"I think so."

It was Jerry's turn to be surprised.

"She was brown-haired, smallish, with blue eyes? Quite pretty?"

Jerry nodded.

"Wore leather gaiters and carried a butterfly net?"

"You know her, Marcia?" he broke in.

"Of course. Jerry, I'm really surprised—also a trifle disillusioned—"

They moved off down the path toward the lake, Jerry talking earnestly. I watched them for a moment in silence, wondering what crisis I had precipitated in Jerry's affairs.

Beside me I heard the deep voice of Miss Gore.

"You see? He's already madly infatuated with her."

"Yes, yes," I replied, still watching them. "And she?"

Miss Gore shrugged her thin shoulders.

"I don't know. She won't marry him. I doubt if she will ever marry."

"Thank God for that," I said feelingly. She looked up at me quickly.

"You don't like Marcia?" she asked.

"No." I realized that I had gone too far, but I stood firm to my guns.

I was surprised that she didn't resent my frankness. Instead of being angry she merely smiled.

"Mr. Canby, it is difficult for many of us who live in the world to realize the effect of luxury and over-refinement upon society! We live too close to it. Mr. Benham is an anachronism. I would have given much if he had not become interested in Marcia. She is not for him nor he for her. But I think it is his mind that attracts her—"

"Rubbish!" I broke in. "Has he no face, no body?"

She smiled at my impetuousness. Strangely enough, we were both too interested to resent mere forms of intercourse.

"It's true. She has a good mind, but badly trained. His innocence fascinates, tantalizes her. I've watched them—heard them. She toys with it, testing it in a hundred ways. It's like nothing she has ever known before. But she isn't the kind you think she is. I doubt even if Jerry has kissed her. To Marcia men are merely so much material for experimentation. She has a reputation for heartlessness. I'm not sure that she isn't heartless. It's a great pity. She's very young, but she's already devoured with hypercriticism. She's cynical, a philanderer. You can't tamper with a passion the way Marcia has done without doing it an injury. You see, I'm speaking frankly. I don't quite understand why, but I'm not sorry."

I bowed my head in appreciation of her confidence. This woman improved upon acquaintance.

"You care for her," I said soberly. "I should have been more guarded."

"Yes, I care for her. She has many virtues. She gets along with women and I can understand her attraction for men. But she has confessed to me that men both attract and repel her. Sex-antagonism, I think the moderns call it—a desire to tease, to attract, to excite, to destroy. She uses every art to play her game. It is her life. If any man conquered her she would be miserable. A strange creature, you will say, but—"

"Strange, unnatural, horrible!"

She smiled at my sober tone.

"And yet she is acting within her rights. She asks nothing that is not freely given."

"Women are curiously tolerant of moral imperfections in those they care for. Your Marcia is dangerous. I shall warn Jerry."

But she shook her dark head sagely.

"It will do no good. You will fail."

We walked slowly toward the house and I tried to make her understand that I was grateful for her interest. She was not pretty, but, as I had discovered, had some beauties of the mind which made her physical attractions a matter of small importance.

As we neared the terrace, a thought came to me and I paused.

"You know who the girl Una is?" I asked.

"Yes," she nodded, "but her name isn't Smith."

"I was aware of that. Would you mind telling me who and what she is?"

She remained thoughtful a moment, fingering the stem of a plant.

"I don't see why I shouldn't. Her name is Habberton, Una Habberton. She was visiting the Laidlaws here last summer. Her family, a mother and a lot of girls, live in the old house down in Washington Square. They're fairly well off, but Una has gone in for social work—spends almost all of her time at it—slumming. I don't know much about her, but I think she must be pretty fine to give up all her social opportunities for that."

I smiled.

"She may have another idea of social opportunity," I said.

"Yes—you're quite right. I used the wrong words. One is not accustomed in Marcia's set to find that sort of thing an opportunity."

"Miss Van Wyck knows her?" I asked.

"Yes. Marcia is on a committee that provides money for this particular charity. They know each other. She came over to Briar Hills one night with Phil Laidlaw. Marcia saw her several times in our fields with her butterfly net. You see, her name is unusual. Marcia guessed the rest."

"Thanks," I said. "I hope you've forgiven me for my churlishness. I should like to know you better if you'll let me."

She turned her head toward me with a motherly smile.

"I don't care for the society of men," she said amusedly. "They annoy me exceedingly."



CHAPTER XI

THE SIREN

Something went wrong with Jerry's afternoon, for not long after lunch I heard his machine in the driveway. But I didn't go out to meet him. I knew that if there was anything he wanted to say to me he would come to the study door. But I heard him pass and go upstairs. I hadn't been able to do any work at my book since yesterday morning, and the prospect of going on with it seemed to be vanishing with the hours.

The astounding frankness of Miss Gore had set me thinking. As may be inferred, I did not understand women in the least and hadn't cared to, for their ways had not been my ways, nor mine theirs. But the woman's revelations as to the character of her cousin had confirmed me in the belief that Jerry had gotten beyond his depth. I think I understood her motives in telling me. I was Jerry's guardian and friend. If Miss Gore was Marcia's cousin she was also her paid companion, her creature, bound less by the ties of kinship than those of convention. I suppose it was Jerry's helplessness that must have appealed to the mother in her, his youth, innocence and genuineness. Perhaps she was weary treading the mazes of deception and intrigue with which the girl Marcia surrounded herself. Jerry wasn't fair game. All that was good in her had revolted at the maiming of a helpless animal.

For such, I am sure, Jerry already was. How much or how little the unconscious growth in the boy of the sexual impulse had to do with his sudden subjugation by the girl it was impossible for me to estimate. For if the impulse was newly born, it was born in innocence. This I knew from the nature of his comments on his experiences in the city. Knowledge of all sorts he was acquiring, but, like Adam, of the fruit of the tree he had not tasted. And yet, even I, stoic though I was, had been sensible of the animal in the girl. Her voice, her gestures, her gait, all proclaimed her. Miss Gore had spoken of a psychic attraction. Bah! There is but one kind of affinity of a woman of this sort for a beautiful animal like Jerry!

It was bewildering for me to discover how deeply I was becoming involved in Jerry's personal affairs. With the appointed day I had turned him adrift to work out in his future career, alone and unaided, my theory of life and his own salvation. And yet here, at the first sign of danger, I found myself flying to his defense as Jack Ballard would have it, like a hen that had hatched out a duckling. I reasoned with myself sternly that I feared nothing for Jerry. He would emerge from such an experience greater, stronger, purer even, and yet, in spite of my confidence, I found myself planning, devising something that would open the boy's eyes before damage was done. I was solicitous for Jerry, but there were other considerations. Jerry wasn't like other men. He had been taught to reason carefully from cause to effect. He would not understand intrigue, of course, or double dealing. They would bewilder him and he would put them aside, believing what he was told and acting upon it blindly. For instance, if this girl told him she cared for him, he would believe it and expect her to prove it, not in accordance with her notions of the obligation created, but in accordance with his own. There lay the difficulty, for he was all ideals, and she, as I suspected, had none. There would be damage done, spiritual damage to Jerry, but what might happen to Marcia? Jerry was innocent, but he was no fool, and with all his gentleness he wasn't one to be imposed upon. Flynn had understood him. He was polite and very gentle, but Sagorski, the White Hope, knew what he was when aroused. I wondered if Marcia Van Wyck with all her cleverness might miss this intuition.

Dinner time found the boy quiet and preoccupied. If he hadn't been Jerry I should have said he was sullen. That he was not himself was certain. It was not until he had lighted his cigarette after dinner that he was sure enough of himself to speak.

"What made you talk of Una to Marcia, Roger?" he asked quietly.

"I didn't," I said coolly. "You did, Jerry. And if I had, I can't see what it matters."

"It does a little, I think. You see, Marcia knows who she is. Una gave a false name. She wouldn't care to have people know she had come in here alone."

This was a reason, but of course not the real one. It wasn't like Jerry to mask his purposes in this fashion. I laughed at him.

"If you'll remember, Jerry, I mentioned no names."

"But why mention the incident at all?"

"Because to tell the truth," I said frankly, "I thought Miss Marcia Van Wyck entirely too self-satisfied."

He opened his eyes wide and stared at me. "Oh!" he said.

And then after the pause:

"You don't like Marcia?"

"No," I replied flatly, "I don't."

He paced the length of the room, while I sat by a lamp and ostentatiously opened the evening paper.

"I hope you realize," he said presently, with a dignity that would have been ridiculous if it hadn't been pathetic, "that Miss Van Wyck is a very good friend of mine."

"Is she?" I asked quietly.

"Yes—I'm very fond of her."

"Are you?" still quietly.

"Yes." He walked the floor jerkily, made a false start or so and then brought up before me with an air of decision. "I—I'm sorry you don't like her, Roger. I—I should be truly grieved if I—I thought you meant it. For I intend some day to ask her to be my—my—wife."

It was as bad as that? I dropped pretense and the newspaper, folding my arms and regarding him steadily.

