"Just as soon as you're able, come hold the horse," said the stranger, "and then I'll fix this rein, and take you back and get you something to eat."

"Oh, no!" said Samuel. "Don't bother. That's all right."

"Hell, man!" cried the other. "Don't you suppose I'm going to do anything for you?"

"Well, I hadn't thought—" began Samuel.

"Cut it out!" exclaimed the other. "I'll set you up, and find you a job, and you can have a decent start."

Find him a job! Samuel's heart gave a great throb. For a moment he hardly knew how to take this—how it would fit into his new philosophy. But surely it was all right for him to take a job. Yes, he had earned it. Even if some one else had to be turned out—even so, he had proven his fitness. He had won in the struggle. He had a place among the successful, and he could help Sophie and her mother.

He got up with eagerness, and held the horse. "Do you think you can manage him?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," said the other. "I'll chance it, anyhow."

And he leaped into the runabout and took the reins. "Now," he said; and Samuel got in, and they sped away, back toward town.

"Don't say anything about this accident, please," said the young man suddenly.

"I won't," said Samuel.

"My friends are always teasing me because I drive horses," he explained.

"Why not?" asked the other.

"Well, everybody drives motors nowadays. But my father stood by horses, and I learned to be fond of them."

"We never had but one horse on the farm," observed Samuel. "But I was fond of him."

"What is your name?" inquired the stranger; and Samuel told him. Also he told him where he had come from and what had happened to him. He took particular pains to tell about the jail, because he did not want to deceive anyone. But his companion merely called it "an infernal outrage."

"Where were you going now?" he asked.

"I'd just left Professor Stewart's," replied Samuel.

"What! Old Stew? How do you come to know him?"

"He was at the court. And he said he'd get me a job, and then he found he couldn't. Do you know him?"

"Oh, yes, I had him at college, you know."

"Oh, do you go to the college?"

"I used to—till my father died. Then I quit. I hate study."

Samuel was startled. "I suppose you don't need to," he said after a pause.

"No," said the other. "My father thought the world of Old Stew," he added; "but he used to bore the life out of me. How'd you find him?"

"Well," answered Samuel, "you see, I haven't had any of your advantages. I found what he told me very wonderful."

"What did he tell you?"

"Well, he explained to me how it was I was out of a job. There are too many people in the world, it seems, and I was one of the unfit. I had failed in the struggle for existence, and so I had to be exterminated, he said."

"The devil he did!" exclaimed the stranger.

Samuel wished that the young man would not use so many improper words; but he presumed that was one of the privileges of the successful. "I was very grateful to him," he went on, "because, you see, I hadn't understood what it meant. But when I realized it was for the good of the race, then I didn't mind any more."

His companion stole a glance at him out of the corner of his eye. "Gee!" he said.

"I had quite an argument with him. I wanted him to see that he ought to teach the people. There are thousands of people starving here in Lockmanville; and would you want to starve without knowing the reason?"

"No," said the other, "I don't think I should." And again he looked at his companion.

But the conversation was interrupted there. For some time they had been passing the place with the ten-foot iron railing; and now they came to the great stone entrance with the name "Fairview" carved upon it. To Samuel's surprise they turned in.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Home," said the other.

And Samuel started. "Do you live here?" he gasped.

"Yes," was the reply.

Samuel stared at the familiar driveway with the stately elms, and the lawns with the peacocks and lyre birds. "This is one of the places where I asked for work," he said. "They ordered me out."

"The deuce they did!" exclaimed the other. "Well, they won't order you out now."

There was a pause. "You haven't told me your name," put in Samuel suddenly.

"I thought you'd guess," said the other with a laugh.

"How could I?"

"Why—don't you know what place this is?"

"No," said Samuel. "What?"

And his companion replied, "It's the Lockman place."

Samuel caught his breath and clutched at the seat.

"The Lockman place!" he panted; and then again, "The Lockman place!"

He stared ahead at the great building, with the broad porticos and the snow-white columns. He could hardly credit his ears.

"I'm the old man's son," added the stranger genially. "Albert's my name. They call me Bertie."



CHAPTER IX

Properly to understand the thrill which this revelation brought to Samuel, one would have to consider the state of his mind. With all the power of his being Samuel was seeking for excellence; and a great and wise man had explained to him what were the signs by which this quality was known. And in the "struggle for existence" old Henry Lockman had succeeded more than any other man of whom Samuel had ever heard in his life. He owned these huge glass works, and many others all over the country. He owned the trolley roads, and the gas works, and the water works; the place had been named after him, and the great college also. For many years he had even run the government of the town, so Finnegan had stated. And here was this huge estate, his home- -a palace fit for a king. How great must have been the excellence of such a man! And what benefits he must have conferred upon the world, to have been rewarded with all this power and glory!

And here was his son—a youth in aspect fitting perfectly to Samuel's vision; a very prince of the blood, yet genial and free-hearted— noblesse oblige! To him had descended these virtues and excellences— and all the estates and powers as the sign and symbol thereof. And now had come a poor ignorant country boy, and it had fallen to his fortune to save the life of this extraordinary being. And he was to have a chance to be near him, and to serve him—to see how he lived, and to find out the secret of his superior excellence. There was no snobbery in Samuel's attitude; he felt precisely as another and far greater Samuel had felt when his sovereign had condescended to praise his dictionary, and the tears of gratitude had started into his eyes.

They drove up before the palace, and a groom came hurrying up. "Phillips," said young Lockman, "look at that rein!"

The groom stared aghast.

"Take it and show it to Sanderson," the other continued. "Ask him if I don't pay enough for my harness that he gets me stuff like that."

"Yes, sir," said the groom.

They alighted and crossed the broad piazza, which was covered with easy chairs and tables and rugs. In the entrance hall stood a man in livery.

"Peters," said the young man, "this is Samuel Prescott. I had some trouble with my horse and he helped me. He hasn't had anything to eat today, and I want him to have a good meal."

"Yes, sir," said the man. "Where shall I serve it, sir?"

"In the morning room. We'll wait there. And mind you, bring him a plenty."

"Yes, sir," said Peters, and went off.

Meantime Samuel had time for a glance about him. Never had he heard or dreamed of such magnificence. It was appalling, beyond belief! The great entrance hall went up to the roof; and there was a broad staircase of white marble, with galleries of marble, and below a marble fireplace, big enough to hold a section of a tree. Beyond this was a court with fountains splashing, and visions of palms and gorgeous flowers; and on each side were vistas of rooms with pictures and tapestries and furniture which Samuel thought must be of solid gold.

