to do: You must have publicity man. A very nice boy. So the nice— oh, so very nice — publicity man was called in, and he, Trixie, and Fritz had a conference.

The publicity man suggested that Frits star his bride in a play. Fritz liked the idea. But he didn't commit himself immediately. He waited until the publicity man had left— and then he asked Trixie how much such a venture would cost.

"Cost?" echoed Trixie, 'Why, it would cost nothing, of course. It would make money. That very nice publicity man writes beautifully, and he'll do the play for us. And I'll convince him that, instead of fooling around with royalties, he should be satisfied with $10,000 in cash from you.

"In that way, Fritz dear, you keep all the rights and make all the money yourself. Naturally, you'll have to invest a little to get the play going. But once it opens, it will probably run for ever.'

A few more arguments like that from this wonderful woman, and Fritz couldn't wait to get into action. He did exactly as she told him. He slipped the very nice publicity man ten grand to write the play.

The play lasted exactly nine days and, since he had been clipped in all directions, Fritz's bankroll suffered an unpleasant dent. But Trixie soothed his headache by showing him the press clippings, photo offers— and a lovely movie offer.

After a while, he felt better. It was costly, but the spotlight was really swinging in his direction. The columnists were mentioning his name frequently.

He studied that movie offer very closely, and he advised Trixie to accept it. He had no way of knowing that this particular movie company saw a potential investor in him. Which was the real reason of the offer. All he knew was that he wanted the whole world to see Mrs Fritz Black— and he couldn't think of a better way of getting his name into print.

So they went to Hollywood.

Here, at last, was fame! He and his wife were met by a delegation. They rode to the hotel in a shiny limousine. Manager and bell hops bowed and scraped. At long last, Fritz Black was famous!

In the long hall that led to the suite one bellhop bowed more deeply than the rest. Fritz beamed and tendered him a five-dollar bill.

"Ah," he smiled, "you know me, eh, son?"

"Yes, indeed, sir," replied the bellhop coyly. "Everybody knows you."

Fritz chuckled. This was a thrill.

"Good," he said proudly. "And who am I, my boy?"

"You," said the bellhop gravely, "are the husband of the famous Trixie LaDean!"

________________

87: The Model

MARILYN came to New York from a hundred-acre farm over in Jersey. She wasn't pretty, but her eyes were big with ideals and the wonder of the world. She believed in honesty, and work, and poetry. and those nebulous items called principles.

Somehow, in her wanderings around the city, she got to Greenwich Village, the Bohemian sector devoted to artists who can't draw, sculptors who can't sculp, and workers who won't work.

The inmates of Greenwich Village have an aversion to the middle of houses. And so when Marilyn— like a modern Goldilocks— walked into one of those cellars her destiny was present.

His name was Willie Williams. He looked up when Marilyn walked in and he said blandly: "You're from the country. I can tell. I know these things. You're fresh— like a mountain dew, or good radishes."

His words didn't surprise her. Wasn't this Greenwich village?

"And you," she said seriously, "are a poet. Isn't that right?"

"Not with mere words," he countered. "I am a pencil poet. I draw. I paint. I make pigments breathe on canvas."

She sat down. He ordered a bottle of cheap wine. After the. second drink she knew most of the terrors of his life, and she felt heavy. She told him of the little money she had put aside— and he, told her he knew she was to be Mrs Williams the moment she walked m the door.

Marilyn ordered another bottle of the same wine. An hour later, Willie proposed sincerely. After twenty seconds of deep thought, Marilyn accepted.

They married the following day, and she arranged to have her savings transferred down to a local bank. They rented an attic with a north-western exposure. Willie loved it, and he loudly declaimed that he would now be able to paint something for the museums.

Marilyn believed him; believed him implicitly. She loved him— and, more important, she was a damn fool anyhow.

OUR HERO wanted children. Marilyn thought it would be better to wait until he made some money, but Willie didn't see it that way. So they had two children. Willie went into ecstasies about the kiddies. He said they were the most beautiful children in the whole, wide world. But when they cried he lost his temper and threatened to walk out. Cash dwindled, as it has a mysterious habit of doing and, in time, it disappeared altogether.

When that happened, Marilyn pleaded with Willie to find work. Any work, even driving a truck, she said, would be far better than looking t hungry babies.

Whereupon artist Williams was highly indignant. "I," he bellowed, "am an artist! I am accustomed to making sacrifices for my work, and my wife and children should do likewise. I don't want to hear you talking like that again, Marilyn. There is a limit to my temper, and I may grow angry one of these days and toss you out."

So Marilyn tried not to talk like that any more. Instead, she went hunting for work herself. When he heard about it, he verged on violence.

"Are you trying to embarrass me?" he roared. "What will my friends say? How can I work correctly when you do such crazy things? You worry about the babies all the time.

"You make me sick about babies. You don't hear them crying, do you? They're all right."

"They're too weak to cry."

"Too weak to cry!" He laughed gratingly. "That's a rich one! No baby is too weak to cry! Now stop annoying me! I must paint!"

Marilyn was despairing She was too tired, too worn to do much thinking. So she just sat there, staring at a blank on an easel and wondering what the end would be.

In the afternoon Willie Williams walked in. He was singing at the top of his lungs and had a tremendous bundle under his arm.

"Well little mother," he cried, "I have news! Big news! I have a job that will bring me one hundred and fifty dollars!"

Marilyn blinked. The words obviously did not penetrate at first.

"I didn't hear you," she said. "Did you say something to me?"

Her husband placed the bundle on the table. He tossed his hat on a chair and struck an attitude that would have made Napoleon jealous. "I walk in here in a most expansive mood. I sing. I laugh I am happy. I give you the news— and what happens?' He sighed heavily. "You ask me If I said something!"

The woman attempted a wan smile. "I'm sorry. Willie," she apologised. "But I was thinking of how bad things were, and I was hungry and I just didn't hear you."

Willie shrugged.

"Because I am in a good mood," he stated "I will accept your apology. I will also repeat what said originally. The big news is that I am to receive one hundred and fifty dollars for an art job to which I have just been assigned. If I do the work well, I am to be paid immediately. Do you understand that?"

Marilyn swallowed hard.

"I— I can't believe it! It's too good to be true!" She arose slowly. "Oh, Willie you're not joking are you? We're all so hungry, and the children need food so desperately, and—"

He silenced her with a wave of his hand.

"Of course, in ordinary circumstances, I wouldn't have accepted a job like this. It for it is commercial art— and you know how I dislike commercial art. But, because of your complaining about food, I took it.

"We'll have plenty of money as soon as I finish my work."

Proudly, he opened the large bundle he had brought in. Out of it came a roasted turkey, cranberry sauce, olives, potatoes, peas, turnips and celery. He placed all he marvellous food on the table. Marilyn's eyes popped. She called excitedly to the children and dashed to the table. She reached for the turkey— her husband grabbed her.

"Stop, you idiot!" he shouted. That's not to be eaten! That's my model!"

_______________

88: Gold Standard

PAUL WAS NINE. Looking at him as he stood there, he seemed resolute enough. But, actually, he was frightened. His feet were far apart, and his tiny hands were clasped behind his back, and his yellow hair hung almost to his big worried eyes.

His Uncle Ben, big and fat, arose and shuffled towards the boy. Paul never forgot the swishing sound of those carpet slippers and the greasy face smiling that contemptuous smile, and the fat, smooth hand reaching out to pat his head.

'So we've come to live with our Uncle Ben, have we? Well, that's dandy. And we're going to learn a lot from Uncle Ben, aren't we? Yes, indeed. We're going to learn the importance of money.

'And when we learn it'— Paul's head danced as the pudgy paw shook it back and forth— 'we're going to learn it again and again. Aren't we, Paul?'

The kid had held a dread of Uncle Ben before he went to live with him. Miser, his folks had called the fat man. Penny-pincher. Tight wad.

Pop had been sick a long time, and Paul was about the only one surprised when he died. Mom had gone next. She had washed and dressed Paul every morning, and sent him off to school, and then gone to work in the big houses round the town.

She had often talked bitterly about her brother, fat Ben.