"Isn't this decision—er—rather sudden?" I asked evenly.

"I've loved her from the first moment I saw her," he exclaimed. "She is everything, everything that a woman should be. Amiable, charitable, beautiful, talented, intellectual." He paused and threw out his arms with an appealing gesture. "I can't understand why you don't see it, Roger, why you can't see her as I see her."

I was beginning to realize that the situation was one to be handled with discretion. He was in a frame of mind where active opposition would only add fuel to his flame.

"I'm sorry that I've grown to be so critical, Jerry. You forget that I've never much cared for the sex."

It seemed that this was just the reply to restore him to partial sanity, for his face broke in a smile.

"I forgot, old Dry-as-dust. You don't like 'em—don't like any of 'em. That's different. But you will like Marcia. You shall. Why, Roger, she's an angel. You couldn't help liking her."

I smiled feebly. My acquaintance with decadent angels had been limited. I turned the subject adroitly.

"Have you discovered who Una is?" I asked.

"No. Marcia wouldn't tell me. She only laughed at me, but I really wanted to know. She was a nice girl, Roger, and I'd hate to have her shown in a false light. Not that Marcia would do that, of course, but girls are queer. I think she really resented our acquaintance. I can't imagine why."

"Nor I," I said shortly. "She doesn't own you, does she?"

He looked up at me with a blank expression.

"No, I suppose not," he said slowly.

I followed up my advantage swiftly.

"It's rather curious, Jerry, this attraction Miss Van Wyck has for you. A moment ago you were chivalrous enough in your hope that Una's identity would not be discovered. Was this chivalry genuine? Were you sorry on Una's account or on your own? I really want to know. You liked Una, Jerry. Didn't you?"

"Yes, but—"

"She seemed a very interesting, a fine, even a noble creature. The thought of a girl doing the sort of things she was doing made you reproach yourself for your idleness—your cowardice, I think you called it. Now what I'd like to discover is whether you've quite forgotten the impression she made—the ideal she left in your mind?"

"Of course not. My ideals are still the same. I've tried to tell you that I'm going to put them into practice," he muttered.

"You've forgotten the impression made by Una herself; what reason have you for believing that you won't forget the ideals also?"

"There's no danger of that. She merely opened my eyes. Anyone else could have done the same thing."

"Ah! Has Miss Van Wyck done so?"

"Yes. She's very charitable. But she doesn't make a business of it like Una. She has so many interests and then—" He paused. I waited.

"Roger," he went on in a moment, "I thought Una wonderful. I still do. But Marcia's different. Una was a chance visitor. Marcia is a friend—an old friend. She's like no other woman in the world. You will understand her better some day."

"Perhaps," I said thoughtfully. After that Jerry would say no more. Perhaps he thought he had already said too much, for presently he took himself off to bed. At the foot of the stairs he paused.

"By the way, Roger, we'll be five instead of four for dinner tomorrow."

"Who now?"

"A friend of Marcia's, Channing Lloyd, a chap from town. He came up today."

That admission cost Jerry something, and it explained many things, for I had heard of Channing Lloyd.

"Ah, very well," I said carelessly and shook out my paper.

"Good-night, Roger."

"Good-night, Jerry."

The boy was changed. It may not seem a serious thing to you, my precocious reader, who number your flirtations among the trivial affairs of life. Calf love, you will say, is not a matter worth bothering one's brains about. You will class that ailment perhaps with the whooping cough and the measles and sneer it out of existence. But I would remind you that Jerry's mind and character were quite mature. I had schooled them myself and I know. If Jerry had fallen in love with Marcia Van Wyck who proposed to play at her game of "pitch-farthing" with so fine a soul as Jerry's, the thing was serious, serious for both of them. His attitude toward the girl in his conversation tonight reminded me that affairs had already progressed a long way. She had come to Briar Hills, flattering Jerry, of course, that they could be alone, intriguing meanwhile with Channing Lloyd, a wild fellow, according to Jack Ballard, who at thirty could have unprofitably shared his omniscience with the devil. A fine foil for Jerry!

At dinner, the following night, we made a curious party. Marcia Van Wyck, radiant in pale green, with her admirers one at either hand; Channing Lloyd, dark, massive, well-groomed, with a narrow smile and an air of complete domination of the table; Jerry at the other side, rolling bread-pills and forcing humor rather awkwardly; Miss Gore, solemn in black satin—all of them elegant and correct in evening clothes, while I in my rather shabby serge sat awkwardly trying to hide the shininess of my elbows. From my position at one end of the table I had an excellent opportunity to study the company. I saw in Lloyd, I think, the attraction for Marcia. His looks, his topics, his appetites were animal and gross. He drank continuously, smoked after his salad, and monopolized the guest of the evening to the complete exclusion of the others. Fragments of their talk reached me, of which I understood a little—Greek to Jerry. Miss Gore sat calmly through it all, leading Jerry into the conversation at propitious moments and out of it when it threatened incomprehension.

There is a kind of charity of the dinner table and ballroom finer, I think, than the mere kindness of giving, finer because it requires discretion, nobler because it requires self-elimination. The more I saw of Miss Gore the more deeply was I impressed by her many amiable qualities. She had an ear for Jerry, but aware of my complete elimination by the rowdy upon my left, found time to relieve the awkwardness of my situation and contribute something to the pleasure of what for me would otherwise have been a very unenjoyable repast.

But when dinner was over, to my great surprise, I found myself alone with the girl Marcia. I have no very distinct notion of the means by which she accomplished this feat, remembering only hazily that we all ambled over to the conservatory, where a particular variety of orchid seemed to interest the girl. And there we were, I explaining and she listening, the others off somewhere near the entrance to the gymnasium, where I heard Lloyd's voice in bored monotone. I was quite sure in a moment that she hadn't managed to get me there to talk orchids, and I felt a vague sense of discomfort at her nearness. I have given the impression that her eyes were cold. As I looked into them I saw that I had been mistaken. In the dim light they seemed illumined at their greater depth by a hidden fire. She fixed her gaze upon my face and moved ever so slightly toward me. You may think it strange after what I have written when I say that at this moment I felt a doubt rising in me as to whether or not I might have done this girl an injustice, for her smile was frank, her air gracious, her tone friendly.

"Oh, Mr. Canby," she said in her even voice, "I've wanted to tell you what a wonderful thing it is that you have created—to thank you for Jerry. He's a gift, Mr. Canby, refreshing like the rain to thirsty flowers. You can't know what meeting a man like Jerry means to a woman like me. I don't think you possibly can."

"What does it mean to you?" I asked.

"It means a new point of view on life, a thing scarce enough in this day when all existence is either sordid or vicious. I had reached a Slough of Despond, Mr. Canby, weary of the attainable, not strong enough or clever enough or courageous enough to defy criticism and obey the small voice that urged. I was sick with self-analysis, filled to the brim with modern philosophies—"

"I understand," I broke in with a smile, which seemed to come in spite of me. "There's no medicine for that."

"Yes, Jerry. I—I think he's cured me—or at least Pm well on the road to recovery. Nobody could be mind-sick long with Jerry letting daylight in."

"Daylight, yes. You found it startling?"

"A little, at first. I felt the way I look sometimes at dawn after dancing all night, my tinsel tarnished, my color faded. All my effects are planned for artificial light, you see."

Her frankness disarmed me.

"I'm thanking you for Jerry," she went on, "but I can't help knowing that Jerry is what you've made him; that his ideals, his simplicity, his purity are yours also."

If she had baited her hook with flattery there was no sign of premeditation in the gentleness of her accents or in the friendly look she gave me. Could it be possible that this was the person in whom I had seen such a menace to Jerry's happiness?

"I have merely taught Jerry to be honest, Miss Van Wyck," I replied. "I ask no credit of him or of you."

"But if it pleases me to give it to you," she said softly, "you surely can't object."

"No, but I don't ask laurels I don't deserve. Jerry is—merely himself."

"Plus, Mr. Roger Canby—purist and pedagogue," she laughed. "No, you can't get out of it. Jerry reflects you; I think I actually recognize inflections of the voice. You ought to be very glad to have laid so strong an impress on so fine a thing."

Just then I heard the raucous laugh of Channing Lloyd from the distant lawn, which reminded me with a startling suddenness that this slender creature who spoke softly of ideals and purity could choose a man like this fellow for an intimate. I noticed, too, the delicate odor which rose from her corsage of which Jack Ballard had spoken, something subtle and unfamiliar.

I straightened and looked out through the open window, steeling myself against her.

"I am glad you think him fine," I said dryly. "No doubt he compares very favorably with other young men of your acquaintance."

"You mean Mr. Lloyd, of course," she said quickly.

I was silent, avoiding her gaze and her perfume.

"I'm afraid you don't understand me, Mr. Canby," she said softly. "I'm sorry. Any friend of Jerry's ought to be a friend of mine."

"I should like to be, of course, but—"

I paused. This woman, against my will, was making me lie to her.