"Come," said his companion, and they ascended the staircase.

Halfway up, however, Samuel stopped and caught his breath. Before him there was a painting. There is no need to describe it in detail— suffice it to say that it was a life-size painting of a woman, entirely naked; and that Samuel had never seen such a thing in his life before. He dropped his eyes as he came near to it.

They went along the gallery and entered a room, dazzlingly beautiful and bright. It was all done in white satin, the front being of glass, and opening upon a wide balcony. There were flowers and singing birds, and in the panels most beautiful paintings, representing wood nymphs dancing. These airy creatures, also, were innocent of anything save filmy veils; but they were all about the room, and so poor Samuel had no way to escape them. He sought for light within his mind; and suddenly he recollected the illustrated Bible at home. Perhaps the peerless beings who lived in such palaces had returned to a state of guiltlessness, such as had existed before the serpent came.

Young Lockman flung himself into an easy chair and proceeded to cross- question his companion. He wanted to know all about the interview with "Old Stew"; and afterwards, having managed to divine Samuel's attitude to himself, he led him to talk about that, which Samuel did with the utmost frankness. "Gee, but you're a queer duffer!" was Lockman's comment; but Samuel didn't mind that.

The butler came with the meal—carrying it on a big tray, and with another man to carry a folding table, and yet another to help. Such a display of silver and cut glass! Such snowy linen, and such unimaginable viands! There were piles of sandwiches, each one half a bite for a fairly hungry man. There was jellied game, and caviar, and a pate of something strange and spicy. Nothing was what one would have expected—there were eggs inside of baked potatoes, and ice cream in some sort of crispy cake. The crackers looked like cakes, and the cakes like crackers, and the cheese was green and discouraging. But a bowl of strawberries and cream held out a rich promise at the end, and Samuel took heart.

"Fall to," said the host; and then divining the other's state of mind, he remarked, "You needn't serve, Peters," and the men went away, to Samuel's vast relief.

"Don't mind me," added Lockman laughing. "And if there's any question you want to ask, all right."

So Samuel tasted the food of the gods; a kind of food which human skill and ingenuity had labored for centuries to invent, and for days and even weeks to prepare. Samuel wondered vaguely where all these foods had come from, and how many people had had a hand in their preparation; also he wondered if all those who ate them would become as beautiful and as dazzling as his young friend.

The friend meanwhile was vastly diverted, and was bent upon making the most of his find. "I suppose you'd like to see the place?" he said.

"I should, indeed," said Samuel.

"Come and I'll show it to you—that is, If you're able to walk after the meal."

The meal did not trouble Samuel, and they went out and took a stroll. And so the boy met with yet another revelation of the possibilities of existence.

If there was anything in the world he would have supposed he understood, it was farming; but here at "Fairview" was farming as it was done by the methods of Science. At home they had had some lilac bushes and a row of peonies; here were acres of greeneries, filled with flowers of gorgeous and unimaginable splendor, and rare plants from every part of the world. At home it had been Samuel's lot to milk the cow, and he had found it a trying job on cold and dark winter mornings; and here was a model dairy, with steam heat and electric light, and tiled walls and nickel plumbing, and cows with pedigrees in frames, and attendants with white uniforms and rubber gloves. Then there was a row of henhouses, each for a fancy breed of fowl—some of them red and lean as herons, and others white as snow and as fat and ungainly as hogs. And then out in front, at one corner of the lawn, was the aviary, with houses for the peacocks and lyre birds, and for parrots and magpies and innumerable strange birds from the tropics. Also there were dog kennels with many dozens of strange breeds.

"Father got those for me," said young Lockman. "He thought I'd be interested in agriculture."

"Well, aren't you?" asked Samuel.

"Not very much," said the other carelessly. "Here's Punch—what do you think of him?"

The occasion for this was a dog, the most hideously ugly object that Samuel had ever seen in his life. "I—I don't think I'd care for him," he said hesitatingly.

"He's a Japanese bulldog," observed the other. "He cost three thousand dollars."

"Three thousand dollars!" gasped the boy in horror. "Why should anyone pay so much for a dog?"

"That's what he's worth," said the other with a laugh.

They went to see the horses, which were housed in a palace of their own. There were innumerable rows of stalls, and a running track and endless acres of inclosures. "Why do you have so many horses?" asked Samuel.

"Father ran a stock farm," said the other. "I don't have much time to give to it myself."

"But who rides the horses?" asked Samuel.

"Well, I go in for sport," replied Lockman. "I'm supposed to be quite a dab at polo."

"I see," said the boy—though to tell the truth he did not see at all, not having the least idea what polo was.

"If you're interested in horses, I'll have them find you something to do here," Lockman went on.

"Oh, thank you," said the boy with a thrill. "That will be fine!"

He could have spent all day in gazing at the marvels of this place, but his host was tired now and started back to the house. "It's lunch time," he said. "Perhaps you are hungry again!"

They came out upon the piazza and sat down. And then suddenly they heard a clatter of hoofs and looked up. "Hello!" exclaimed the host. "Here's Glad!"

A horse was coming up the road at a lively pace. The rider was seated a-straddle, and so Samuel was slow to realize that it was a woman. It was only when he saw her wave her hand and call to them that he was sure.

She reined up her horse, and a groom who followed her took the rein, and she stepped off upon the piazza and stood looking at them. She was young and of extraordinary beauty. She was breathing fast, and her hair was blown about her forehead, and the glow of health was in her cheeks; and Samuel thought that she was the most beautiful object that he had ever beheld in all his life. He stared transfixed; he had never dreamed that anything so wonderful could exist in the world. He realized in a sudden glow of excitement what it was that confronted him. She was the female of this higher species; she was the superior and triumphant woman.

"Hello, Bertie!" she said.

"Hello!" the other replied, and then added. "This is my cousin, Miss Wygant. Glad, this is Samuel Prescott."

The girl made a slight acknowledgment, and stared at Samuel with a look in which curiosity and hauteur were equally mingled. She was a brunette with dark hair, and an almost Oriental richness of coloring. She was lithe and gracefully built, and quick in her motions. There was eager alertness in her whole aspect; her glance was swift and her voice imperious. One could read her at a glance for a person accustomed to command—impatient and adventurous, passionate and proud.

"I've had an adventure," said her cousin by way of explanation. "Samuel, here, saved my life."

And Samuel thrilled to see the sudden look of interest which came into the girl's face.

"What!" she cried.