Paul listened, and remembered. And then she caught a cold and went to bed. Paul stood on a kitchen chair and fried eggs and gave her the ones with the unbroken yolks, but nothing helped.

They came finally and took her away on a stretcher. Then they brought her home in a grey casket, and some big man came in with his hat on and ransacked the drawers and closets. The man found an insurance policy and went away.

At the funeral, a lady took him by the hand.

'Mustn't cry.' she said, smiling. 'Your Uncle Ben has consented to take you in his house. That means you won't have to go to a home. I hope you realise how lucky you are.'

'I do!' he replied belligerently, but his chin trembled and he hung his head.

The lady clucked disapprovingly, and said she hoped he'd behave better than that when he went to live with Uncle Ben.

Then she took him there.

MONEY. Oh, yes, Paul learned all about money from Uncle Ben. The most important thing about money, Paul learned, was to grab as much of it as you possibly could, and never let any of it get away. There were other things you could learn in life— honesty, cleanliness— but they were incidental to the acquisition of money.

Paul stayed with Uncle Ben until he was seventeen. Then revulsion set in— and, without saying goodbye, he left Uncle Ben and Uncle Ben's money for ever.

It would be fine to say that Paul went out to seek his fortune, found it, and returned home to boot Uncle Ben in the seat of his mercenary wisdom. But that wouldn't be quite true. Because Paul became a first-class bum. He kept a job just long enough to pay for meals, a bed, and a little fun. Then he'd loaf for a while, and roam the country, and pick up another job, and then quit once again.

When he worked Paul worked well. There was no complaint on that score. Some of his employers promised him promotion in an effort to dig under his apathy. But the boy just smiled left-handedly— and quit when he wanted to. He was tall, awkward, and twenty when he married Sallie. She was tiny and very dark. She worked in a chain store.

After the wedding Sallie tried to reform her man. She talked about a permanent job and kids and a home. It sounded good to Paul— but he had been too badly scarred when he was nine ever to appreciate the fires of ambition again. So he continued to get jobs and to quit them. They were married eight years— eight years of ducking bills, and running out on landlords, and going hungry.

AND THEN, one morning, Paul received a telegram.

'Benjamin Trippit died this morning of natural causes,' it read. 'Will mentions you. Instructions. (Signed) Ebenezer Oshrin, Attorney.'

Paul heaved a sigh. 'This is it, hon,' he said. 'We're in.'

Sallie sat down hard.

'Are you going, east?' she said.

'Got to,' Paul returned, nonchalantly. 'Gotta collect my inheritance, don't I?' He shook his head. 'But first of all, come to think of it, I gotta get the dough for the train.'

They dug up the money all right. They sold a new rug on which eleven payments were owed, and they disposed of Sallie's frightened rabbit coat. They sold, borrowed, and promised until they had enough for one of them to go east.

It was Paul, of course, who went. And, as he left, he said:— 'Funny thing. The old buzzard ruined my life with his talk of money. He made me so I was no good for any regular job— and now he comes along and saves my bacon by dying and leaving the boodle to me.

'Funny thing.'

PAUL WAS GONE ten days. Sallie sweated out every moment of it. She didn't know whether she was fabulously rich, moderately rich, or whether they only had a few thousand.

Paul got off the train. And Sallie scanned his tired face.

'Well?' she said.

Paul chuckled.

'Dear Uncle Ben,' he announced, 'left me a picture. It was a portrait of himself done in oils. The will said he wanted me to take it wherever I went so that I would always be reminded of the lessons he had taught me about the value of money.'

Sallie gulped. 'But who did he leave his money to?'

Paul shrugged.

'Nobody.' he murmured. 'It turns out that he didn't have a dime. And before I left his lawyer talked me into selling the picture so that Uncle Ben could have a decent funeral!'

______________

89: Time and Tied

IT WAS VERY cold outside, and the bus was none too well heated. There were thirty people in a machine that had been built to hold twenty-four, and none of the passengers was exactly comfortable.

That was travel these days. A series of delays and discomforts. But Harry Barton accepted the situation calmly, for he was on his last lap to Thomasville. Going back, after all these years. Going back, precisely as he had said he would.

Thomasville had been Harry Barton's home He had grown op there, gone to school there, fallen in love there. He had fallen in love with Marjorie Thomas, whose father ran the town.

In those days Harry was young, brazen, afraid of nothing. Sure, Marjorie lived in that big mansion on the West Side while he slept in a shack near the mill. What of it?

So Harry had gone calling up at the big house to see Marjorie. He had kissed her under the portraits of the Thomas ancestors.

It had all been very wonderful. But it all came to a very abrupt halt the moment old man Thomas awakened to what was going on.

THE BUS groaned along and Harry grinned to himself. He could see the old man now, swelling up as though he might pop a blood vessel.

'It's the one thing I have always feared!" Herbert Thomas had ranted. "I knew some cheap fortune-hunter would try to marry my daughter— and now it's happened! How dare you, sir— you, a lowly mill hand!"

"You've got me all wrong. Mr. Thomas," he had pleaded. "I'm not interested in Marjorie's money. We're in love and we want to get married. And I wouldn't care if she didn't have ten cents in the world.

"You must be a very smart man. You wouldn't own most of this town if you weren't. But if you think I'm looking for some easy money, then— well, all I can say is that you don't know much about character. About my character, anyhow."

Herbert Thomas had fairly screamed at that point.

"How dare you, you young pup! How dare you! You get out of this house right now! Yes, and out of this town, too! If you don't you'll be a very sorry fellow!"

And old man Thomas wasn't kidding either. His words, although a bit hammy coming out were very real coming through. After a week of secret dating with Marjorie, Harry Barton found himself without a job.

"It's no use," he told her one night. "Nobody in Thomasville will hire me now. Your father has done a complete job, and I'll have to move on elsewhere. Will you come with me, Marjorie?"

It was Marjorie's big chance in life to be a heroine; to prove that love conquers all, even in Thomasville. But the kid lacked the moxie. She shook her bead, and clung to him, and sobbed weakly against his shoulder. "I want to. Harry," she cried. "I want to be with you all the time. But I can't make that decision. Harry. I can't go with you.

"I can't leave my mother and father. And he's convinced that you want to marry me only because of the money."

"But you know better." Harry was almost pathetic in his reply. "Ton can't feel that way, do you?"

"Oh, darling, don't even ask a question like that!" She held him very tightly. "I know you and father doesn't. But I can't hurt him, and it would break his heart if I married you. I can't. Harry. I just can't."

So they said goodbye that very night They were both young, Harry pointed out, and he would wait. In time Herbert Thomas would probably realise that he had misjudged Harry.

Well, Herbert Thomas was dead now, and Harry Barton was returning to Thomasville to get married. The old man had died some months ago, leaving the bulk of his fortune to his widow. Little money had gone to Marjorie, because, until he drew his final breath, Herbert Thomas had never lost his obsession about fortune-hunters.

But all those details no longer mattered to Harry. Shortly after the old man's death, he had visited Thomasville over a week-end. There had been an exchange of ardent letters ever since.

Thus, you can readily understand why the discomforts of this trip meant so little to Harry Barton. Much time had gone by, but this was finally to be his wedding day. His dream was about to be realised. He was going to take his bride from the big house on the West Side to the church down in the village. This was it.

With squeaking of brakes and one last convulsive shudder, the bus arrived in Thomasville. Harry didn't rush for the door with the other passengers. In-stead he moved over to a window and peered anxiously out at the slim crowd.

His eyes brightened. She was waiting for him! She caught sight of him at the window. She smiled happily and waved her hand. Harry made a dash for the door.

He took her hand, drew her back from the crowd, held her in his arms, and kissed her. She blushed a little and looked around to see if anyone had noticed them.

"You mustn't," she murmured. "Not yet, dearest." She was obviously nervous, troubled. "You see, I'm worried about how she's going to act when we tell her, and—"

"Forget it—" His voice was hard. "lf Marjorie doesn't like it, that's just too bad."

And he took the arm of Herbert Thomas's widow and led her away from the crowd.