"But what—? Am I so—so unpleasant to you? What have I done to earn your displeasure?"

"Nothing," I stammered. "Nothing."

"Is it that you fear the contamination of the kind of culture I've been bred and born in? Or the effect of my familiarity with doctrines with which you're not in sympathy?"

Was she mocking? Her voice was still gentle, but I had a notion that inside of her she was laughing. It was as though, having failed to win me, she was beginning to unmask. I peered into her face. It was guileless and wore the appealing expression of a reproachful child.

"You do not understand," I said. "I fear nothing for Jerry. He is strong enough to stand alone. I hope you know just how strong he is, that's all."

She was a little puzzled—and interested.

"I hope I do; but I wish you would explain."

I turned toward her quickly.

"I mean this. You and he are very different. He cares for you, of course. It was to be expected, because you're everything that he is not. Whatever you are, Jerry will be serious. And you can't bind the characters of two strong people together without mutilating one or the other, or perhaps both. Jerry will believe everything you tell him and continue to believe it unless you deceive him. He's ingenuous, but I hope you won't underestimate him."

She fingered the leaves of a rose, but her eyes under their lids were looking elsewhere.

"How should I deceive him, Mr. Canby?" she asked, her voice still unchanging.

"Perhaps I put it too baldly. But I'm not in the habit; of mincing words. Jerry is no plaything. I'll give you an instance of how much in earnest he is." And then briefly, but with some sense of the color of the thing, I gave her a description of Jerry's bout with Sagorski. She listened without looking at me, while her slender fingers caressed the rose leaf, but beneath their lids I saw; her eyes flashing. When I had finished I turned to her with a smile.

"That's the kind of man that Jerry is—harmless, docile and most agreeable, but let him be aroused—"

I paused, letting the paralipsis finish my suggestion.

She was silent a moment, finally turning to me with a laugh that rang a little discordantly against the softness of her speech.

"Jerry wouldn't beat me, would he, Mr. Canby?"

"I'm sure I haven't the least means of knowing," I replied.

"You are merely warning me, I see. Thanks. But I'm afraid you give me credit for greater hardihood than I possess. On the whole I think I'm flattered."

She snipped a bud and put it to her lips as though to conceal a smile, and then passed me slowly.

"Come, Mr. Canby," she said. "I think it's time we joined the others."

It was. The night was cool, but I was perspiring profusely.



CHAPTER XII

INTRODUCING JIM ROBINSON

Of course, I had made an enemy of the girl and to no purpose. I had felt her physical attraction, and I knew that only by putting myself beyond its pale could I be true to my own convictions as to her venality. She was the kind of woman to whom any man, even such a one as I, is fish for her net. A girl may whet her appetite by coquetry and deprave it by flirtation, setting at last such a value upon her skill at seduction that she counts that day lost in which some male creature is not brought into subjection to her wiles. As I thought over the conversation later in the privacy of my bedroom I began to realize that instead of good I had only done harm. For a warning, such a futile one as I had given would only inflame a girl like Marcia, and the suggestion of danger was just the fillip her jaded tastes required.

It was not long before I had a confirmation of my mistake in judgment. A week passed, a week of alternate joys and depressions for Jerry, during which he spoke little to me of the girl. The night after the dinner at the Manor he had upbraided me for telling Marcia the story of his bout with Sagorski. He had not cared to tell her of that event, he said, because he thought it too brutal for the ears of a girl of her delicate and sensitive nature. The next night he spoke of it again, but this time without reserve. It seemed that Marcia was very much interested in his feats of physical strength and hoped that Jerry would permit her to watch him when he sparred. Of course, he didn't see why she shouldn't watch him when he sparred if she was really interested in that sort of thing, but it was curious how he had misjudged her tastes; she seemed so ethereal, so devoted to the gentler things of life, that he had not thought it possible she could care for the rugged art he loved, which at times, as I knew, verged upon the brutal. I mentioned with a smile that there remained in all of us, women as well as men, some relics of the age of stone.

"Of course," he assented cheerfully, "I knew she wasn't namby-pamby. It's rather nice of her, I think, to take so much interest."

A few days after that Jerry left me and I knew that Briar Hills was closed again.

The events which were to follow came upon me with startling unexpectedness. Scarcely two weeks had passed since Jerry's departure and I had hardly settled back into my routine at the Manor, where I was trying again to take up the lost threads of my work, when a message came over the wire from Jack Ballard asking me to come down to New York to visit him for a few days. I inferred from what he said that he wanted to see me about Jerry, and, of course, I lost no time in getting to the city and to his apartment, where I found him before his mirror, tying his cravat.

"Pope, my boy, I knew you'd come. Just itching for an excuse anyway, weren't you? But you needn't look so alarmed. Jerry's all right. He hasn't even run off; with a chorus lady or founded a home for non-swearing truckmen."

"Well what has he done?" I asked.

"Not much—merely engaged to become one of the principals in a prize fight in Madison Square Garden."

"Jerry! I can't believe you."

"It's quite true. Sit down, my boy. Have you break-fasted yet?"

"Hours ago at the Manor."

"Just reproach! But the early worm gets caught by the bird, you know. I never get up—"

"Tell me," I broke in impatiently, "where you heard this extravagant tomfoolery?"

"From the extravagant tomfool himself. Jerry told me yesterday. I'm afraid there's no doubt about the matter. The articles of agreement are signed, the money, five thousand a side, is in the hands of the stakeholder—one Mike Finnegan, a friend of Flynn's, who keeps a saloon upon the Bowery."

"Preposterous! It hasn't come out, the newspapers—"

"They're full enough of it as it is. Jerry's opponent is a very prominent pug—an aspirant for the heavyweight title, no less a one than Jack Clancy, otherwise known as 'The Terrible Sailor, Champion of the Navy.'"

"But your father—the public—! It will ruin Jerry—ruin him—"

"Wait a bit. Fortunately Jerry's anonymity has been carefully kept. At Flynn's gymnasium he's called Jim Robinson, and it's as Jim Robinson, Flynn's wonderful unknown, that he will make his public appearance."

"But a name is a slender thread to hang Jerry's whole reputation on. He'll be recognized, of course. This thing can't go on. It must be stopped at once," I cried.

"Exactly," said Ballard coolly over his coffee cup. "But how?"

"An appeal to the boy's reason. He must be insane to do such a thing. It's Flynn who's put him up to this."

"I think not. If I understand Jerry correctly, he urged Flynn to make the match. He's quite keen about it."

I paced the floor in some bewilderment, trying to think of a reason for Jerry's strange behavior, but curiously enough the real one did not come to me.

"I can't imagine how such an ambition could have got into his head," I muttered.

Ballard struck a match for his cigarette and smiled.

"The nice balance of Jerry's cosmos between the purely physical and the merely mental has been disturbed—that's all. Liberty has become license and has gone into his muscles. What shall we do about it? Flatly, I don't know. That's what I asked you down to discuss."

I took a turn or two up and down the room.

"Your father—the executors—know nothing of this?"

"Phew! I should say not!"

"They could stop it, I suppose."

"I'm not so sure," he said quietly. "If the boy has made up his mind."

I sank in a chair, trying to think.

"The executors mustn't know. Jack. We'll keep the thing quiet. We've got to appeal to Jerry."

"That's precisely the conclusion I've reached myself. I've asked him to come this morning. He may be in at any moment."

I looked out of the window thoughtfully toward the distant Jersey shore.

"This isn't like Jerry. He's a fine athlete and a good sportsman—for the fun he gets out of the thing. But he has too good a mind not to be above the personal vulgarity of such an exhibition as this. His finer instincts, his natural modesty, his lack of vanity—everything that we know of the boy contradicts the notion of a personal incentive for this wild plan. Does he know what he's doing—what it means—the publicity—?"

"He thinks he's dodging that. Nobody knows him in New York except a few fellows at the clubs, he says."

"But has he no consideration for us—for me?" I cried.

"Apparently his friends haven't entered into his calculations."

"I repeat, it isn't like him, Jack. Somebody has put this idea into his head."

I stopped so abruptly that Ballard regarded me curiously.

"Somebody—who?"

I paced the floor with long strides, my fingers twitching to get that pretty devil by the throat. I knew now—it had come in a flash of light—Marcia. Jerry listened now to no one but Marcia; but I couldn't tell Jack.

"Somebody—somebody at Flynn's," I muttered.

He regarded me curiously.

"But the boy is immune to flattery. There isn't a vain bone in his body. I confess he puzzles me. But I think you'll find he's quite stubborn about it."

"Stubborn, yes, but—"

My remark was cut short by a ring of the bell, immediately answered by Ballard's man, and Jerry entered. He was, I think, attired in one of Jack's "Symphonies," wore a blossom in his buttonhole, swung a stick jauntily, and altogether radiated health and good humor, greeting us both in high spirits.