"Yes," said the other. "Spitfire ran away with me."

"You don't mean it, Bertie!"

"Yes. The rein broke. He started near the gate here and ran three or four miles with me."

"Bertie!" cried the girl. "And what happened?"

"Samuel stopped him."

"How?"

"It was splendid, Glad—the nerviest thing I ever saw. He just flung himself at the rein and caught it and hung on. He saved my life, beyond question."

And now Samuel, burning up with embarrassment, faced the full blaze of the girl's impetuous interest. "How perfectly fine!" she exclaimed; then, "Where do you come from?" she asked.

"He's just off a farm," said Lockman. "He was on his way to New York to make his fortune. And think of it, Glad, he'd been robbed, and he'd been wandering about town begging for work, and he was nearly starving."

"You don't say so!" gasped the girl.

She took a chair and indicated to Samuel to sit in front of her. "Tell me all about yourself," she said; and proceeded to cross-question him about his life and his adventures.

Poor Samuel was like a witness in the hands of a prosecutor—he became hopelessly confused and frightened. But that made no difference to the girl, who poured a ceaseless fire of questions upon him, until she had laid his whole life bare. She even made him tell about Manning, the stockbroker, and how the family had lost its money in the collapse of Glass Bottle Securities. And then her cousin put in a word about his adventure with "Old Stew," and Samuel had to tell that all over again, and to set forth his sociological convictions—Miss Wygant and her cousin meantime exchanging glances of wonder and amusement.

At last, however, they tired of him and fell to talking of a dance they were to attend and a tennis tournament in which they were to play. And so Samuel had a chance to gaze at Miss Wygant and to feast his eyes upon her beauty. He could have dreamed of no greater joy in all this world than to watch her for hours—to study every detail of her features and her costume, and to see the play of laughter about her mouth and eyes.

But then came the butler announcing luncheon; and Samuel rose in a panic. He had a sudden vision of himself being asked to the table, to sit under Miss Wygant's merciless survey. "I think I'd better go now," he said.

"All right," said young Lockman. "Will you come to-morrow morning, and we'll fix things up?"

"I'll come," said Samuel.

"What are you going to do with him?" asked the girl.

"He likes to take care of horses," said Lockman.

"No," exclaimed the other promptly, "that won't do."

"Why not?" asked he.

"Because, Bertie, you don't want to make a stable boy out of him. He has too many possibilities. For one thing, he's good looking."

Samuel flushed scarlet and dropped his eyes. He felt again that penetrating gaze.

"All right," said Lockman. "What can you suggest?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. But something decent."

"He doesn't know enough to be a house servant, Glad—"

"No—but something outside. Couldn't he learn gardening? Are you fond of flowers, Samuel?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Samuel quickly.

"Well, then, make a gardener out of him," said Miss Wygant; and that settled Samuel's destiny.

The boy took his departure and went home, almost running in his excitement. He was transported into a distant heaven of bliss; he had been seated among the gods—he was to dwell there forever after!

His new patron had given him a five-dollar bill; and before he reached the Stedman home he stopped in a grocery store and loaded up his arms with bundles. And then, seized by a sudden thought, he went into a notion store and set down his bundles and purchased a clean, white linen collar, and a necktie of royal purple and brilliant green—already tied, so that it would always be perfect in shape.

Then he went into the Stedmans, and the widow and the youngest children sat round and listened open-eyed to his tale. And then came Sophie, and he had to tell it all over again.

The girl's eyes opened wide with excitement when he came to the end of his recital. "Miss Wygant!" she exclaimed. "Miss Gladys Wygant?"

"Yes," said Samuel. "You've heard of her?"

"I've seen her!" exclaimed Sophie eagerly. "Twice!"

"You don't mean it," he said.

"Yes. Once she came to our church festival at Christmas."

"Does she belong to your church?"

"It's the mission. Great folks like her wouldn't want us in the church with them. She goes to St. Matthew's, you know—up there on the hill. But she came to the festival at the mission and helped to give out the presents. And she was dressed all in red—something filmy and soft, like you'd see in a dream. And, oh, Samuel—she was so beautiful! She had a rose in her hair—and such a sweet perfume—you could hardly bear it! And she stood there and smiled at all the children and gave them the presents. She gave me mine, and it was like seeing a princess. I wanted to fall down and kiss her feet."

"Yes," said Samuel understandingly.

"And to think that you've met her!" cried Sophie in ecstasy. "And talked with her! Oh, how could you do it?"

"I—I don't think I did it very well," said Samuel.

"What did you say to her?"

"I don't remember much of it."

"I never heard her voice," said Sophie. "She was talking, the other time I saw her, but the machinery drowned it out. That was in the mill—she came there with some other people and walked about, looking at everything. We were all so excited. You know, her father owns the mill."

"No, I didn't know it," replied Samuel.

"He owns all sorts of things in Lockmanville. They're very, very rich. And she's his only daughter, and so beautiful—everybody worships her. I've got two pictures of her that were in the newspapers once. Come— you must see them."

And so the two rushed upstairs; and over the bed were two faded newspaper clippings, one showing Miss Gladys in an evening gown, and the other in dimity en princesse, with a bunch of roses in her arms.

"Did you ever see anything so lovely?" asked the girl. "I made her my fairy godmother. And she used to say such lovely things to me. She must be very kind, you know—no one could be so beautiful who wasn't very, very good and kind."

"No," said Samuel. "She must be, I'm sure."

And then a sudden idea came to him. "Sophie!" he exclaimed—"she said I was good looking! I wonder if I am."

And Sophie shot a quick glance at him. "Why, of course you are!" she cried. "You stupid boy!"

Samuel went to the cracked mirror which hung upon the wall and looked at himself with new and wandering interest.

"Don't you see how fine and strong you are?" said Sophie. "And what a bright color you've got?"

"I never thought of it," said he, and recollected the green and purple necktie.

"And to think that you've talked with her!" exclaimed Sophie, turning back to the pictures; and she added in a sudden burst of generosity, "I tell you what I'll do, Samuel—I'll give you these, and you can put them in your room!"

"You mustn't do that!" he protested.

But the girl insisted. "No, no! I know them by heart, so it won't make any difference. And they'll mean so much more to you, because you've really met her!"



CHAPTER X

Samuel presented himself the next morning and was turned over to the head gardener and duly installed as an assistant. "Let me know how you're getting along," was young Lockman's last word to him. "And if there's anything else I can do for you come and tell me."