_______________

90: In the Cards

IT WAS six o'clock, and Jimmy Lewis knew he had about five hours and three minutes to live.

At 11.3 they'd be finished strapping his legs, and his arms, and his chest He'd be licking his lips and gripping the arms of the chair. He'd be bracing himself for the horrible thunderbolt that would crash through his body. As he sat there, he was thinking back along the glittering road that had brought him to the Death House.

He was starting at the beginning and working himself along when he looked up. A guard peered in.

'How do you feel, kid?'

'Bad.'

The guard smiled. It was obvious that he was trying to be very friendly. 'Aw, don't be like that,' he said. 'Anything can happen up to eleven.'

'Thanks, fella.'

'Look, kid,' the guard went on. 'I came here for a special reason. You got five hours left, and I figured— well, I figured—'

JIMMY Lewis had been a bright kid. He had a keen mind and a great love for fun. At the age of thirteen he first rifled a deck of greasy cards in an alley. Four kids were with him, and they had their pennies on the concrete walk.

'It's awful simple,' Jimmy was saying. 'I give you five cards and you kids try to match 'em up. Like two nines, or kings, or anythin'. Or all hearts or clubs, like that, seven, eight, nine.

'It's so easy a baby can play it. You just match 'em up, and, what you don't need you throw away. I'll give you some in place of 'em. Then we bet who has the best, and I'll tell you who wins.' Jimmy generally won.

He grew to love poker. It distressed his mother. She was a stout, perspiring woman, who seldom left the house. She had seven mouths to feed— and she had little time off from her life's job. Occasionally she would beat Jimmy for playing cards. And then, later, she'd weep.

'I done everythin' to break you of the habit,' she often told him. 'But still you play. What's the matter with you, boy? Don't you know it'll be the death of you some day?

'Gamblin' is mad. Ain't a gambler ever lived who came to a good end. Why don't you stop? Just for me, Jimmy, lad.'

Jimmy promised, of course. Many times.

But cards fascinated him beyond everything else in life— and he grew up to play in back rooms and pool parlors.

Sometimes he won. Sometimes he lost: Once, when he won a lot, he opened a little place on his own. A heavily curtained little spot where people come and play cards. The place prospered, and, from deft customers who drifted in and out, he learned all the tricks of poker. He learned how to deal from the bottom; how to drop one from the sleeve when necessity arose; how to run in a cold deck when the picker grew too lucky.

Then, in spite of all his knowledge, he lost his place. He plunged too heavily one night with a player who was wiser than he. In two hours, he had lost everything it had taken him years to achieve. So he began to deal for other men. He worked in a number of spots, always gambling for the house. He was doing fairly well when his mother called him home unexpectedly. It was the first time he had seen her in years. He found her in bed.

'I'm goin' to die,' she said simply.

'Don't talk like that,' he said.

'I'm goin' to die,' she repeated tiredly, 'and I've made my peace with God. All I ask now is that you stop gamblin'. Promise me that you'll stop.'

'I promise.'

'You won't stop.'

'Sure I will, mom.'

'You won't stop.'

'All right then. I won't.'

'It'll be the death of you, Jimmy lad.'

'All right, mom. I swear I'll stop. I mean it this time. Now, promise me you'll get well.'

The woman smiled wanly. 'I can promise that Jimmy lad,' she said, 'just as well as you can promise to quit gamblin'. Because neither one of us will keep it.'

She died a few days later— and Jimmy went back to his cards. He saved his money, and it wasn't long before he again had enough to open another little place of his own. All went well until the big night. The big night started the same as all other nights. Then three cheap racketeers came in. They wanted to play poker, so Jimmy played with them. He played on the level, and he lost more than he could afford. So, in desperation, he began to deal from the bottom. He felt that he had to do it. For four of his deals he got away with it very nicely. Then one of the tough guys spotted him.

The argument began. Then the boys began to throw things. There was a terrific racket and a lot of smoke. When it cleared, Jimmy Lewis stood alone with his gun in his hand. At his feet was one of the racketeers— dead.

The trial was short, and not very sweet. Jimmy Lewis was convicted and sentenced to die. The attorney, appointed by the State, didn't work too hard on the appeal. There wasn't much publicity in a small gambler who had killed a petty racketeer. Jimmy went to the Death House.

He sat there day after day. thinking of how fast he was rocketing to his final hour. And thinking of his mother, lying in her grave and murmuring, 'Well, I warned ya, Jimmy lad. I warned ya.'

In thought, he travelled the road of his life every day. He went over it again and again and again. So many things became clear now. Clear as tropical seas after a storm. He was still thinking when the guard came along.

'Go on,' said Jimmy. 'Speak up, fella. You said you came here for a special reason?'

The guard nodded. 'Yeah,' he replied. 'Like I said, you only got five hours left. I got an okay from the front office— and I figured it might take your mind off things if we whiled away the time by playing a little poker.'

________________

91: Misunderstanding

AT the hotel window, Laura Banks sat watching the gold of afternoon melt into the ink of night. It was Paris, but it meant nothing any longer. To Laura it was just another city. Any city.

She had been here four weeks, and they had been like four months in a chamber of horrors. She looked down at the squat, walking figures— but she didn't see them. She lighted a cigarette, and then left it between her fingers, forgotten.

Even in the leaden darkness you could see she was beautiful. Actually beautiful. She had form and face. Her hair was the color of polished brass. Her skin was velvet. Her eyes were like Bermuda pools. If you were an artist you would be content merely to sit and look at her. But, for Laura Banks, life was on the verge of ending. For tomorrow she would be divorced from the man she loved.

SHE turned to George. In the dark she could see him only vaguely. George, with that left eyebrow arched so that it always asked a question.

'Tomorrow,' she said softly. 'To-morrow, my dear George, is the end.'

She turned back to the window. Dramatics were out of her line. 'Divorce sounds so terribly final. I mean the word itself. It's just a little like death.' She tried to chuckle, but the sound rattled in her throat.

'I must have read that somewhere. I couldn't have thought it up myself. You always said I was slightly dumb, George.

'Oh, well. There's no use being silly about it, I suppose. We talked it all over at home a long time ago. We just don't get along. 'The only time we ever get along at all is when we think the end is close. Then we hold each other tightly and cry like kids who are lost in the woods.

'It's better this way. Anyhow, thousands of couples get divorces— and they live through them. They make new friends, and new loves, find new marriages, and everything winds up nicely.' She grinned. 'I can imagine myself meeting you five years from now.

' "Why, Mr. Banks," I'll cry. "fancy meeting you here! I want you to meet my husband, Count Scriggens. Count, this is my first husband. He's married to a fat washerwoman now, and he has two brats who ought to be in reform-school!" '

She waited for the laugh. None came. She sat down, placed her head against the back of the chair, and closed her eyes.

'Oh, George,' she cried, 'I don't want the divorce. I swear to God I don't. I can't keen a poker face any longer. I love you, and I'll always love vou. I can't help myself. If we're divorced, I'll go mad trying to keep my mind occupied with other things. I'll go crazy at nights, thinking you're with somebody else. I'll want to kill you every time I think you're happy without me.

'I can't help myself. George. I just can't. I'm tired of playing this so-called smart game of keeping a stiff upper lip. I'm in love with the man I'm divorcing. George Don't vou understand?'

HE SAT there, listening to the cabs and watching the lights go on in the hotel across the way. He tried to say something, but he found it difficult to utter words that would describe the way he felt. He looked at Laura. She stared back. He threw a switch, and the lights went on.

He walked up and down the floor, his lower lip thrust out belligerently. 'It wouldn't have happened, Laura,' he said. 'It couldn't have happened if you hadn't been so— well, so stupid. Why did you have to flirt with other men in order to make me jealous? Why did I have to be jealous at all?

'Wasn't it enough that I loved you? Seemingly not. You had to season love with a little jealousy. You thought it might make me love you all the more. You took your cues from the movies.'

He kept walking up and down, up and down. And as he walked he talked. 'Then that night you got drunk at Lynn's Cafe and insisted on dancing. That was a lovely dance all right.