"Well, fairy godfathers, what's my gift today?" he laughed. "A golden goose, a magic ring, or a beautiful Cinderella hidden behind the curtain?" and he poked at the portiere playfully. "But you have the appearance of conspirators. Is it only a lecture?"

"I've just been telling Roger," Jack began gravely, "about your fight with Clancy, Jerry."

I saw the boy's jaw muscles clamp, but he replied very quietly.

"Yes, Uncle Jack. He objects, I suppose."

"Not object," I said quickly. "It's the wrong word, Jerry. You're your own master, of course. We were just wondering whether you hadn't undervalued our friendship in not asking our advice before making your plans."

Jerry followed a pattern in the rug with the point of his stick.

"I wish you hadn't put it just that way, Roger."

"I don't know how else to put it. That's the fact, isn't it, Jerry?"

"No. I don't undervalue your friendship. You know that, Roger, you too. Uncle Jack. I suppose I should have said something about it. But I—I just sort of drifted into it. I think walloping Sagorski spoiled me—made me rather keen to have a try at somebody who had licked him. Clancy's almost, if not quite, the best in his class. I'll get well thrashed, I guess, but it's going to be a lot of fun trying—and if nobody knows who I am, I can't see what harm it does."

I couldn't tell what there was in his tone and manner that made me think he was playing a part not his own. I was not yet used to Jerry out in the world, but as compared with the Jerry of Horsham Manor, he didn't ring true.

"You can't keep people from knowing, Jerry," I said. "Your picture will be on every sporting page in the United States."

"Oh, we've fixed that with a photographer. Flynn had a picture of a cousin of his who is dead—young chap—looked something like me. They're faking the thing."

The boy was getting a new code of morals as well as a new vocabulary.

"You can't hide a lie, Jerry."

"I'm not harming anybody," he muttered.

"Nobody but yourself," I said sternly.

"I don't see that," he growled, clasping his great fists over his knees.

"It's the truth. You'll harm yourself irrevocably. The thing will come out somehow. Jim Robinson isn't Jerry Benham. He's the New York and South Western Railroad Company, the Seaboard Transportation Line, the United Oil Company—"

"I'd get Clancy's goat in the first round if he thought I was all that, wouldn't I?" Jerry grinned sheepishly, while Jack Ballard fought back a smile.

"If you won't consider your own interests, what you must consider is that you've no right to jeopardize the property interests of those who have put their money and their faith behind these enterprises which you control. You're already in a responsible position. You're making yourself a mountebank, a laughing-stock. No one will ever trust you in a position of responsibility again."

"I'm sorry, Roger, if you think things are as bad as that," said Jerry coolly. "I don't. And besides, I'm too far in this thing to back out now."

There was no shaking his resolution. We pleaded with him, argued, cajoled, ridiculed, but all to no purpose. Jack painted a picture of the crowd in the Garden, the cat-calls, the jeers, imitated the introduction of past and present champions, and Jerry winced a little, but was not moved. Finding all else unavailing, I fell back upon our friendship, recalling all Jerry's old ideals and mine. He softened a little, but merely repeated:

"I can't back out now, Roger. They'll think me a quitter. I'd like to please you in everything, but I can't, Roger, I can't."

Jack Ballard was so incensed at this obstinacy that he swore at the boy, flung out of the room and disappeared.

With a sober expression Jerry watched him go out and then rose and walked slowly to the window. I looked at him in silence. I knew his manner. Confession was on the tip of his tongue, and yet he would not speak. But I waited patiently. Finally the silence became oppressive, and he swung around at me petulantly.

"I can't see what's the use of making such a lot of fuss over the thing," he muttered. "It seems as though because I have a lot of money I've got to be fettered to it hand and foot. I'm not going to be a slave to a desk. I've warned you of that. You wanted me to be a great athlete, Roger, and now when I'm putting my skill to the test you rebel."

"An athlete—but a gentleman. There are some things a gentleman doesn't do."

"A gentleman," he sneered. "I hear of a lot of things a gentleman must not do. Perhaps I don't know what the word means. In New York a gentleman can get drunk at dances, swear, treat people impolitely, and as long as he comes of a good family or has money back of him nobody questions him. So long as I treat people decently and do no one any harm I'm willing to take my chances with God Almighty. With Sailor Clancy fighting is a business. With me it's a sport. He hasn't had many good matches. I've given him a chance to make five thousand dollars and gate receipts. Who am I hurting? Surely not Clancy. Not Flynn. His gym is so full of people we've had to get special training quarters. I've hired a lot of people to look after me, rubbers, assistants—why, old Sagorski worships the very ground I walk on. Who am I hurting?" he urged again.

"Yourself," I persisted sternly.

He laughed up at the ceiling.

"Good old Roger! You haven't much opinion of my moral fiber, after all, have you? My poor old morals! They'd all be shot to shreds by now if you had your way. I don't drink, steal, cheat, lie—"

I rose, shrugging my shoulders, and walked past him.

"I'll say no more except that I hope you know I think you're a fool."

"I do, Roger," he laughed. "You've indicated it clearly."

At the fireplace I turned, laying my trap for him skillfully.

"You've told Marcia?" I asked carelessly.

"Yes," he said. "You see, Marcia—" he bit his lip, reddened and came to a full stop, searching my face with a quick glance, but he found me elaborately removing a speck of lint from my coat sleeve.

"Yes, Jerry. Marcia—?" I encouraged innocently.

For a fraction of a minute he paused and then went on, blurting the whole thing in his old boyish way.

"You see, Marcia's very broad-gauge, Roger. She's really very much interested in the whole thing. It was a good deal of a surprise to me. It began when she heard about my bout with Sagorski. She was awfully keen about my gym work—you remember—at the Manor that night. She thought every man ought to develop his body to its fullest capability. I had Flynn out one night at Briar Hills. I didn't tell you about that—thought you mightn't understand—and we sparred six fast rounds. She kept the time and thought it was great. It was like going to a vaudeville show, she said, only a thousand times more exciting. She tried to make Lloyd do a turn, but he wouldn't, though I'd have liked to have mussed him up a bit. Well, one thing led to another and we had a lot of talks about education—you know, the Greek idea. It seemed that my work with you was just in line with her whole philosophy of life." (God bless his innocence—her philosophy and mine!) "The whole scheme of modern life was lopsided, she said, all the upper classes going to brains and no body and all the lower classes all to body and no brains. Conflict in the end was inevitable. The unnatural way of living was weakening the fiber of the governing powers the people of which intermarried and brought into the world children of weak muscular tissue. She doesn't believe in marriage unless both the man and the woman have passed rigid physical tests as to their fitness."

"What tests?" I asked interestedly.

"Oh, I don't know. A woman who bears a child ought surely to have the strength to do it. You and I have never talked much about these things, Roger, and the miracle of birth, like the miracle of death, must always be an enigma to us. But I think she's right, and I told her that if she was ever going to have any children she ought to have a gym built both at Briar Hills and in town for herself and begin getting in shape for it right away."

"And what did she say to that?" I asked trying to keep countenance.

"Oh, she laughed and said that she wasn't thinking of having any children just yet."

This, then, was the type of after-dinner conversation that took place between them. I began more clearly to understand the fascination that Jerry had for her—to understand, too, her growing delight in the splendid, vital, innocent animal that she had chained to her chariot wheel.

"Go on, Jerry," I said in a moment. "She wants you to typify the new race—"

"Exactly. To spread the gospel of physical strength among my own kind—to prove that mind, other things being more or less equal, is greater than matter."

"I see," I said thoughtfully. "Then it was Marcia's idea, wasn't it?"

He hesitated a moment before replying.

"Oh, yes, I suppose so. But I've been pretty keen about it from the beginning. You must admit that it's interesting in theory."

"The superbeast versus the superman," I commented. "Your mind is made up then—irrevocably?"

"Yes."

I had not known Jerry all these years for nothing. I shrugged my shoulders and sank into my chair again. "Then, of course, there's nothing for it but to try to keep the thing out of the papers."

He took up his hat and stick gayly. "Oh, they'll never guess in the world. When I go down to Flynn's I get into an old suit Christopher got for me down on Seventh Avenue—a hand-me-down, and when Marcia goes she wears—"

"Ah—Marcia goes—?"

"Oh, yes, sometimes in the afternoons. She wears the worst-looking things—her maid got 'em somewhere. She watches me work. They call her my 'steady.' It's great sport. She's having more fun than she ever had before in her life, she says. I'd like you to run down this afternoon. You know the place. It will liven up your dry bones. Come along, will you?"

"Perhaps," I said helplessly, looking out of the window.



CHAPTER XIII

UNA

Jerry's destiny was indeed in the lap of the gods. Whatever may have been my hope, during his visit to the Manor, of opening his eyes, I now confessed myself utterly at a loss. He was dipping life up by the ladle-full and yet curiously enough thus far had missed the vital, the significant fact of existence. I supposed that it was because the history of his early years was known to but few and that the men with whom he came into contact, nice enough fellows at the clubs, friends of Jack Ballard, had taken his worldliness for granted. He had missed the filthy story perhaps, or if he had heard it, had ignored its point and turned away to topics he understood. Business, too, had taken some of his time and Marcia had taken more. The clubs, I had inferred, had not greatly interested him. Flynn, his other crony, was no scandal-monger and the habits of the years at Horsham Manor would still be strong with him at the gymnasium. As I have said before, Jerry hadn't the kind of a mind to absorb what did not interest him.