"Thank you very much, sir," said the boy gratefully; but without realizing how these magic words, pronounced in the gardener's hearing, would make him a privileged character about the place—an object of mingled deference and envy to the other servants.

It was a little world all in itself, the "Fairview" menage. Without counting the stable hands, and the employees of the different farms, it took no less than twenty-three people to minister to the personal wants of Bertie Lockman. And they were divided into ranks and classes, with a rigid code of etiquette, upon which they insisted with vehemence. A housekeeper's assistant looked with infinite scorn upon a kitchen maid, and there had to be no less than four dining rooms for the various classes of servants who would not eat at the same table. All this was very puzzling to the stranger; but after a while he came to see how the system had grown up. It was just like a court; and the privileged beings who waited upon the sovereign necessarily were esteemed according to the importance of the service they performed for him and the access which they attained to his person.

A good many of these servants were foreigners, and Samuel was pained to discover that they were for the most part without any ennobling conception of their calling. They were much given to gluttony and drinking; and there was an unthinkable amount of scandal and backbiting and jealousy. But it was only by degrees that he realized this, for he had one great motive in common with them—they were all possessed with a sense of the greatness of the Lockmans, and none of them wanted anything better than to talk for hours about the family and its wealth and power, and the habits and tastes of its members and their friends.

It was Katie Reilly, a bright little Irish damsel, the housekeeper's sewing girl, who first captured Samuel with her smile; she carried him off for a walk, in spite of the efforts of the second parlor maid, and Samuel drank up eagerly the stream of gossip which poured from her lips. Master Albert—that was what they all called him—was said to have an income of over seven hundred thousand dollars a year. What he did with such a sum no one could imagine; he had lived quite alone since his father's death. The house had always been run by Miss Aurelia, old Mr. Lockman's sister, a lady with the lumbago and a terrible temper; but she had died a couple of years ago. Mr. Lockman had taken great interest in his stock farm, but very little in his house; and Master Albert took even less, spending most of his time in New York. Consequently everything was at sixes and sevens, and he was being robbed most terribly. But in spite of all his relatives' suggestions, he would not have anyone to come and live with him.

Master Albert was still a minor, and his affairs were managed by Mr. Hickman, the family lawyer, and also by his uncle, Mr. Wygant. The latter was a manufacturer and capitalist—also a great scholar, so Katie said. It was he Samuel had seen that afternoon in the automobile, a tall and very proud-looking man with an iron-gray mustache. He lived in the big white house just after you climbed the ridge; and Miss Gladys was his only daughter. She had been old Mr. Lockman's favorite niece, and he had left her a great deal of money. People were always planning a match between her and Master Albert, but that always made Miss Gladys very angry. They both declared they were not in love with each other, and Katie was inclined to think this was true. Miss Gladys had been away to a rich boarding school, and she wanted to visit some friends at Newport; but her father wanted her to stay with him, and that made her discontented. She was very beautiful, and everybody was her slave. "But oh, I tell you, when she's angry!" said Katie with a shake of her head.

This little Irish girl was a rare find for Samuel, because her brother was the "fellow" to Miss Gladys's maid, and so there was nothing she could not tell Samuel about his divinity. He learned about Miss Gladys's beautiful party dresses, and about her wonderful riding horse, and about her skill at tennis, and even her fondness for chocolate fudge. Miss Gladys had been to Paris the summer before; and her family had a camp in the Adirondacks, and they went there every August in an automobile and flew about on a mountain lake in a motor- boat the shape of a knife blade. Katie wanted to talk about Samuel a part of the time, and even, perhaps, about herself; but Samuel plied her with questions about Miss Wygant.

He had her two pictures folded away in his vest pocket; and all the time that he trimmed the hedges he listened for the sound of her horse's hoofs or for the chug of her motor. And then, one blissful morning, when he was carrying in an armful of roses for the housekeeper, he ran full upon her in the hall.

His heart leaped so that it hurt him; and instead of passing straight on, as he should have done, he stood stock still, and almost spilled his roses on the floor.

Miss Gladys's face lighted with pleasure.

"Why, it's Samuel!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, Miss Gladys," said he.

"And how do you like your position?"

"Very well, Miss Gladys," he replied; and then, feeling the inadequacy of this, he added with fervor, "I'm so happy I can't tell you."

"I'm very glad to hear it," she said. "And I'm sure you fill it very well."

"I've done the best I can, Miss Gladys," said he.

There was a moment's pause. "You find there is a good deal to learn?" she inquired.

"Yes," he answered. "But you see, it's about flowers, and I was always interested in flowers."

And again there was a pause; and then suddenly Miss Wygant flung a question at him—"Samuel, why do you look at me like that?"

Samuel was almost knocked over.

"Why—why—" he gasped. "Miss Gladys! I don't—!"

"Ah!" she said, "but you do."

Poor Samuel was in an agony of horror. "I—I—really—" he stammered. "I didn't mean it—I wouldn't for the world—-"

He stopped, utterly at a loss; and Miss Wygant kept her merciless gaze upon him. "Am I so very beautiful?" she asked.

This startled Samuel into lifting his eyes. He stared at her, transfixed; and at last he whispered, faintly, "Yes."

"Tell me about it," she said, and her look shook him to the depths of his soul.

He stood there, trembling; he could feel the blood pouring in a warm flood about his throat and neck. "Tell me," she said again.

"You—you are more beautiful than anyone I have ever seen," he panted.

"You are not used to women, Samuel!"

"No," said he. "I'm just a country boy."

She stood waiting for him to continue. "The girls there"—he whispered—"they are pretty—but you—you—-"

And then suddenly the words came to him. "You are like a princess!" he cried.

"Ah, if you ever find your tongue!" she said with a smile; and then after a pause she added, "You don't know how different you are, Samuel."

"Different?" he echoed.

"Yes. You are so fresh—so young. You would do anything for me, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," he said.

"You'd risk your life for me, as you did for Bertie?"

And Samuel answered her with fervor that left no room for doubt.

"I wish there was a chance," she laughed. "But there's only this dull every-day round!"

There was a pause; the boy dropped his eyes and stood trembling.

"Where are you going with the roses?" she asked.

"I'm to take them to the housekeeper."

"Let me have one."

She took one from the bunch, and he stood watching while she pinned it to her dress. "You may bring me some, now and then," she said with one of her marvelous smiles. "Don't forget." And then, as she went on, she touched him upon the hand.

At the touch of her warm, living fingers such a thrill passed through the boy as made him reel. It was something blind and elemental, outside of anything that he had dreamed of in his life. She went on down the hall and left him there, and he had to lean against a table for support.