'I tried to stop you, and you made a scene. Your gown was hanging in shreds when you were finished. Oh, it was lovely. Yes, indeed.

'Oh, well, I don't know why I'm bringing up an this stuff now. It doesn't make sense to kick something that's dying, does it? We should be crying at this point, as we always do. But I'm out of tears. Or, maybe, I'm beyond them!

'Tomorrow, it's all over. We'll all be free. And, by the way, Laura, it's customary to celebrate. You'd better represent both of us on the celebration because I'm not up to it.

'I love you.' He nodded, and then he shrugged. 'But that doesn't really mean anything any more, does it? It's just a phrase for us to throw at each other. Our divorce is all set.

'It's too late to reconcile— so you'll be spared that old and familiar scene. It was cute at first, but it isn't even funny now. I don't know why I'm talking like this, and I don't know why I continue to walk up and down.'

He turned to her. He stood still. 'I might as well tell you the absolute truth, Laura,' he said softly. 'I love you with all my heart. As long as I live. I'll never love anyone else.

'I'd give everything I own to go back five years and start all over again. I'd give my right eye to try again, and to have things work out differently. It's too late, my dear!'

'It's too late.'

IN her hotel room in Paris, she picked up his framed photograph and kissed it. And he stared helplessly at her picture in his hotel room in New York.

__________________

92: Farewell to Fame

THIS is the case history of a horrible ham. It could be stretched into a novel, or a movie. But we haven't time for that. So we'll just change the man's real name to Harry, clean the yarn up a bit, and serve it for what it's worth. Which probably isn't much.

Harry's career, it you wish to call it that, began some twenty-five years ago in a small Eastern town. A minor stock company made the mistake of playing there for a few weeks; and Harry busied himself round the theatre, doing odd jobs. When the company moved on, Harry made up his mind to move on with it.

A lack of funds didn't stymie him for long. He forged his aunt's name to a sizable cheque and blew town, feeling fairly certain that auntie wouldn't prosecute her dead sister's son. He was correct.

So Harry went on his way, spending the savings of a woman who had been kind to him, and living the life of a first-rate heel among second-rate actors. It wasn't long before he had an acting job with the company one night, when the juvenile lead was too drunk to show up, Harry stepped into his role, and did passably well. The juvenile was fired, and Harry was a hero. Very few people ever knew that Harry had supplied the original quart that started the juvenile on his drinking bout.

A couple of years of this stock work and Harry landed on Broadway. He didn't work too much nor too hard, but he managed to get by. Then he met an ambitious young lady who doubled between the chorus line and a night club., spot. And since she was making enough to support them both, he saw no harm in marrying her.

The marriage ended when Harry went to Hollywood. The talkies were just coming in, and any actor who could put two words together without stuttering was regarded as something of a genius. So Harry packed the clothes his wife had bought him, and told her to buy herself a divorce. He was quite generous about it, too. He assured her there were no hard feelings

Harry didn't do too badly in the movies. For a while he worked rather steadily. Personally, however, he was never very popular. He made too many passes at other guy's lasses. And he wasn't above reaching for a bit of blackmail when a husband wasn't too husky.

AFTER an absence of some fifteen years, Harry went back to his home town for a short visit. He was delighted to find himself a great celebrity, a giant fish in a usually placid lake. And at a dinner party one evening he met Dora Wilson, who was the wife of the richest man in town. In most respects Dora was a sane and sensible young woman. But the poor girl was movie-crazy. And when Harry bent over her hand and gave her routine number six with the soulful eyes, poor Dora was a finished female.

Later, when Harry was back on the Coast, Dora wrote him all the time. At first he paid little attention to her letters. But Harry was now getting much less work than ever before. And as the producers grew colder and Dora's letters grew warmer, Harry began to consider the lady seriously

HE was no longer satisfied in Hollywood. He decided it was time to retire— quite naturally, on someone else's money. And Dora's husband was the logical victim.

Harry phoned Dora and told her he loved her. Then he outlined a divorce plan for her, advising her how to involve both her husband and his innocent secretary. In that way, he pointed out, there was bound to be a substantial amount of alimony. Which they would, of course, one day give to charity.

Because she was genuinely in love, Dora followed his instructions. She obtained her divorce and plenty of money. And Harry made certain he could get his hands on it whenever he wanted it. So he came back to the small town, and he and Dora were married. He enjoyed the stares of the natives, and he liked being sought after.

When anyone mentioned the career he had given up, he smiled ironically.

'Hollywood!' he would say in disgust. 'Don't mention it to me. I'm so glad to be away from there!'

ONE NIGHT, after they had been married a year or so, Dora asked Harry point blank just what it was that he had against Hollywood. 'I know you love me, dear,' she said, 'but that alone wouldn't make you give up your acting career. 'Just why was it that you left the movies? Surely you can tell me now.'

Harry shrugged.

'I'll be happy to tell you,' he replied. 'I was no longer satisfied in Hollywood. I felt my talent was going to waste They're a hunch of stupid oafs out there, my dear, and they insisted on casting me in the same type of role in every picture.

'So, eventually, I quit.' He waved a hand. 'I just couldn't go on the rest of my life,' he sighed, 'playing the part of a heel.'

________________

93: Moment of Decision

SHE knew there was no point in asking him. He had a cigar stuck in his face. It slanted upward.

His thin old face was creased with a big grin. This was all very new. He hadn't smiled stace he first took sick some two years ago. And he hadn't smoked since the doctor ordered him not to.

So there was really no sense asking him if he had sold the house. She knew. She knew it with all the varied emotions you'd expect In a woman of sixty-four who had been born in the front room upstairs.

No use hurrying. He could never be rushed into telling the news. After all the times she had sat and waited for him to tell something of importance in their lives, she knew he would talk only when he was good and ready.

So now she got up and kissed him on the cheek. Then she bustled out into the kitchen to turn the gas up under the vege-table soup, and to set the plates on the old table, and to shake the salt cellar on to the back of her hand to make sure it wasn't empty.

He took off his coat and came into the kitchen, sniffing the soup and rubbing the cold out of his hands. She set the steaming plate in front of him.

"Eat this while it's hot, John," she said. "It'll put marrow in your bones."

She had been saying that for forty-one years. And before that, as a child and growing girl, her mother bad said it to her. In this same house. In this very same kitchen.

Some twenty minutes later, when he had finished eating, he relit his cigar and settled back in his chair.

"I've got news, Martha," he announced, "I've sold the house."

She tried to act surprised.

"Sold the house?" she echoed. "Really, John?"

"Well," he said, trying to mask his happiness, "it's not exactly closed yet. But I have an appointment to meet that young couple in the lawyer's office in the morning, and well sign everything then."

She said nothing. Her tired fingers searched the edge of the old tablecloth. Her eyes were down. He looked at her— and he felt his happiness die.

For this woman, whom he called wife since the turn of the century, this woman had been born here. All her babies had been born here. There had been three of these babies. One had died of diphtheria. Another was born too tired and wanted to remain asleep. He had. And George, who grew into young manhood, had come back home, gassed in the big war. He had shouted and cursed his last agonies through these very walls.

And now John was selling this house. These ancient twelve rooms. The lawn, with the dusty grey hammock between oaks. The vines, which had embraced every corner of the stone house for so many years. The decrepit trunks in the attic, with mementoes that would make any stranger laugh.

Yes, John was selling it. And why? Well, because a doctor who knew nothing ot memories, a man of cold science, had talked very plainly. Because a doctor had said you will go to California and live perhaps ten years, or you will stay here and live perhaps four months.

That's why he was selling the house. He hadn't told Martha what the doctor had said. That is, not exactly. He merely said that the doctor recommended the Californian climate

She didn't know it was California, or an early grave.

He watched her finger the tablecloth,

"Martha—"

"Yes, John?"

"I can tell by your expression," he said quiely, "You don't want me to sell it."

She looked up quickly.

"Oh, yes, John?" she cried. "Why not? This old place has outgrown us. It's so big that we—" she made a helpless motion with ber hands— "that we rattle in it."

"You don't want to sell it," he repeated slowly.