It must be obvious, however, that I was greatly concerned over Jerry's venture into pugilism. I tried to view the Great Experiment as from a great distance, as across a space of time looking forward to the hour when Jerry would emerge scatheless from all his tests both material and spiritual. But Jerry's personality, his thoughts, his sensibilities bulked too large. There was no room for a perspective. To all intents and purposes I myself was Jerry, thinking his thoughts, tasting his enthusiasms and his regrets. But I think if he had married a street wench or engaged in a conspiracy to blow up the Capitol at Washington I could scarcely have been more perturbed for him than I was at finding how strong was the influence that this girl Marcia exercised upon his actions. His fondness for her was the only flaw I had ever discovered in Jerry's nature. He could speak of her spirituality as he pleased, but there was another attraction here. I had felt the allure of her personality, a magnetism less mental than physical. Physical, of course, and because incomprehensible to Jerry the more marvelous. I had looked upon the boy as a perfect human animal, forgetting that he was only an animal after all. Marcia, the woman without a heart, whose game was the hearts of others! Bah! No woman without a heart could hold Jerry. If passion danced to him in the mask of a purer thing, Jerry's honesty would strip off the disguise in time. The danger was not now, but then, and even then perhaps more hers than his.

I waited long for Jack Ballard, but he did not return and so I went out into the streets and walked rapidly for exercise down town in the general direction of Flynn's Gymnasium over on the East Side, where I proposed to meet Jerry later in the afternoon. I had kept no record of the time and when my appetite advised me that it was the luncheon hour, I looked at my watch. It was two o'clock. I sauntered into a cross street, finding at last a quiet place where I could eat and think in peace. "Dry-as-dust!" I was. Twelve years ago I had railed at the modern woman and learned my lesson from her. But now—! The years had swept madly past my sanctuary, license running riot. Sin stalked openly. The eyes of the women one met upon the streets were hard with knowledge. Nothing was sacred—nothing hidden from young or old. And men and women of wealth and tradition—I will not call them society, which is far too big a word for so small a thing—men and women born to lead and mold public thought and conduct, showed the way to a voluptuousness which rivaled tottering Rome.

And this was the world into which my sinless man had been liberated!

I smiled to myself a little bitterly. It was unfortunate that out of all the women in New York, Jerry should have fallen in love with the first hypocrite that had come his way, a follower of strange gods, cold, calculating, too selfish even to be sinful! Eheu! She was getting on my nerves. Analysis—always analysis! I could not let her be. She obsessed me as she had obsessed Jerry—a slender wisp of a thing that I could have broken in my fingers and would still, I think, unless reason returned.

I paid my bill and would have risen, but just at that moment through the door beside my table entered, to my bewilderment, Jerry himself and a girl. I was so amazed at seeing him in this place that I made no sound or motion and watched the pair pass without seeing me and take a table beyond a small palm tree just beside me, and when they were seated my amazement grew again, for I saw that his companion was the girl Una—Una Habberton who had called herself Smith. Their appearance at this moment together found me at a loss to know what to do. To get up and join them would interfere with a tete-a-tete which, whatever its planning, I deemed most fortunate; to get up and leave the room without being observed would have been impossible, for Jerry faced the door. So I sat debating the matter, watching the face of the girl and listening to the conversation, aware for a second time that I was playing the part of eavesdropper upon these two and now without justification. And yet no qualm of conscience troubled me. Brazen she may have seemed at Horsham Manor, but here in New York in her sober suit and hat she seemed to have lost something of her raffish demeanor, and there was a wholesomeness about her, a frankness in her smile, which was distinctly refreshing.

It was not until several days later that I heard from Jerry how they had happened to meet. It seems that after leaving Ballard's apartment Jerry had gone home, attired himself in his old suit and made his way to meet Flynn, with whom he had an appointment to go down to Finnegan's saloon to attend to some final details of his match with Clancy. This business finished, the party came out upon the street, Jerry, Flynn, Finnegan (in his shirt sleeves) and Clancy's manager, Terry Riley. In the midst of a brogue of farewells Jerry fairly bumped into the girl. He took off his hat and apologized, finding himself looking with surprise straight into Una's face. She started back and would have gone on, but Jerry caught her by the arm.

"Una!" he said. "Don't you know me?"

"Yes, Jerry. Of course, but it seems so strange to see you—here—" She paused. "To see you down here—in the Bowery."

"It is, isn't it?" he stammered. "But I—I'll explain in a minute—if you'll let me walk with you."

She looked him over with a sober air, her gaze passing for a moment over his soft hat pulled down over the eyes, his rough clothing, the cigarette in his fingers (he hadn't really begun rigid training yet), and then shrugged.

"Of course, I can have no objection," she said coolly.

Jerry threw the cigarette away.

"I suppose you think it's very curious to see me down here at Finnegan's," Jerry repeated.

No reply.

"I've been there on—er—a matter of business—with—with Flynn. He's my athletic instructor, you know. It's a sort of secret. I—I'm supposed to belong up town."

"Oh, are you?" Still, I think, the cool, indifferent tone.

"You know I—I'm awfully glad to see you. I've been hunting for you ever since I came out of the—the asylum—you know."

It must have pleased her that Jerry should have remembered her phrase.

"Really!" her tone melting a little. "It's pleasant to be—remembered."

She turned and again searched him slowly with her gaze, smiling a little.

"How long have you been in New York?"

"Oh, ages—almost two months."

"And in that time," she said quizzically, "the Faun has learned the habit of saloons and cigarettes. You've progressed, haven't you?"

"Oh, I say, Una. That's not quite fair. I don't make a habit of saloons, and a cigarette once in a while doesn't hurt a fellow if his wind and heart are good."

"And are your wind and heart good?" she asked with her puzzling smile.

"Now you're making fun of me. You always did though, didn't you? You know it's awfully fine to hear you talk like that. Makes it seem as if we'd just met by the big rock on the Sweetwater. You remember, don't you?"

"Yes, I remember," she replied.

He eyed her sober little profile curiously. She seemed strangely demure.

"I don't think you're very glad to see me," he said. "I thought perhaps you would be. There were so many things that we began to talk about and didn't finish. I've thought about them a good deal. I really want to talk to you about them again. Couldn't we—er—go somewhere and—Have you had lunch yet? Can't we find a place to get a cup of tea?"

She turned toward him and their eyes met. When her gaze turned away from him she was smiling.

"Yes. I'd like a cup of tea," she said after a moment of deliberation.

He didn't very well know this part of the city, but he remembered a restaurant he had once gone to with Flynn, the very one, it seems, where I had taken refuge. And there they were, looking at each other across the table, the girl, as Jerry expressed it, a little demure, a little quizzical, possibly a little upon the defensive, but friendly enough. If she hadn't been friendly, he argued, most properly, she wouldn't have come with him.

"I can't seem to think it's really you," Jerry began after he had given his order. "You're different somehow—soberer and a little pale."

"Am I?"

"Yes, I can't think just how I expected you to look in New York. Of course, you wouldn't wear leather gaiters, or carry a butterfly net. There aren't any butterflies in the Bowery, are there?"

"No—no butterflies." She paused a moment. "Only moths with singed wings."

She examined him furtively, but he was frankly puzzled.

"Moths—! I don't think I understand."

"Yes—moths—I—I spend a good deal of my time at the Blank Street Mission."

"And what is that?"

She gazed for a moment at him wide-eyed.

"A home—a refuge," she went on haltingly, "for—for women in trouble. They're the moths—bewildered by the lights of the town—they—they singe their wings and then we try to help them."

"It's great of you, Una."

"And what do you do with your time?" she broke in quickly. "Whom have you met? Is the riddle of existence easier for you in New York than at Horsham Manor?"

"No," he blurted out. "I don't understand it at all. I'm always making the most absurd mistakes. I'm fearfully stupid. Do you ever use rouge, Una?"

The suddenness of the question took her aback, but in a second she was smiling in spite of herself.

"No, I don't, Jerry. But lots of girls do. It's the fashion."

"I know, but do you approve of it?"

"It's very effective if not overdone," she evaded.

"But do you approve of it?" he insisted.

"There's no harm in it, is there? I'd wear it if I wanted to."

"But you don't want to."

"No. Why do you want to know?"

But he didn't seem to hear her question.

"Do you drink cocktails? Or smoke cigarettes?"

"No. I don't like cocktails. Besides they're not served at the Mission. We think they might create false notions of the purposes of the organization."

He didn't laugh.

"But surely you smoke cigarettes!"

"No, I don't smoke. I don't like cigarettes."