And all that day he was in a daze—with bursts of rapture sweeping over him. She was interested in him! She had smiled upon him! She had touched his hand!

He went home that evening on purpose to tell Sophie; and the two of them talked about it for hours. He told the story over and over again. And Sophie listened, with her eyes shining and her hands clasped in an ecstasy of delight.

"Oh, Samuel!" she whispered. "I knew it—I knew she'd appreciate you! She was so beautiful—I knew she must be kind and good!"



CHAPTER XI

A week passed, and Samuel did not see his divinity again. He lived upon the memory of their brief interview, and while he trimmed the hedges he was dreaming the most extravagant dreams of rescues and perilous escapes. For the first time he began to find that his work was tedious; it offered so few possibilities of romance! If only he had been her chauffeur, now! Or the guide who escorted her in her tramps about the wilderness! Or the man who ran the wonderful motor- boat that was shaped like a knife blade!

Samuel continued to ponder, and was greatly worried lest the commonplace should ingulf him. So little he dreamed how near was a change!

Bertie Lockman had been away for a few days, visiting some friends, and he came back unexpectedly one afternoon. Samuel knew that he had not been expected, for always there were great bunches of flowers to be placed in his room. The gardener happened to be away at the time the motor arrived, and so Samuel upon his own responsibility cut the flowers and took them into the house. He left them in the housekeeper's workroom and then set out to find that functionary, and tell her what he had done. So, in the entrance to the dining room, he stumbled upon his young master, giving some orders to Peters, the butler.

As an humble gardener's boy, Samuel should have stepped back and vanished. Instead he came forward, and Bertie smiled pleasantly and said, "Hello, Samuel."

"Good afternoon, Master Albert," said Samuel.

"And how do you like your work?" the other asked.

"I like it very well, sir," he replied; and then added apologetically, "I was bringing some flowers."

The master turned to speak to Peters again; and Samuel turned to retire. But at that instant there came the sound of a motor in front of the house.

"Hello," said Bertie. "Who's that?" and turned to look through the entrance hall. Peters went forward to the door; and so Samuel was left standing and watching.

A big red touring car had drawn up in front of the piazza. It was filled with young people, waving their hands and shouting, "Bertie! Oh, Bertie!"

The other appeared to be startled. "Well, I'll be damned!" he muttered as he went to meet them.

Of course Samuel had no business whatever to stand there. He should have fled in trepidation. But he, as a privileged person, had not yet been drilled into a realization of his "place." And they were such marvelous creatures—these people of the upper world—and he was so devoured with the desire to know about them.

There were two young men in the motor, of about his master's age, and nearly as goodly to look at. And there were four young women, of a quite extraordinary sort. They were beautiful, all of them—nearly as beautiful as Miss Gladys; and perhaps it was only the automobile costumes, but they struck one as even more alarmingly complex.

They were airy, ethereal creatures, with delicate peach blow complexions, and very small hands and feet. They seemed to favor all kinds of fluffy and flimsy things; they were explosions of all the colors of the springtime. There were leaves and flowers and fruits and birds in their hats; and there were elaborate filmy veils to hold the hats on. They descended from the motor, and Samuel had glimpses of ribbons and ruffles, of shapely ankles and daintily slippered feet. They came in the midst of a breeze of merriment, with laughter and bantering and little cries of all sorts.

"You don't seem very glad to see us, Bertie!" one said.

"Cheer up, old chap—nobody'll tell on us!" cried one of the young men.

"And we'll be good and go home early!" added another of the girls.

One of the party Samuel noticed particularly, because she looked more serious, and hung back a little. She was smaller than the others, a study in pink and white; her dress and hat were trimmed with pink ribbons, and she had the most marvelously pink cheeks and lips, and the most exquisite features Samuel had ever seen in his life.

Now suddenly she ran to young Lockman and flung her arms about his neck.

"Bertie," she exclaimed, "it's my fault. I made them come! I wanted to see you so badly! You aren't mad with us, are you?"

"No," said Bertie, "I'm not mad."

"Well, then, be glad!" cried the girl, and kissed him again. "Be a good boy—do!"

"All right," said Bertie feebly. "I'll be good, Belle."

"We wanted to surprise you," added one of the young fellows.

"You surprised me all right," said Bertie—a reply which all of them seemed to find highly amusing, for they laughed uproariously.

"He doesn't ask us in," said one of the girls. "Come on, Dolly—let's see this house of his."

And so the party poured in. Samuel waited just long enough to catch the rustle of innumerable garments, and a medley of perfumes which might have been blown from all the gardens of the East. Then he turned and fled to the regions below.

One of the young men, he learned from the talk in the servants' hall, was Jack Holliday, the youngest son of the railroad magnate; it was his sister who was engaged to marry the English duke. The other boy was the heir of a great lumber king from the West, and though he was only twenty he had got himself involved in a divorce scandal with some actor people. Who the young ladies were no one seemed to know, but there were half-whispered remarks about them, the significance of which was quite lost upon Samuel.

Presently the word came that the party was to stay to dinner. And then instantly the whole household sprang into activity. Above stairs everything would move with the smoothness of clockwork; but downstairs in the servants' quarters it was a serious matter that an elaborate banquet for seven people had to be got ready in a couple of hours. Even Samuel was pressed into service at odd jobs—something for which he was very glad, as it gave him a chance to remain in the midst of events.

So it happened that he saw Peters emerging from the wine cellar, followed by a man with a huge basket full of bottles. And this set Samuel to pondering hard, the while he scraped away at a bowl of potatoes. It was the one thing which had disconcerted him in the life of this upper world—the obvious part that drinking played in it. There were always decanters of liquor upon the buffet in the dining room; and liquor was served to guests upon any—and every pretext. And the women drank as freely as the men—even Miss Gladys drank, a thing which was simply appalling to Samuel.

Of course, these were privileged people, and they knew what they wanted to do. But could it be right for anyone to drink? As in the case of suicide, Samuel found his moral convictions beginning to waver. Perhaps it was that drink did not affect these higher beings as it did ordinary people! Or perhaps what they drank was something that cheered without inebriating! Certain it was that the servants got drunk; and Samuel had seen that they took the stuff from the decanters used by the guests.

It was something over which he labored with great pain of soul. But, of course, all his hesitations and sophistries were for the benefit of his master—that it could be right for Samuel himself to touch liquor was something that could not by any chance enter his mind.