"I do." she replied. I'm really sick of it. Makes me feel old just to look at it"

He got up from the table. The erin had gone. The cigar drooped. He wpndered now if be ought to close the deal. He wondered if anything— yes, even his life— was more important than this woman's peace of mind.

As they prepared for bed he asked her again. Sbe had stood there, thin and old and fiat in her cotton nightgown. She had said yes, emphatically. She had gives reasons. But he hadn't believed any of them

He was sure she was saying yes only because of his health.

He crawled into bed, but he couldn't sleep. He knew he didn't want die. He wasn't really afraid, but be knew she'd be alone. Really alone.

Thus he felt selfish about selling the house so that he might live by moving to California

Sleep came suddenly, and it was a deep sleep. He awakened early, and be saw that she was still sleeping.

He still hadn't made up his mind. He got up quietly, and looked at Martha. He saw the thin face, the sparse white hair. And then he saw the damp pillow.

That settled it. The tears on that pillow made up his mind for him. He would not sell the house. Not under any circumstances. He could not do this to the woman who had stood by his side through the years.

He dressed and went downstairs. He made himself a cup of coffee and two pieces of toast. And then he hurried downtown and told the young couple that he was awfully sorry, that he wasn't going to sell

IT WAS probably an hour or so later that Martha got up. She smiled faintly at the spot where he had slept, and she thought how fine he was to get up without disturbing her

She made the bed. She looked closely at the pillow on which she had slept. And her face creased with annoyance.

"That woman lied to me," she cried aloud. "She promised me that face cream was guaranteed not to stain— and look at that pillow!"

__________________

94: Fearless

IN the shadow of a poplar, Fred Brown stood and stared straight ahead. His unblinking eyes watched the old-fashioned house at the head of the flagstone walk.

The trees on the lawn stood transfixed in the night. Not a leaf turned in the air. A crescent moon stood still in the indigo sky, like a Viking boat becalmed. Fred studied every one of the dark windows. He had been watching the place for ten minutes, maybe fifteen. And in that time, he hadn't moved so much as an inch.

Now, satisfied that no one was awake inside, he moved diagonally toward the porch, still keeping within the long pencil shadow of the tree. When he was half-way, he heard a cry.

He stopped suddenly. He held his breath. He waited. Then it came again. It was the cry of a baby, somewhere off to the right. This time, the cry was softer— and soon it died completely. Fred Brown stared at the house again. It was still silent. So, once more, he moved forward. Slowly, ever so slowly. And. as he trod the grass, half his mind was on the job before him. The other half dwelled upon his childhood— when he first planned a life of crime.

THE task of bringing Fred Brown to manhood had been a most difficult assignment. His mother had grown haggard and grey long before her time— and all because she was trying to make her boy upright and honest. His father had tried just as hard to do something with Fred. Only he lacked the patience of his wife. Often, when he tired of reasoning with the boy, he slapped him so hard that he almost fell.

At nine, Fred Brown's hero was Jesse James. He once stood up in class and solemnly stated that Jesse James was a far greater man than Abraham Lincoln, hwis teacher sent him home with a note— and Fred Brown wasn't able to sit properly for a week.

Later, his literature changed and he came to be a great admirer of Blackie the Bank Bandit. Blackie's technique was far superior to those heroes of Fred's yesteryear. Blackie's forté was outwitting the stupid police, who always fell over each other in their silly efforts to nab the Bold Bank Bandit.

When adolescence came, Fred Brown made a scrapbook of crime. Other boys of his age played baseball. He played burglar in front of a mirror.

His father seldom beat him any more, because it did little good. But his mother never gave up. She wept and pleaded with Fred to be a good boy. She made extra desserts for him. She even gave him money she could ill afford to hand out. Nothing, however, had any effect on the youth.

He had already very definitely decided his career. He knew that he might have fun for years, outwitting the police. Oh, yes. He knew that in the long run the odds were tremendously against him. He knew very well that he'd be caught some day. But, after weighing the odds, he decided the game was worth the scandal. He wanted to be like his heroes. He wanted to pull terrifying jobs— and then read the next day that the police were 'baffled.' That was what he wanted most of all. The chance to prove that he was just about the smartest crook that ever lived.

How his father and mother made him continue his education, no one will ever know. But, somehow or other, they managed it. And when Fred Brown left school after mastering the intricacies of double entry book keeping, his father had a last talk with him.

'I can only hope, my son,' he said solemnly, 'that you've outgrown the idea of being a criminal. Plenty of children— boys especially— think they're going to be big, bad outlaws. But almost all of them forget the notion when they grow up.'

Fred Brown fidgeted. 'Pop,' he murmured, 'if you'll promise to stop talking, I'll tell you something you'll like. Will you promise?'

His father nodded.

'Well, Pop,' said his son, 'I guess I was all wrong about that criminal stuff. It's silly, and I know it now. I'm going out, and I'm gonna do my level best to get a good job.

'And now will you leave me alone for a while, huh, Pop?'

Pop left him alone, and Pop was very happy. What Pop didn't know was that his son had lied: that he hadn't changed his mind at all.

NOW he approached the house stealthily and surveyed the sides, Fine. No lights. Everything perfect. He looked around him once again, felt the porch rail, and hoisted himself upward. He was just scaling the railing when he heard the sound of a motor.

He stopped dead, pressing downward on the rail.

In a moment two buttery-coloured beams swept in an arc over the lawn. They settled on Fred Brown for a moment, and then passed on. He breathed again, but his relief was short-lived. The car backed up— he could tell by the rasping gears— and the beams reversed. They flooded his figure with light, and stopped.

Fred Brown remained absolutely motionless. He prayed that, against the background of night, he looked like a bundle of old rags— or a mop. Then, suddenly, he could hear feet crunching on the gravel. He felt as though the end of the world had come.

THE cops settled comfortably in the squad car and started off. They headed downtown toward police headquarters. In the dim light of the dashboard, you could see them peering to right and left.

'Know Fred Brown?' asked the first cop.

The other cop shook his head.

'Well,' observed the first one. 'he sure hands me a laugh.'

'Yeah?' returned the other. 'I don't see why. He didn't look so funny back there on that porch.'

The first cop waved a hand. 'That's 'cause you don't know the case,' he grinned. 'He's the sillybilly that works down at the National Bank. His wife is his boss.

'She won't even give him a key— and every time he comes home after eleven o'clock, be has to crawl in through a window so that she won't wake up and give him hell!'

__________________

95: Hollywood Break

THE two men sat in a booth toward the rear of the Hollywood Brown Derby. There was a buzz of conversation throughout the room and, here and there, there was laughter. It was the usual Hollywood laughter, about one-tenth sincere.

Sidney knew that Henry Williams wanted to talk. He knew it by Henry's quiet, mellow voice— by the untouched food growing cold— by the elbows-on-table gesture. He knew it by that attitude of enjoying the sound of their own voices that some conversationalists have.

So Sidney let him talk. Sidney ate roast beef with great relish, looking up spasmodically at Henry Williams like a chicken eating corn. Sidney made a fine audience for an actor like Henry Williams. Because Sidney could listen well at any time— but twice as well when he had something to eat ....

"NOTHING" Henry was saying, "ever came to me easily. All my life I had to work hard for every dollar. No one ever did me a favor without sweating it back out of me sooner or later. No agent ever gave me a break with-out getting plenty in return for it.

"Through all the years I spent on Broadway, I was never handed a decent part without some sort of struggle. The bald truth is that I have slaved for everything I ever got."

Sidney thought it about time to say something.

"Me, too," he stated, as he worked on the boiled potatoes.

He had them mashed down finely, had put a gentle rain of pepper and salt on them, had smoothed them off to a glassy yellow finish with butter, and was now in the process of mixing the result like cement.

"Yeah. Me, too."

Henry Williams drummed the table.

"Suddenly," he mused, "a break does come my way. After almost ten years, in Hollywood, I am handed a decent role in a film. In two weeks, the picture will be released and I know it cannot miss. My face will be in newspapers and magazines; critics will speak of a new star.

"And what does it all matter?" He opened the palms of his hands in a gesture of futility. My wife left this morning for Arizona, and— "

He stopped abruptly as Sidney almost dropped his fork. "What's that, Henry?" he cried.