"But if you liked them, would you smoke?" he questioned eagerly.

"What a funny boy you are! What difference does it make what I do or don't do?"

"Would you smoke, if you liked to?" he still insisted.

She was very much amused.

"How can I tell what I'd do if I liked to when I don't like to?"

"Do you approve of them then—for women, I mean?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Just because I'd like to know what you think of such things—because you seem to me to be so calm, so sane in your point of view. You always impressed me that way—from the very first, even when you were making fun of me."

"Why do you think I'm sane?" she asked amusedly.

"Because there's no nonsense about you. There are a lot of things I'd like to talk to you about—things I don't quite understand—if you'd only let me see you."

"You're seeing me now, aren't you?"

"Yes. But I can't talk about them all—at once."

"You've made a pretty good start, I should say."

Jerry laughed. "I have, haven't I? That's the way I always do when I'm with you."

"Always?" she inquired, raising her brows with a show of dignity. "Do you realize that I have only met you once—twice before in my life—and then most informally?"

"I feel as if I'd known you always."

"But you haven't. And I'm beginning to think I don't know you at all."

"But you do, better than anybody almost. It was awfully good of you to come here with me today—after my meeting you the way I did. I ought to apologize. Girls don't like to go with fellows when they come out of saloons, but I wasn't drinking, you know."

"Oh, weren't you?"

"No," he said hastily. And then to cover a possible misconception of his meaning, "But of course I would drink, if I wanted to. I don't see any difference between having a drink at Finnegan's and having it in a club uptown."

She regarded him for a moment in silence and then,

"You do belong to some of the clubs, then?"

"Oh, yes. The Cosmos, the Butterfly and several others—" He broke off with a laugh. "You see, I'm supposed to be something of a swell"—

"You don't look much of a swell today," she said with a glance at his clothes. "And Finnegan's, though exclusive for the Bowery, is hardly what might be called smart. I am curious, Jerry. Curiosity is one of my besetting sins—otherwise I'd never have gotten inside your wall. I've been wondering what on earth you could have been doing in Finnegan's saloon."

Jerry sipped at his tea and was silent. The girl's eyes still questioned good-humoredly and then, still smiling, looked away. But Jerry would not speak. A coward she had once called him. Was it that he feared her sober judgment of this wild plan of his? Did he see something hazardous in the conservatism of her calm slate-blue eyes that would put his new mode of thought, his new habit of mind to tests which they might not survive?

"I—I said it was on business of Flynn's," he evaded at last. "He's a very good friend of mine. It wouldn't interest you in the least, you know," he finished lamely.

"Possibly not," she said calmly. "I hope you'll forgive my impertinence."

He felt the change in her tone and was up in arms at once. "Don't talk in that way, Una. I'd let you know if there was any possible use." He paused and then decidedly, "But there isn't, you see. Won't you take my word for it?"

She laughed at his serious demeanor.

"You know I am a curious creature, unduly so about this. But you do seem a little like the Caliph in the Arabian Nights, or Prince Florizel in London. You aren't a second-story man, are you? Or a member of a suicide club?"

He gazed at her in perplexity and then laughed. "You're just as real as ever, aren't you?"

"Real! I should hope so. But you aren't. The first time I see you, you're a woodland philosopher, living on berries and preaching in the wilderness; the second time, you're merely a caged enthusiast without a mission; the third time you're Haroun al Raschid, smoking cigarettes at Finnegan's. I wonder what you're going to be next."

He felt the light sting of irony, but her humor disarmed him.

"I'm not going to be anything else," he said slowly. "And I'm not an enthusiast without a mission. I may have been then, but I'm not now. You don't just understand. I'm pretty busy in a way, learning the ropes, business, social and all the rest of them, but I'm not idle. I'm learning something all the time, Una, and I'm going to try to help—I can, too."

"Do you really mean that?" she asked incredulously when he paused.

"Yes, I mean it. I want to try to help right away, if you'll let me. See here, Una—" He leaned across the table in a sudden burst of enthusiasm. "I don't want you to think that I've ever said anything I don't mean. I said up there at Horsham Manor that I wanted to help you in your work, and I'm going to prove it to you that whatever your doubts of me I haven't changed my purposes. You didn't believe me when I said I'd been hunting for you. You don't have to, if you don't want to, but you'll have to believe me now when I tell you that I want to set aside a fund for you to use—to administer yourself. Oh, you needn't be surprised. I've got more money than I know what to do with. It's rotting in a bank—piling up. I don't want it. I don't need it, and I want you to take some of it right away and put it where it will do the most good. You've got to take it—you've got to, if only to prove that you don't believe me insincere. I'm going to start giving money now and if you don't help me I'll have to ask somebody else. I'd rather have you do it, personally, than work through some big charity organization, that would spend seven or eight dollars, in overhead charges, before they could distribute one. That kind of charity is all very well and does fine work, I suppose, but I want to feel that I'm helping personally—directly. I'll want to pitch in down here some day and do what I can myself. You've got to do it, Una—let me give you some money to start with right away, won't you?"

He paused breathless awaiting her reply. Her face was turned toward me during the whole of Jerry's rather long speech and I watched the play of emotion upon her features. She had been prepared, I suppose, from the appearance of Jerry's companions at Finnegan's, to find her woodland idyl shattered, and she followed Jerry word by word through his boyish outburst, incredulously at first, then earnestly and then eagerly. She had an unusually expressive countenance and the transition I observed was the more illuminating in the light of my previous knowledge of their acquaintance. Jerry was enthroned again, panoplied in virtues.

"You almost take my breath way," she said at last. "It's very bewildering," she smiled. "But are you sure you're—" she paused. "I mean, isn't there someone else to be consulted?"

"No," he cried, I think a little triumphantly. "No one, I'm my own master. I can do as I please. How much do you want, Una? Would five thousand help? Five thousand right away? And then five thousand more the first of each month?"

She started back in her chair and gazed at him in an expression of mingled incredulity and dismay.

"Five thou—!"

"And five thousand a month," Jerry repeated firmly.

"You can't mean—"

"I do. See here. I'll show you."

He felt in his pockets, I suppose for his check-book,—but could not find it. Naturally! It evidently wasn't a habit of the pugilist Robinson to carry about in his hand-me-down suit a check-book carrying a bank balance of forty or fifty thousand dollars. He was rather put out at not finding it and felt that she must still consider his magnificent offer somewhat doubtfully.

"Well, I'll send it to you tomorrow. You'll see if I don't."

The boy was uppermost in him now and I saw the gay flash of her eye which recognized it—the enthusiast of Horsham Manor who wanted to help cure the "plague spots."

"I knew it," she laughed at him. "I knew you'd be somebody else if I only waited long enough. Now you're Prester John and Don Quixote rolled into one. You propose by the simple process of financing the operation to turn our slums into Happy Valleys, our missions into gardens of resurrection. It's a very beautiful purpose, Jerry, quite worthy of your colorful imagination, but the modern philanthropist doesn't wed his Danae with a shower of gold. He's discovered that it's very likely to turn her head."

"But if it's wisely given—" he put in peevishly.

"Oh, wisely! That's just the point."

"It ought not to be so difficult."

She smiled at him soberly.

"Charity isn't merely giving money, Jerry," she said. "Money sometimes does more harm than good."

"I can't see that."

"It's quite true. We try to keep people from being dependent. What you propose is a kind of philanthropic chaos. If I used your money as freely as you would like, it wouldn't be long before half the people in my district would be living on you—giving nothing—no effort, no work, no self-respect in return. You don't mind if I say so, but that sort of thing isn't charity, Jerry. It's merely sentimental tomfoolery which might by accident do some good, but would certainly do much harm."

Jerry's eyes opened wide as he listened. She was frank enough, but I couldn't help admitting to myself that she was quite wise. Jerry was discovering that it wasn't so easy to help as he had supposed. Whatever he may have thought of her theories of social science, he made no comment upon them.

"Then you won't let me help you?" he asked quite meekly, for Jerry.

"Oh, no," she smiled coolly. "I didn't say that. I was merely trying to show you what the difficulties are. We're very glad to get voluntary contributions when we're sure just what we can do with them. I know of several cases now—"

"Yes," eagerly. "Whatever you need—"

"But five thousand—"

"Couldn't you use it?" eagerly.

She paused and then smiled brightly across the table at him.

"I'll try to, Jerry."

"And the five thousand a month?" he urged. "Oh, you don't know, Una. It isn't a third of my income even now and later I've got more—so much that I'm sick thinking of it. You've got to use it, somehow. If you can't help the women, use it on the men, or the children—"

"We might add a day nursery—" she murmured thoughtfully.

"Yes, that's it—a day nursery—wonderful thing—a day nursery. Add two of 'em. You must. You've got to plan; and if your organization isn't big enough to handle it, you must get the right people to help you."

He reached across the table, upsetting a teacup, and seized her hands in both of his. "Oh, you will, Una, won't you?"