The dinner had begun; and Samuel went on several errands to the room below the butler's pantry, and so from the dumb-waiter shafts he could hear the sounds of laughter and conversation. And more wine went up— it was evidently a very merry party. The meal was protracted for two or three hours, and the noise grew louder and louder. They were shouting so that one could hear them all over the house. They were singing songs—wild rollicking choruses which were very wonderful to listen to, and yet terribly disturbing to Samuel. These fortunate successful ones—he would grant them the right to any happiness—it was to be expected that they should dwell in perpetual merriment and delight. But he could hear the champagne corks popping every few minutes. And COULD it be right for them to drink!

It grew late, and still the revelry went on. A thunderstorm had come up and was raging outside. The servants who were not at work, had gone to bed, but there was no sleep for Samuel; he continued to prowl about, restless and tormented. The whole house was now deserted, save for the party in the dining room; and so he crept up, by one of the rear stairways, and crouched in a doorway, where he could listen to the wild uproar.

He had been there perhaps ten minutes. He could hear the singing and yelling, though he could not make out the words because of the noise of the elements. But then suddenly, above all the confusion, he heard a woman's shrieks piercing and shrill; and he started up and sprang into the hall. Whether they were cries of anger, or of fear, or of pain, Samuel could not be certain; but he knew that they were not cries of enjoyment.

He stood trembling. There rose a babel of shouts, and then again came the woman's voice—"No, no—you shan't, I say!"

"Sit down, you fool!" Samuel heard Bertie Lockman shout.

And then came another woman's voice—"Shut up and mind your business!"

"I'll tear your eyes out, you devil!" shrilled the first voice, and there followed a string of furious curses. The other woman replied in kind and Samuel made out that there was some kind of a quarrel, and that some of the party wanted to interfere, and that others wanted it to go on. All were whooping and shrieking uproariously, and the two women yelled like hyenas.

It was like the nightmare sounds he had heard from his cell in the police station, and Samuel listened appalled. There came a crash of breaking glass; and then suddenly, in the midst of the confusion, he heard his young master cry, "Get out of here!"—and the dining room door was flung open, and the uproar burst full upon him.

A terrible sight met his eyes. It was the beautiful and radiant creature who had kissed Bertie Lockman; her face was now flushed with drink and distorted with rage—her hair disheveled and her aspect wild; and she was screaming in the voice which had first startled Samuel. Bertie had grappled with her and was trying to push her out of the room, while she fought frantically, and screamed: "Let me go! Let me go!"

"Get out of here, I say!" cried Bertie, "I mean it now."

"I won't! Let me be!" exclaimed the girl.

"Hurrah!" shouted the others, crowding behind them. Young Holliday was dancing about, waving a bottle and yelling like a maniac, "Go it, Bertie! Give it to him, Belle!"

"This is the end of it!" cried Bertie. "I'm through with you. And you get out of here!"

"I won't! I won't!" screamed the girl again and again. "Help!" And she flung one arm about his neck and caught at the doorway.

But he tore her loose and dragged her bodily across the entrance hall. "Out with you!" he exclaimed. "And don't ever let me see your face again!"

"Bertie! Bertie!" she protested.

"I mean it!" he said. "Here Jack! Open the door for me."

"Bertie! No!" shrieked the girl; but then with a sudden effort he half threw her out into the darkness. There was a brief altercation outside, and then he sprang back, and flung to the heavy door, and bolted it fast.

"Now, by God!" he said, "you'll stay out."

The girl beat and kicked frantically upon the door. But Bertie turned his back and staggered away, reeling slightly. "That'll settle it, I guess," he said, with a wild laugh.

And amidst a din of laughter and cheers from the others, he went back to the dining room. One of the other women flung her arms about him hilariously, and Jack Holliday raised a bottle of wine on high, and shouted: "Off with the old love—on with the new!"

And so Bertie shut the door again, and the scene was hid from Samuel's eyes.



CHAPTER XII

For a long while, Samuel stood motionless, hearing the swish of the rain and the crashing of the thunder as an echo of the storm in his own soul. It was as if a chasm had yawned beneath his feet, and all the castles of his dreams had come down in ruins. He stood there, stunned and horrified, staring at the wreckage of everything he had believed.

Then suddenly he crossed the drawing-room and opened one of the French windows which led to the piazza. The rain was driving underneath the shelter of the roof; but he faced it, and ran toward the door.

The girl was lying in front of it, and above the noise of the wind and rain he heard her sobbing wildly. He stood for a minute, hesitating; then he bent down and touched her.

"Lady," he said.

She started. "Who are you?" she cried.

"I'm just one of the servants, ma'am."

She caught her breath. "Did he send you?" she demanded.

"No," said he, "I came to help you."

"I don't need any help. Let me be."

"But you can't stay here in the rain," he protested. "You'll catch your death."

"I want to die!" she answered. "What have I to live for?"

Samuel stood for a moment, perplexed. Then, as he touched her wet clothing again, common sense asserted itself. "You mustn't stay here," he said. "You mustn't."

But she only went on weeping. "He's cast me off!" she exclaimed. "My God, what shall I do?"

Samuel turned and ran into the house again and got an umbrella in the hall. Then he took the girl by the arm and half lifted her. "Come," he said. "Please."

"But where shall I go?" she asked.

"I know some one in the town who'll help you," he said. "You can't stay here—you'll catch cold."

"What's there left for me?" she moaned. "What am I good for? He's thrown me over—and I can't live without him!"

Samuel got the umbrella up and held it with one hand; then with his other arm about the girl's waist, he half carried her down the piazza steps. "That she-devil was after him!" she was saying. "And it was Jack Holliday set her at it, damn his soul! I'll pay him for it!"

She poured forth a stream of wild invective.

"Please stop," pleaded Samuel. "People will hear you."

"What do I care if they do hear me? Let them put me in jail—that's all I'm fit for. I'm drunk, and I'm good for nothing—and he's tired of me!"

So she rushed on, all the way toward town. Then, as they came to the bridge, she stopped and looked about. "Where are you taking me?" she asked.

"To a friend's house," he said, having in mind the Stedmans.

"No," she replied. "I don't want to see anyone. Take me to some hotel, can't you?"

"There's one down the street here," he said. "I don't know anything about it."

"I don't care. Any place."

The rain had slackened and she stopped and gathered up her wet and straggled hair.

There was a bar underneath the hotel, and a flight of stairs led up to the office. They went up, and a man sitting behind the desk stared at them.

"I want to get a room for this lady," said Samuel. "She's been caught in the rain."

"Is she your wife?" asked the man.