"You mean that Rose went to Arizona? I can't believe it! I thought the doctor said she was okay."

Henry Williams smiled sadly.

"A little gadget called the X-ray said the doctor was a liar."

The smile was now all on one side of his face.

"I told you nothing ever came easy to me. As an actor, I never did too well— but I was happy. I was eating and sleeping, and that was more than a lot of actors could say."

Sidney was still thinking of the news. "Holy smokes!" he muttered. "Rose in Arizona!"

"Oh, the doctor said it will only be for a year," said Henry Williams. "So I'm not worrying too much. Rose will be back." He nodded. "I know she'll be all right, Sid. The only bad feature is getting a bad break like this just when my big picture is coining out.

"You don't know how we slaved to get into pictures. You don't know how we planned, and bought big estates and yachts, and salted away millions— and all the while we didn't have more than ten dollars between us."

Sidney shook his head. "When she got the news about going away," he asked, "did she cry much?"

"Of course she cried. And so did I. How can you help a thing like that? Twenty-two years together, all of them a struggle.

"And just when the big break is coming along and the fan magazines are sending reporters to ask you how you like your eggs— well, who wouldn't cry?"

Sidney was trying to find a few words of comfort. "A year isn't so much," was all he could think of.

Henry Williams snorted.

"No, it isn't much," be rasped. "It's just 365 days, times 24 hours, times 60 minutes, times 60 seconds. No, a year isn't much. It just passes by briefly— like death."

"Don't be sarcastic," said Sidney.

Henry Williams waved a tired hand. "I'm not sarcastic," he returned. "It's just that you don't understand.

"Suddenly a break does come my way... And what does it matter— my wife left this morning for Arizona.

"If only you knew how we leaped into Hollywood when talkies came in. And when I say leaped, I mean just that. There were very few of them who knew how to talk out here. They all had faces, gorgeous faces. But no talk.

"We leaped in, because we thought we were going to clean up. They needed actors; stage people from Broadway. People who didn't have gorgeous faces but could open their months. Real actors.

"Well, you know what happened. It took years and years of struggling; struggling that was just as tough as I ever knew it on Broadway, and sometimes tougher.

"And all of a sudden, when I thought it was never coming, the name of Henry Williams goes into big type as the actor of the hour." He shrugged, and half-smiled at Sidney again. "Then I get my rotten break," he went on, "and I have to talk to somebody about it.

"I pick on you, and I guess I'm being pretty boring."

"You're not boring me at all," said Sidney defensively. "You know I think the world of you and Rose. Lord, I'd do anything for you both.

"But what can I do for a man who'll be world famous in two weeks?"

"Yes, sir," said Henry Williams cynically. "It's fame, all right. This is my cue to go into something Shakespearian about fame. But I won't. It's a bad cue, and obvious.

"I'm thinking now of the simpler things of life. I'm thinking of myself as I stood on the platform just as the train pulled out. I'm thinking of how I stood there, with my hat in my hand, and crying like a baby.

"That's what I'm thinking of, Sidney."

Sidney looked at the other man.

"Listen, Henry," he stated with finality. "You've got to be sensible about this. She'll come back in another year and she'll be a new woman. She'll feel like a million.

"And that's certainly better than having her with you for another year or two, and then seeing her slide off the end of life."

"Sure," returned Henry Williams. "I agree with you. It isn't that, though. It's the terrible break I got."

Sidney appeared puzzled. "I don't follow you," he said. "We both agree it could be much worse. At least, she's coming back to you."

Henry Williams seemed a bit annoyed.

"You've got me all wrong, Sidney," he said. "It's not Rose's going away that has me crazy. That had to be.

"But while I was standing on the station platform, with my hat, in my hand and crying, some photographer had to see me and shoot my picture.

"And because of the excitement, it was the first time in many years that I had forgotten to wear my toupee!"

______________________

96: The Final Word

WALTER SCRUGGES was the smartest man in the world. There couldn't be much doubt about it, because he admitted it himself.

To him, all other humans were stupid fools. When he was scarcely out of his teens, he summed up his chances of becoming wealthy in a legitimate manner. He decided those chances were very slim, indeed, and he immediately devoted his brain to the task of committing the perfect crime. Anything short of perfection, of course, wouldn't suit him at all.

So, after awhile, he got himself a minor job with a chemical dye firm. And he began to plan the prettiest of all robberies.

The task wasn't as easy as Walter Scrugges had believed. He had such an unholy contempt, for his bosses that promotions came very slowly. And it took him ten long years to get into the cashier's cage as second assistant. He had fretted impatiently through the years, but he knew now that the big moment wasn't far away. As second assistant, he would handle cash. Once a week, he would handle heavy sums. Some week, it would turn out to be an unusually heavy sum. And that week he would disappear.

For a long time, he had muttered 'silly morons' at the world in general— and here, at last, he could say it with genuine conviction. For the world was puttinig him in a spot where he could grab a juicy stake and scram. Thus, very dutifully, he took the cash to the bank once a week. Very dutifully, too, he returned to the office. After ten weary years, Walter Scrugges could afford to wait just a little longer. He wanted the kitty to be good and fat, because everything else was in readiness for the perfect crime. Even the hideout.

One morning, suddenly, it happened. The cashier handed him the all-important bag. 'Careful with this bag today, Walter,' the cashier said. 'It has forty-one thousand in it.'

Walter smiled a little. He didn't speak, but his eyes said 'silly morons.' He walked out with the bag. And he didn't come back.

YES, MY friends, it was as easy as that. Walter just walked out, and he kept on walking. He took a cab to a false destination, double-tracked to the railroad station, bought a ticket for a certain town— and then boarded an entirely different train without a ticket and paid the conductor. He got off at still another spot and proceeded by bus. Arriving in the town he had selected, he went immediately to the little bungalow he had rented some time before. And there he relaxed.

In the morning he donned his disguise. Said disguise was a moustache and goatee he had purchased a long time before? and It was a disguise he had worn whenever he had appeared in the small town.

Then Walter Scrugges, with a slight smile on his face, went out and bought the papers.

The story was there, all right. Big, too. The police, he read, were watching every exit from the city in the hope of catching him. This time he grinned.

'Silly morons,' he muttered... again and again. 'Silly morons!'

Until it died out, Walter followed the story very closely. He never left the bungalow without his moustache and goatee, and he lived quite happily. Whenever he wanted excitement, he counted his stolen money.

One afternoon, he walked into the small post office to get some magazines. There, hung on the wall, was a reward poster.

Walter Scrugges saw his clean-shaven face, and a $2,000 reward offer just beneath it. The poster gave an accurate description of him, and Walter almost guffawed as he studied the picture. It looked nothing like him now.

'Silly morons,' he said softly. 'Silly morons.' He stroked his phoney moustache and goatee tenderly, and walked out of the post office

Walter spent money slowly, for he was going to make his haul last a good many years. He bought groceries, and tobacco, and, now and then, a bottle of wine. But that was all. When women smiled at him, as they did occasionally in the village streets, he ducked as though he was veering away from an atomic bomb.

Everything, then, was perfection— until the fatal day. That was the day the two men walked into his bungalow and flashed their badges.

'Get ready, Scrugges,' they told him. 'You're coming with us.'

He glared at them and told them they were nuts. He said he wasn't Walter Scrugges. One of the men reached over swiftly and removed the false moustache and goatee.

Whereupon Walter shrugged— and confessed.

'You've got me,' he admitted. 'But I don't understand. My crime was perfect. How did you ever find me?'

The deputy sheriff grinned.

'It turned out to be easy,' he replied. 'Some dope in the village, with nothing better to do, pencilled a moustache and goatee on your post office picture. Just some silly moron!'

_______________

97: Road to Romance

THE HOTEL, just outside of Reno, was crowded with women. All kinds of women. Stout, tall, short, lean, old, young. And tney all had one thing in common. They were waiting out the required time of residence before securing a divorce.