She withdrew her hands gently and looked at him, on her lips a queer little crooked smile.

"What are you now? The philosopher, the enthusiast or the Caliph? You're very insistent, aren't you? I think you must be the Caliph—or the Grand Cham!"

"Then you agree?" he cried.

"I'll try," she said quietly.

Jerry gave a great gasp. "By Jove," he said with a boyish laugh. "I can't tell you what a relief it is to get this off my mind. I know I ought to be down here helping, but I—I can't just now. Uncle Jack—that's Ballard Junior—says I've got a place in the world to keep up and a lot of rubbish about—"

"That's very right and proper—of course," she said, gathering up her gloves.

He noted the motion.

"Oh, don't go yet, Una. There are a lot of things I'd like to ask you."

"I think I will have to go."

"But you'll let me see you and talk to you about things, won't you?"

"Of course, I'll have to make an accounting of your money—"

"Oh, yes—the check. You'll get it tomorrow."

"But, Jerry—"

"Your address, please," he insisted with a stern and business-like air.

The moment was propitious. They would certainly see me when they got up, so when their heads were bent together over the slip of paper the waiter brought, I quietly rose and, braving detection, went out of the door.



CHAPTER XIV

JERRY GOES INTO TRAINING

Outside the restaurant I changed my plans. I decided not to go to Flynn's that afternoon, for I wanted Jerry to understand how little I was in sympathy with his prize fight. And after the first day he no longer insisted on my going with him. But he came to Ballard's apartment and we had several talks in which, after one final and fruitless effort to dissuade him from his fight, I gave up and we talked of other things.

It was not necessary for me to tell Jerry that I had overheard his interview with Una Habberton. And when he spoke of the incident, I encouraged him to talk until I learned just how much—and how little—the meeting meant to him. The impression, the rather unique impression she had first made upon the clean, fair surface of his mind, remained indelibly printed: the first female creature he had seen and talked with, a youthful being, like himself, with whom he could talk as he talked with me, without care or restraint,—a creature of ideals, humor, and a fine feeling for human companionship which she did not hesitate to share; a friend like Skookums or me, but of an infinitely finer grain, with a gentler voice, a smoother skin and softer eyes, better to look at; in short, more agreeable, more surprising, more sympathetic, more appealing. This chance meeting, I think, merely confirmed the previous impression, reasserting an early conception of femininity with which the charms of Marcia Van Wyck could have nothing in common. He must have compared them, but with different standards of comparison, for each in Jerry's mind was sui generis. The glamour of Marcia, her perfumes, her artistry, the lure of her voice and eyes, her absorbing abstractions and sudden enthusiasms—how could Una's quaint transitions compare with such as these? And yet I am sure that he judged Una Habberton not unfavorably in Marcia's reflected glamour, for he spoke of the character in her hands (thinking of Marcia's rosy nails) and the radiancy of her smile (thinking of Marcia's red lips). And whatever he may have thought of her personal pulchritude or the quiet magnetism of her friendliness, there was no room in his mind just now for the merely spiritual. If Una had a place in his heart, it was where the ebb and flow were quiet, not in the mid-stream of hot blood. But Jerry kept his word. His check for Una's day nursery went forward on the day following their meeting and Jerry found time in the intervals between Marcia, business and the gymnasium to call upon Una and talk over in a general way the great project in which their interest was involved. I heard little of these few meetings, for after a short visit with Ballard, during which we discussed Jerry's plans in despair, I went back to the Manor to resume my much neglected work.

It was now March. I missed Jerry as I knew I should miss him always at this season when it had been our custom to fare forth in search of woodland adventure and the early signs of spring. I wondered if Jerry in the city could be feeling the call of the wanderlust as I did. I managed to work a few hours of each day, but my habit of concentration seemed to fail me, and my thoughts kept recurring unpleasantly to the ruin Jerry was courting both for his reputation and his spirit. Clean as he was, he couldn't play too long with pitch and not be defiled. I heard one day that Briar Hills had just been opened and I pricked up my ears. Aha! It couldn't be long now before the bird would come homing.

The notice of this home-coming reached me in the form of a wire.

"Will arrive with party tomorrow. Have six bedrooms prepared for guests. Will explain when I see you."

Six bedrooms! A house party—in the very midst of his training! I couldn't understand. A fine hope surged in me. A house party—guests! Could it be that something had happened to change his plans? Had he given up his bout with Clancy? I could hardly restrain my impatience and tried to get Jack Ballard on the telephone. He had left town. It was very curious; for somewhere in me vague misgivings stirred. What if—!

The morrow brought the painful solution of my uncertainties. For toward four o'clock of the afternoon there was a roaring of automobiles in the drive which brought me to the study window, from which vantage point I saw Jerry dismounting from the car in front with three other men, Flynn, Christopher and a large colored man, while from the other car, a hired machine, by the look of it, four other figures descended—all unloading suit-cases upon the terrace steps—a motley crowd in flannel shirts and sweaters, with cropped heads, thick necks and red hands, all talking loudly and staring up at the towers of the house as though they expected them to fall on them. This then was Jerry's house-party—! Thugs, cut-throats, apaches—his pugilist friends from Flynn's!



Jerry hurried along the terrace and met me at the hall door, where he burst into unseemly laughter. I suppose at the expression of dismay which must have been written upon my countenance. He seized me by both hands and led me indoors.

"There wasn't any use wiring you the truth, Roger. I didn't want to make you unhappy any sooner than I had to. Are you upset?"

"Nothing can ever upset me again," I said with dignity. "It's your house. I can move out."

"But you won't, Roger," he clapped an arm around my shoulders and walked me into the study. "We're not going to bother you. But we just had to get away from town for some road work—and it's devilish conspicuous anywhere near the city, people watching, reporters and all that sort of thing."

He turned, for the dismayed servants had come out and stood in a row in the hall aghast at the appearance of the visitors who stood awkwardly shifting their feet in the main doorway, their suit-cases and bundles in their arms, awaiting directions.

"Take those things upstairs—show 'em, Christopher," says Jerry. "You show 'em to their rooms, Poole. And when you're washed up, Flynn, come down here again."

Over his shoulder I watched the hulking devils go past in sheepish single file with furtive glances at me. When they had passed out of sight, Jerry explained rapidly.

"You see, Roger, we had to do it. There was no other way. I needed some running badly and there wasn't a chance for it—without the whole thing coming out in the papers."

I smiled ironically. "And you think you've chosen a way to avoid publicity by bringing these"—I restrained myself with difficulty—"these gentlemen here? Don't you know that every paper in New York will have a man here writing the thing up?"

"No, they won't. They can't get in. I stopped at the Lodge as I came by and gave my orders."

"But they'll know that Jim Robinson and Jerry Benham are the same."

Jerry winked an eye and laid a finger along his nose.

"No, they won't, old Dry-as-dust, for the very simple reason that he isn't."

"I don't understand."

"Well, you see, I'm Jim Robinson and you are Jerry Benham."

"I!" I gasped.

"Precisely. You are Jerry Benham, patron of the manly art—Maecenas, friend and backer of Robinson aforesaid, whom you've invited to Horsham Manor to complete his training."

"Preposterous! These—these bruisers" (I let go now) "think I'm you?"

"No, dear Roger, not I, who am Robinson, but Jerry Benham, multi-millionaire and king of good fellows. Flynn knows the truth, of course, but he's shut as tight as a clam. He won't talk, for his own interests are involved."

"You expect me to play the part of good fellow," I broke out when I had sufficiently recovered from the shock of his information. "You expect me to entertain this motley aggregation of assorted criminals as Jerry Benham! Well, I won't, and that's flat."

"Now, Roger, don't be unreasonable," he said with a cajoling smile. "They're a pretty decent lot, really. Sagorski—the big chap with the fuzzy hair, he's not half bad when you know him; and Carty, the one with the cauliflower ear, his fight comes off inside of a week. We're helping him out, too, you see—good food, clean air—bully fellow—a little too finely drawn just now and a bit irritable—"

"I see. A bit irritable—so am I—"

"And then," he went on, "the other big fellow is Tim O'Halloran, my chopping block, has a nasty left—and is a demon for punishment. The little fellow is Kid Spatola, an Italian, one of my handlers, the bootblack champion. Oh, they're a fine lot, Roger—You'll get to like 'em. Nothing like being thrown with chaps a lot to know what they're like—inside of 'em, I mean."

"Quite true," I remarked with desperate calmness. "And who, if I may ask, is the colored gentleman in the yellow sweater?"

"Oh!" said Jerry pleasantly. "That's Danny Monroe, my rubber. He's the best masseur outside of Sweden, knows all the tricks; wait until you see him rubbing me down."

"I shall try to possess my soul in patience until then," I said. "Have you designated which of the spare rooms these gentlemen are to occupy?"

"Ah, don't be stodgy, Roger," he said. "They'll all be in the wing. They won't bother you. I'm counting on you to help. Just try, won't you? It will only be for about three weeks."