"Mercy, no," said he startled.

"Do you want a room, too?"

"No, no, I'm going away."

"Oh!" said the man, and took down a key. "Register, please."

Samuel took the pen, and then turned to the girl. "I beg pardon," he said, "but I don't know your name."

"Mary Smith," she answered, and Samuel stared at her in surprise. "Mary Smith," she repeated, and he wrote it down obediently.

The man took them upstairs; and Samuel, after helping the girl to a chair, shut the door and stood waiting. And she flung herself down upon the bed and burst into a paroxysm of weeping. Samuel had never even heard the word hysterics, and it was terrifying to him to see her—he could not have believed that so frail and slender a human body could survive so frightful a storm of emotion.

"Oh, please, please stop!" he cried wildly.

"I can't live without him!" she wailed again and again. "I can't live without him! What am I going to do?"

Samuel's heart was wrung. He went to the girl, and put his hand upon her arm. "Listen to me," he said earnestly. "Let me try to help you."

"What can you do?" she demanded.

"I'll go and see him. I'll plead with him—perhaps he'll listen to me."

"All right!" she cried. "Anything! Tell him I'll kill myself! I'll kill him and Dolly both, before I'll ever let her have him! Yes, I mean it! He swore to me he'd never leave me! And I believed him—I trusted him!"

And Samuel clenched his hands with sudden resolution. "I'll see him about it," he said. "I'll see him to-night."

And leaving the other still shaking with sobs, he turned and left the room.

He stopped in the office to tell the man that he was going. But there was nobody there; and after hesitating a moment he went on.

The storm was over and the moon was out, with scud of clouds flying past. Samuel strode back to "Fairview," with his hands gripped tightly, and a blaze of resolution in his soul.

He was just in time to see the automobile at the door, and the company taking their departure. They passed him, singing hilariously; and then he found himself confronting his young master.

"Who's that?" exclaimed Bertie, startled.

"It's me, sir," said Samuel.

"Oh! Samuel! What are you doing here?"

"I've been with the young lady, sir."

"Oh! So that's what became of her!"

"I took her to a hotel, sir."

"Humph!" said Bertie. "I'm obliged to you."

The piazza lights were turned up, and by them Samuel could see the other's face, flushed with drink, and his hair and clothing in disarray. He swayed slightly as he stood there.

"Master Albert," said Samuel very gravely, "May I have a few words with you?"

"Sure," said Bertie. He looked about him for a chair and sank into it. "What is it?" he asked.

"It's the young lady, Master Albert."

"What about her?"

"She's very much distressed, sir."

"I dare say. She'll get over it, Samuel."

"Master Albert," exclaimed the boy, "you've not treated her fairly."

The other stared at him. "The devil!" he exclaimed.

"You must not desert her, sir! It would be a terrible thing to have on your conscience. You have ruined and betrayed her."

"WHAT!" cried the other, and gazed at him in amazement. "Did she give you that kind of a jolly?"

"She didn't go into particulars"—said the boy.

"My dear fellow!" laughed Bertie. "Why, I've been the making of that girl. She was an eighteen-dollar-a-week chorus girl when I took her up."

"That might be, Master Albert. But if she was an honest girl—"

"Nonsense, Samuel—forget it. She'd had three or four lovers before she ever laid eyes on me."

There was a pause, while the boy strove to get these facts into his mind. "Even so," he said, "you can't desert her and let her starve, Master Albert."

"Oh, stuff!" said the other. "What put that into your head? I'll give her all the money she needs, if that's what's troubling her. Did she say that?"

"N—no," admitted Samuel disconcerted. "But, Master Albert, she loves you."

"Yes, I know," said Bertie, "and that's where the trouble comes in. She wants to keep me in a glass case, and I've got tired of it."

He paused for a moment; and then a sudden idea flashed over him. "Samuel!" he exclaimed "Why don't you marry her?"

Samuel started in amazement. "What!" he gasped.

"It's the very thing!" cried Bertie. "I'll set you up in a little business, and you can have an easy time."

"Master Albert!" panted the boy shocked to the depths of his soul.

"She's beautiful, Samuel—you know she is. And she's a fine girl, too- -only a little wild. I believe you'd be just the man to hold her in."

Bertie paused a moment, and then, seeing that the other was unconvinced, he added with a laugh, "Wait till you've known her a bit. Maybe you'll fall in love with her."

But Samuel only shook his head. "Master Albert," he said, in a low voice, "I'm afraid you've not understood the reason I've come to you."

"How do you mean?"

"This—all this business, sir—it's shocked me more than I can tell you. I came here to serve you, sir. You don't know how I felt about it. I was ready to do anything—I was so grateful for a chance to be near you! You were rich and great, and everything about you was so beautiful—I thought you must be noble and good, to have deserved so much. And now, instead, I find you are a wicked man!"

The other sat up. "The dickens!" he exclaimed.

"And it's a terrible thing to me," went on Samuel. "I don't know just what to make of it—

"See here, Samuel!" demanded the other angrily. "Who sent you here to lecture me?"

"I don't see how it can be!" the boy exclaimed. "You are one of the fit people, as Professor Stewart explained it to me; and yet I know some who are better than you, and who have nothing at all."

And Bertie Lockman, after another stare into the boy's solemn eyes, sank back in his chair and burst into laughter. "Look here, Samuel!" he exclaimed. "You aren't playing the game!"

"How do you mean, sir?"

"If I'm one of the fit ones, what right have you got to preach at me?"

Samuel was startled. "Why sir—" he stammered.

"Just look!" went on Bertie. "I'm the master, and you're the servant. I have breeding and culture—everything—and you're just a country bumpkin. And yet you presume to set your ideas up against mine! You presume to judge me, and tell me what I ought to do!"

Samuel was taken aback by this. He could not think what to reply.

"Don't you see?" went on Bertie, following up his advantage. "If you really believe what you say, you ought to submit yourself to me. If I say a thing's right, that makes it right. If I had to come to you to have you approve it, wouldn't that make you the master and me the servant?"

"No, no—Master Albert!" protested Samuel. "I didn't mean quite that!"

"Why, I might just as well give you my money and be done with it," insisted the other.

"Then you could fix everything up to suit yourself."

"That isn't what I mean at all!" cried the boy in great distress. "I don't know how to answer you, sir—but there's a wrong in it."

"But where? How?"

"Master Albert," blurted Samuel—"it can't be right for you to get drunk!"

Bertie's face clouded.

"It can't be right, sir!" repeated Samuel.