All of them talked on, and on, and on. They talked about their husbands who would soon be ex-husbands. They talked about their plans for the future. They talked about the men they expected to marry. Most of them laughed a great deal, too, when they were trying to impress one another. But seldom when they were alone.

One of the few quiet women was Evelyn Jones. Except for the fact that she was there for the usual reason, no one knew much about her. Which is a rarity in a hotel filled with women.

At any rate, during, the final week of her stay, Evelyn became friendly with a little blonde named Margie. Margie was far from reticent, and she asked many a question. But she seemed more honest than the others, and Evelyn rather liked her. So, the night before her petition was to come up in court, Evelyn found herself telling Margie the story of her marriage. All of it.

She told Margie about Albert, who had been a kind and devoted husband for almost ten years. A good man, Evelyn admitted; no woman could ask for a better one. But very, very dull.

'In spite of his dullness, however,' Evelyn said thoughtfully, 'I would probably have stayed married to Albert. That is, if I hadn't met Steve.'

'Yes,' cried Margie excitedly. 'I know just what you mean. There comes a time in every woman's life when she meets a Steve.'

'I wouldn't know about that,' Evelyn shrugged. 'But I do know that Steve is everything that Albert isn't. He's— well, he's sort of dashing. He's lived. He's been everywhere. I guess he's what you'd call sophisticated. Long before I met Steve my marriage to Albert had gone flat. His idea of pleasure was an armchair and a book. Know what I mean?'

Margie waved a hand. 'Know what you mean?' she repeated. 'I should. I inarried three men just like him!'

Evelyn smiled. 'Anyhow,' she went on, 'Steve fell in love with me the first time we met. I was in love with him, too, before very long. And after a few months he began to urge me to divorce Albert and marry him.

'I told Steve I couldn't do that. I admitted Albert was dull— but he was also kind and trusting. And I didn't want to hurt him.

' "If Albert didn't love me," I told Steve, "if he were at all dissatisfied with our life together, I wouldn't hesitate. But he isn't."

' "Right," Steve said, in his wonderful way, "then we'll make him dissatisfied. We'll work on him so that he'll be the one who wants the divorce. What's his weakness— money, women?"

'I told Steve he didn't know Albert. In the ten years we were together I never heard Albert complain about missing anything. Except, perhaps, the opportunity to travel. He had often said that, if he were free, he'd like to visit South America. That was all Steve needed. He began to drop into our home two or three nights a week, and he'd always talk of the beauties of South America.

'As I told you, Albert was a trusting soul. He'd listen hungrily while Steve told stories of the South America he knew so well.

' "Too bad you're married," Steve would tell him. "A man can have a lot of fun when he's not tied down. Imagine yourself making a trip to South America! Boy, what you're missing!"

'Well, the more Steve talked, the more dissatisfied Albert became. I saw him grow cranky and discontented for the first time. And I knew he was beginning to regret he had married before he'd had a chance to take a look at the world.

'Finally it worked out just as Steve and I had hoped. Albert and I had a serious quarrel and I suggested a divorce. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" I asked, as I saw his eyes brighten.

'Albert didn't hesitate at all. "I guess I could stand it," he said. "And I can assure you I won't sit round and mourn. And if you go to Reno, I'll take the first boat to South America." '

Evelyn paused.

'So that's it, Margie,' she said. 'That's why I'm out her now. And that's the whole story.'

Margie's eyes were large with admiration. 'Gee,' she said. 'That's a wonderful story. I'll bet you'll marry Steve the minute you're free, and I don't blame you. He certainly convinced your husband that marriage wasn't so much, didn't he?'

Evelyn nodded slowly. 'He was convincing, all right,' she replied. 'Trouble is, he talked so much about a man being free that he began to believe it himself.' She shrugged helplessly. 'I had a wire from Steve this morning. He's sailing for South America on the same ship with Albert!'

___________

98: The Wedding

THEY RUSHED for the cab as rice cascaded from their shoulders. They slammed the door and shouted the name of a hotel to the driver.

Through the window they could see the crowd and the minister who was still smiling a benediction in the church doorway.

'My oh my,' said George. 'I'm sure glad that's over.'

Mollie said nothing. She was busy picking the rice froiri her hair. George picked up her hand and kissed it. 'You're a very grand guy,' he said.

She wrinkled her nose at him. 'You're sort of nice yourself,' she smiled. 'Suppose you tell me more about it after breakfast.

They walked into the quiet dining room and selected a table behind the palm fronds. Mollie scanned the menu. 'I'm really starved,' she said. 'But I never can find anything I want when I first look at a menu.'

'Take your time, dear,' George spoke softly. 'It was a grand wedding, wasn't it?'

'Swell,' Mollie replied. 'And I'm proud of myself, too. I wasn't a bit nervous.'

'Says you!' cried George. 'If you weren't nervous, then you'd better see a doctor in a hurry. Because you've got the ague, or something. I could feel your arm trembling.'

'Nothing of the kind. It was just a bit chilly in the church, that's all.'

She grinned and turned to the waiter. 'I'll have some melon, bacon and eggs and coffee. The bacon well done.'

'Suits me,' said George to the waiter. 'Make it two.'

They stared at each other.

'Well,' she said dramatically, 'it's over.'

'Yes.' He nodded. 'It's over — and it was very beautiful. And wasn't that minister a fine man?'

They were silent for a moment. Then— 'Did you love Gertrude?' Mollie asked suddenly.

'Huh?' George was obviously startled. 'What did you say?'

'I asked you about Gertrude,' repeated Mollie evenly. 'Did you love her, George?'

He scowled at the melon the waiter set before him. 'That question is not in the very best of taste. But if you must know— the answer is yes.'

'I knew it,' Mollie said, without elation. 'Do you— do you still love her?'

George leaned forward in his chair. 'I'll never know why you brought this subject up at this particular time,' he replied. 'But you asked a question, and you're going to get a truthful answer. I was crazy about Gertrude. I'll always feel a little funny inside when I see her. But I promise you, dear, that she'll never know it.'

Mollie regarded him solemnly. 'As long as we're having this very strange heart-to-heart, I'm going to tell you something, George. I still have a bruise left by Harry.'

He laughed, but the laugh carried no mirth. 'There's not much news in that, honey,' he observed. 'Talk about me and Gertrude! You loved Harry very much, didn't you?'

'The answer is yes,' Mollie sighed. 'But why do we keep on talking like this? it's not the usual thing after the wedding, is it?'

'You started it, dear,' George reminded quietly.

'Yes,' she admitted, 'I started it because I wanted to sink the harpoon about you and Gertrude. And I only did it because I felt so badly about Harry.'

He hesitated, then placed a hand on hers. 'What do you say we forget the whole conversation?' he suggested. 'Let's just say that, in another year, we won't remember their names.'

'Yes, we will. We always will.'

George wagged a finger. 'Look here, Mollie,' he demanded. 'Will you do me a favor and forget about these things?'

'Okay, mister.' She smiled bravely. 'Okay.'

THEY finished their meal without further conversation.

Arm in arm, they walked out. Outside, George, hailed a cab for her. And Mollie extended her hand. 'Thanks for the fine breakfast, George,' she said, as the driver opened the door. 'It was good to talk to you. And we'll have to admit one thing anyhow.

'Gertrude and Harry had one of the best weddings this town ever saw!'

______________

99: The Bond Eternal

MRS. HARTVEY went into the kitchen, washed her hands, fixed her hair carefully, and gave her house dress a final tug down over the hips. Then she started up the stairs of her rooming house.

Those stairs still had the same faded rose rug that had felt the strong feet of her John years ago. It had felt the tiny bare feet of little Tommy, too. And little Marjorie. Once it had been stained with blood from Marjorie's forehead when she fell downstairs with her doll. So many things had happened since those days. Mrs. Hartvey was still here. But the rug had felt John's feet falter before he even knew he was sick. And later it had known his slippered feet, timidly negotiating each separate step.

Then, after John's death, the old rose rug remembered the long gauzy train as Marjorie walked downstairs to her wedding. And it remembered, too, the G.I. brogans on "little Tommy" as he went away, and his mother sobbed in the hall after the door had closed.