I gasped and sank into the nearest chair. Three weeks in which this gang of hoodlums must be fed, looked after and entertained. I was helpless. Radford, the superintendent, had gone for a lengthy visit to relatives in California.

"I hope you have their criminal records—also a private detective to watch the silver," I murmured weakly.

"No, I haven't," Jerry retorted. "I'm not afraid of any of them. It's rather narrow, Roger, to think, just because a chap goes into pugilism as a business, that he isn't straight. You've taught me that one man is as good as another and now you're—you're crawling. That's what you're doing—crawling."

I was indeed, crawling, groveling. I strove upward, but remained prostrate.

"How could you do such a thing, Jerry?" I remonstrated feebly.

He patted me on the back—much, I think, as he would have patted Skookums in encouragement.

"Oh, be a good sport, Roger. You can be when you want to, you know. We won't bother you. We'll be in the gym or on the road most of the day, and in bed at nine sharp."

"What do you—want me to do?" I stammered at last.

"Why nothing," he said, his face brightening. "Just to be Jerry Benham for awhile. It isn't such a lot to ask, is it? Just make believe you're pleased as punch to have 'em around—come and watch me work" (he had the jargon at his tongue's tip) "and show some interest in the proceedings. You are interested, Roger."

"I'm not."

"You don't want to see me licked, do you?"

I sighed. The affair was out of my hands.

"What shall you want to eat?" I asked meekly.

"Oh, beefsteak, lots of it—and other things. Flynn will tell you." He folded his arms and gazed down at me contentedly. "Thanks, old man," he said gratefully. "I knew you would. It's fine of you. I won't forget it."

"Nor will I," I said. Jerry only laughed. D—n the boy. It was rank tyranny.

Flynn and Sagorski were already down the stairs. I eyed them malevolently, but rose and went to the kitchen to give the necessary orders. There I found the force of servants in executive session and my appearance was the signal for immediate notice from the entire lot. I hadn't foreseen this difficulty which immediately assumed the proportions of a calamity. They stated their objections, which may well be imagined, most respectfully but in no uncertain terms. They could have endured Mr. Flynn, Mr. Carty and Mr. Sagorski, but they balked at Mr. Danny Monroe. I had balked at him, too, but I didn't tell them so. The upstairs maids (we had chambermaids now) absolutely refused to consider any of my arguments in rebuttal and were already pinning on their hats, when Jerry, who had gotten wind of the mutiny from Christopher (poor Christopher!), came running and planting himself in their very midst, demolished their objections with a laugh and an offer of double wages. They smiled at a joke he made, weakened, finally unpinned their hats and took up their aprons. I have never in my experience seen such an example of the blandishment of wealth.

Peace restored and the orders given, which included a pledge of secrecy as to Jerry's real identity and mine, I made my way to the gymnasium with Jerry in a valiant effort to "be a good sport" and to appear as "pleased as punch" at the invasion of my sanctuary by Jerry's Huns. Carty and Flynn were having a fast "go" of it on the floor, with Monroe, the Swedish negro, keeping time, while from beyond came sounds of howling where "Kid" Spatola and Tim O'Halloran were sporting like healthy grampuses in Jerry's—my—marble pool. Jerry made the introductions gayly and O'Halloran splashed a greeting, while Spatola eyed my rusty black serge critically (Spatola was the Beau Brummel of the party as I discovered later) nodded, and then did a back flip-flap from the diving board.

But unwelcome as they were to me, they were not nearly so unpleasant in a state of nature as they had been in their clothing, for when considered as sentient beings they left much to be desired; as healthy human animals, I had to admit that they were a success, and having conceded the fact that they were animals and Horsham Manor was for the present a zoo, the rest was merely a matter of mental adjustment. I played my part of host, I fear, with a bad grace, but as manners held no high place in their code of being, my deficiencies passed unnoticed.

Was this triumph of matter over mind nature's cynical reply to my years of care and study in bringing Jerry to perfect manhood? Had I erred in giving importance to the growth and development of Jerry's body? Or was it, as Jack Ballard had said, merely that the nice adjustment of mind and matter had been suddenly disarranged? How far was this muscular orgy to carry him? And where would it end? After Madison Square Garden—what?

Dinner found me no nearer a solution and I sighed as my glance passed the length of the table, along the row of villainous faces to where opposite me Jim Robinson grinned cheerfully over his plate. It was quite wonderful to see these Vandals eat—beefsteak, bread, vegetables, eggs, milk—everything put before them vanished as if by magic, while Poole and Christopher with set and scornful faces hurried to the pantry, bearing in their empty dishes the mute evidence of the gastronomic miracles that were being performed beneath their very eyes. For my part I confess that I was so fascinated in watching the way in which Sagorski used his knife and fork and the dexterous manner in which he dispatched his food in spite of such a handicap that I ate nothing. They talked in mono-syllables and grunts for the most part, and when really conversing used language which I found it most difficult to understand. Their dinner finished, they rose, stretching and eructating in true Rabelaisian fashion.

"A stroll in the Park, byes, now. And then—the feathers," said Flynn, passing the chewing gum.

"A fine lot, ain't they, Mr. Benham?" said Jerry to me as they filed out.

"Extraordinary," I replied, with a fictitious smile, "most extraordinary."

He grinned at me and followed them.

It was not until the next day in the hour between road and gym work that I managed to get Flynn aside. He had thus far succeeded in avoiding me, but I caught him by the arm as he was passing, dragged him into my study and shut the door.

"See here, Flynn," I said with some warmth, "it's not my affair to interfere with any of Mr. Benham's plans. He's his own master now and can do what he pleases, but you and I have always been good enough friends, and I should like to know just how much or how little you've had to do with getting the boy into this match at the Garden—"

He looked at me quizzically for a moment and then grinned.

"Ye've got a right to ask me that, Mr. Canby. An' I'll give ye a fair answer. I had nothin' to do wid it, sor—honor bright—" He paused and grinned again. "Mind ye, I'm not sayin' I'm sorry he's doin' it, for I won't lie to ye. I'd like to see him lick Sailor Clancy an' I'm doin' my best to help him to it. But for havin' a hand in puttin' Masther Jerry up to the game ye can count me out. 'Twas Masther Jerry himself, sor. He got it into his head someway an' there was no gettin' rid of it. I made the match for the bye because he wanted it—an' that's a fact—nothin' else."

He looked me in the eye and I knew that he told the truth.

"What chance has Jerry of winning, Flynn?" I asked.

"Ah, there ye've got me, sor. Jerry's a rare one, he is, and plucky—and quick as any man of his weight in the wor-rld—but Clancy is a good 'un, too—young, strong as a bull an' expayrienced. Fought steady for three years, an' winning, sor. He'll have the confidence—but Masther Jerry is a wonder. He'll have a chanct, sor, more than an even chanct, I'd say, if he don't waste nothin'."

"Waste nothing?"

"He's got to land, sor—every time and waste no whiffs on nothin'."

"I see."

Flynn was eyeing the door impatiently. He was a busy man and had no time to answer foolish questions.

"There's no chance of getting out of it?" I asked.

"None, sor. He couldn't quit now. Ye wouldn't want him to, would you, sor?" he finished in a reproachful tone, which just missed being disagreeable.

I opened the door and he lost no time in getting to the gymnasium.

That next afternoon in the midst of the work out, I had another surprise, for a wagon arrived from the station and in it were Marcia Van Wyck and Miss Gore, the latter dragged against her will to play a part she little cared for. I happened to meet them in the hall, where, since none of the pugilists were present, Marcia put aside subterfuge, nodded coolly and asked for Jerry. She wore the badly fitting suit her maid had procured for her and chewed gum incessantly. I looked anxiously at Miss Gore, but it seems that even her martyrdom stopped at that. I led the way to the gymnasium where Jerry and the irritable Carty were resting between rounds. The girl nodded to Jerry, who waved his glove, and took one of the chairs by the ring-side, the obedient Miss Gore next her.

"What round?" she asked masticating leisurely.

"Third," said Flynn with his gaze on his watch, "Time!"

And they went at it hammer and tongs. From my chair beside Miss Gore I watched the girl. Her hands were clasped over her knees as she leaned forward, her eyes glowing, watching the swift motions of the two men as they moved backward and forward. Miss Gore wore the fixed smile of the perpetually bored. She watched Jerry and Carty exchanging their blows, with a sphinxlike air as though inspecting half-naked men dancing around each other was her usual afternoon's employment. She was admirable, accepting her lot in life with a philosophy which had in it something of the stoic. Only when Carty landed on Jerry's lip and the blood showed did she wince.

"You—approve of this?" she whispered, then to me.

"No. I'm helpless," I returned.

"You know?"

"Yes. It's madness. She made him do—"

"Sh—" she warned, for the round had ended, and Marcia turned toward her. But I knew that she understood.

"You're a good sport, Mr. Benham," said Marcia to me, assuming her role with an air of enjoyment, "havin' the boys up here to train. Jim's comin' fast, ain't he?"