The rug knew the alien steps of roomers who came and went. And now. familiarly, it felt the slow, tiring step of Mrs. Hartvey.

She was going upstairs to tell young Mrs. Jordan she would have to vacate her room this week.

Mrs Hartvey didn't like her mission. For this Mrs. Jordan was very young, and she had the almost tragic look of a child who has been disappointed. But the husband of Mrs. Hartvey's daughter, Marjorie had just been drafted— and there was no sense keeping herself and an infant in a big flat when she could do just as well In her old room.

Besides, Mrs. Hartvey was alone, and Marjorie and the /baby would be company.

She knocked on the door.

"Mrs. Jordan," she said, "it's Mrs. Hartvey."

The young woman opened the door, and brushed the hair back off her forehead. She smiled faintly and said, "Come in.

The smile died quickly, and Mrs. Hartvey 'saw the worried look on that young face. Well, it didn't matter. She'd have to go, that's all.

"I thought you were the mail-man," Mrs. Jordan said, "I usually hear him stopping at the Fuller apartment down the hall."

"Mailman's late today," said Mrs. Hartvey. "Something important?"

The young woman nodded.

"Yes," she returned. 'I'm expecting a letter from my man. He's in Texas. But they shove off without notice, and I've been afraid?"

Mrs. Hartvey frowned sympathetically. "Oh, you poor child!" she cried. "How old are you?"

"Eighteen and a half."

The landlady shook her head.

"Were you married, long before they took him away?" she asked.

That petulant look came back.

"Four months," the girl said. "We were glad to have that long together."

Mrs. Hartvey wanted to ask if this child was going to have a baby. But she didn't. If Mrs. Jordan wanted her to know she'd mention it without being asked.

So they talked about the returning coolness of weather and about Mrs. Hartvey's preserved tomatoes and stringed beans. They talked about the good news and the bad news and the lack of news.

Then there was a silence. After a moment Mrs. Hartvey noticed that Mrs. Jordan was crying. She hastened over and put her arms around the girl.

"There, there," she soothed. "There, there."

"I've got to get that letter," sniffed Mrs. Jordan. "He hasn't written in a month. If he were anywhere in the country I know he'd write to me," she gulped. "Honest, I don't know which way to turn, I'm practically sick from worrying."

Mrs. Hartvey patted the girl's shoulder.

"There, there," she repeated again. She stuck around until Mrs. Jordan had wiped her eyes, and then she made a move toward the door.

There was a rap on the door. Mrs. Jordan almost knocked the landlady over in her haste to open the door. The mailman stood outside. The envelope was snatched out of his hand. Mrs. Jordan looked at the envelope, and her eyes shone, and she kissed the envelope and she danced round the room.

The landlady walked into her, own apartment, and took the mop from against the wall, and put it in the kitchen closet.

Funny. She had been so determined to tell Mrs. Jordan to get out— and now she was just as determined to do no such thing. Not even for her own daughter. Marjorie would just have to find another place, until there was a vacancy.

Mrs. Hartvey was so glad, so very glad, that Mrs. Jordan had received that letter. It's a frightening thing, she knew, to be young and in love, and alone. The letter would make all the difference in the world

Four months together, Mrs. Hartvey thought. It must have seemed like four minutes. Then the good-bye kisses, the slow chugging of a train leaving a station, and those lonely tears.

Yes. Mrs. Hartvey knew all right. She knew.

UPSTAIRS Mrs. Jordan read the letter through. Then she smiled to herself, and tore up the letter, and burned it in the ashtray.

"Thank God for alimony!" she murmured, as she studied the cheque for the fifth time.

___________________

100: Not a Woman To Talk

THE red-headed manager of the Self-Service store always ducked into the back-room whenever he saw Margie come in. Because Margie spelled argument with a capital Arg.

Today, when she entered the store with a woman neighbor, Margie went right over to the dairy counter.

"Pound of butter," she said brightly.

The clerk looked at her and pointed to a "no butter" sign.

"What do you mean no butter?" Maggie shrieked, for the tenth week in a row. "What's happened to all the butter? I'll bet you have butter on your own table. Huh! I'm going to stop buying in here. And, believe me, I've got plenty of friends, too!"

Margie demanded a pound of coffee. The clerk asked for her ration coupon. "Oh," she snickered, "I forgot it. I'll bring it in next week."

The coffee went back on the shelf— and Margie went slightly nuts.

It was at this precise moment that a meek little woman came along. Margie grabbed her friend's arm.

"Did you see that?" Margie asked. "She turned her head away from me— and no wonder! And I'm going to tell you a story about her that will make you blush!"

The neighbor's eyes popped. They argued about the total amount, couldn't find the proper change, and finally left with the vow that they would not patronise that store again.

Margie got into her car, dumped her bundles, pushed her neighbor into a corner, and pulled out from the kerb with a sudden jerk that almost upset an oncoming bus.

"Why don't you look where you're going?" she screamed at the innocent bus driver. "Do you want to kill people, you maniac, you?"

When Margie had settled down to driving homeward at a neat fifty, her friend nudged her.

"You were going to tell me about that woman we saw in the store, Margie. You said you'd make me blush, remember?"

"Well," Margie said, "I'm not the one to talk about anybody, you know that. But that woman— she married Johnny Lawson. We had apartments next door.

"It didn't take me long to get wise that Stella was a money hungry dame. She was really dough-nutty. She wanted permanents, and silver foxes, and yellow cars, and colored maids— you know the type.

"Some women are like that, you know. Stella used to drive her husband batty. She'd sneer at Johnny, and ask him how much the boss was making, and why didn't he get more money.

"She used to clip stories out of the papers about guys who took easy money, and make him read them. She told him anybody who handled thousands every day without grabbing some was a sucker. She even showed him pictures of the boss's wife leaving for Florida, and say, 'Look, she looks okay for a dame her age. doesn't she? She probably gets a facial every day, and wears hundred-dollar sports dresses. And she doesn't have to think about money. But look at me. I'm an old drudge. When are you going to get wise to yourself?'

"She'd tell him he had to get into the big dough, and there was only one way of doing it-and that was to take it. Then Johnny would wag his dome, and say, 'Guess you're right, hon.' Oh, she did her job good.

"He came home one night, mad as the devil, and said his boss wanted him to take a ten per cent cut. Boy, did he grouse! And Stella loved it, too. She knew he'd soon do what she wanted him to do."

"Tch, tch, tch," said the other.

"Sure," said Margie. "It was at awful situation, and it couldn't have come to anything but a bad end. But I never could bring myself to blame Johnny Lawson for what he did. And I certainly never felt a bit sorry for Stella. Little wonder she turns her head when she sees me."

The other woman sighed.

"That's a sad story," she observed. "They caught poor Johnny stealing the money, eh?"

Margie blinked.

"Stealing the money?" she echoed. "Oh, no. Johnny got his money without stealing— but Stella never got any part of the dough. You see Johnny ran away with his boss's wife!"

End

Table of Contents

Introduction

1: Throwback

2: The Jest Supreme

3: Perfect (!) Alibi

4: Inside Information

5: College Ingrate

6: Changing World

7: Recommendation

8: Lesson De Luxe

9: Failure in Romance

10: Last Chance

11: Parting

12: Success Formula

13: Blind Benefactor

14: Family Pride

15: Bitter Secret

16: The Weak Spot

17: All Through The Years

18: Once a Chump

19: Lucky Willie

20: Takes a Thief

21: Tale of Success

22: Problem In Love

23: Wedding At Last

24: Careless

25: The Old Homestead

26: A Maid's Mail

27: Raspberries

28: Another Day

29: Confession of Guilt

30: After Twelve Long Years

31: Words of Wisdom

32: The Final Touch

33: Debt Repaid

34: Pay envelope!

35: Vignette

36: Study In Tragedy

37: The Nice Feller

38: A Question Of Method

39: Legacy for One

40: A Father's Return

41: Accident

42: One Man's Monument

43: The Lady Squawks

44: Dividend for Faith

45: One Man's Failing

46: Fakes and Pains

47: Won Her Ambition

48: Good Time Twins

49: Just Once Too Often