And suddenly the other sat forward in his chair. "All right," he said- -"Maybe it isn't. But what are you going to do about it?"

There was anger in his voice, and Samuel was frightened into silence. There was a pause while they stared at each other.

"I'm on top!" exclaimed Bertie. "I'm on top, and I'm going to stay on top—don't you see? The game's in my hands; and if I please to get drunk, I get drunk. And you will take your orders and mind your own business. And what have you to say to that?"

"I presume, sir," said Samuel, his voice almost a whisper, "I can leave your service."

"Yes," said the other—"and then either you'll starve, or else you'll go to somebody else who has money, and ask him to give you a job. And then you'll take your orders from him, and keep your opinions to yourself. Don't you see?"

"Yes," said Samuel, lowering his eyes—"I see."

"All right," said Bertie; and he rose unsteadily to his feet. "Now, if you please," said he, "you'll go back to Belle, wherever you've left her, and take her a message for me."

"Yes, sir," said Samuel.

"Tell her I'm through with her, and I don't want to see her again. I'll have a couple of hundred dollars a month sent to her so long as she lets me alone. If she writes to me or bothers me in any way, she'll get nothing. And that's all."

"Yes, sir," said Samuel.

"And as for you, this was all right for a joke, but it wouldn't bear repeating. From now on, you're the gardener's boy, and you'll not forget your place again."

"Yes, sir," said Samuel once more, and stood watching while his young master went into the house.

Then he turned and went down the road, half dazed.

Those had been sledge-hammer blows, and they had landed full and hard. They had left him without a shred of all his illusions. His work, that he had been so proud of—he hated it, and everything associated with it. And he was overwhelmed with perplexity and pain—just as before when he had found himself in jail, and it had dawned upon him that the Law, an institution which he had revered, might be no such august thing at all, but an instrument of injustice and oppression.

In that mood he came to the hotel. Again there was no one in the office, so he went directly to the room and knocked. There was no answer; he knocked again, more heavily.

"I wonder if she's gone," he thought, and looked again at the number, to make sure he was at the right room. Then, timidly, he tried the door.

It opened. "Lady," he said, and then louder, "Lady."

There was no response, and he went in. Could she be asleep? he thought. No—that was not likely. He listened for her breathing. There was not a sound.

And finally he went to the bed, and put his hand upon it. Then he started back with a cry of terror. He had touched something warm and moist and sticky.

He rushed out into the hall, and as he looked at his hand he nearly fainted. It was a mass of blood!

"Help! Help!" the boy screamed; and he turned and rushed down the stairs into the office.

The proprietor came running in. "Look!" shouted Samuel. "Look what she's done!"

"Good God!" cried the man. And he rushed upstairs, the other following.

With trembling fingers the man lit the gas; and Samuel took one look, and then turned away and caught at a table, sick with horror. The girl was lying in the midst of a pool of blood; and across her throat, from ear to ear, was a great gaping slit.

"Oh! oh!" gasped Samuel, and then—"I can't stand it!" And holding out one hand from him, he hid his face with the other.

Meantime the proprietor was staring at him. "See here, young fellow," he said.

"What is it?" asked Samuel.

"When did you find out about this?"

"Why, just now. When I came in."

"You've been out?"

"Why of course. I went out just after we came."

"I didn't see you."

"No. I stopped in the office, but you weren't there."

"Humph!" said the man, "maybe you did and maybe you didn't. You can tell it to the police."

"The police!" echoed Samuel; and then in sudden horror—"Do you think I did it?"

"I don't know anything about it," replied the other. "I only know you brought her here, and that you'll stay here till the police come."

By this time several people had come into the room, awakened by the noise. Samuel, without a word more, went and sank down into a chair and waited. And half an hour later he was on his way to the station house again—this time with a policeman on either side of him, and gripping him very tightly. And now the charge against him was murder!



CHAPTER XIII

The same corpulent official was seated behind the desk at the police station; but on this occasion he woke up promptly. "The chief had better handle this," he said, and went to the telephone.

"Where's this chap to go?" asked one of the policemen.

"We're full up," said the sergeant. "Put him in with Charlie Swift. The chief'll be over in a few minutes."

So once more Samuel was led into a cell, and heard the door clang upon him.

He was really not much alarmed this time, for he knew it was not his fault, and that he could prove it. But he was sick with horror at the fate of the unhappy girl. He began pacing back and forth in his cell.

Then suddenly from one corner growled a voice: "Say, when are you going to get quiet?"

"Oh, I beg pardon," said Samuel. "I didn't know you were here."

"What are you in for?" asked the voice.

"For murder," said Samuel.

And he heard the cot give a sudden creak as the man sat up. "What!" he gasped.

"I didn't do it," the boy explained hastily. "She killed herself."

"Where was this?" asked the man.

"At the Continental Hotel."

"And what did you have to do with it?"

"I took her there."

"Who was she?"

"Why—she called herself Mary Smith."

"Where did you meet her?"

"Up at 'Fairview.'"

"At 'Fairview'!" exclaimed the other.

"Yes," said Samuel. "The Lockman place."

"ALBERT Lockman's place?"

"Yes."

"How did she come to be there?"

"Why, she was—a friend of his. She was there to dinner."

"What!" gasped the man. "How do you know it?"

"I work there," replied Samuel.

"And how did she come to go to the hotel?"

"Master Albert turned her out," said Samuel. "And it was raining, and so I took her to a hotel."

"For the love of God!" exclaimed the other; and then he asked quickly, "Did you tell the sergeant that?"

"No," said the boy. "He didn't ask me anything."

The man sprang up and ran to the grated door and shook it. "Hello! Hello there!" he cried.

"What's the matter?" growled a policeman down the corridor.

"Come here! quick!" cried the other; and then through the grating he whispered, "Say, tell the cap to come here for a moment, will you?"

"What do you want?" demanded the policeman.

"Look here, O'Brien," said the other. "You know Charlie Swift is no fool. And there's something about this fellow you've put in here that the cap ought to know about quick."

The sergeant came. "Say," said Charlie. "Did you ask this boy any questions?"

"No," said the sergeant, "I'm waiting for the chief."

"Well, did you know that girl came from Albert Lockman's place?"

"Good God, no!"

"He says she was there to dinner and Lockman turned her out of the house. This boy says he works for Lockman."

"Well, I'm damned!" exclaimed the sergeant. And so Samuel was led into a private room.

A minute or two later "the chief" strode in. McCullagh was his name and he was huge and burly, with a red face and a protruding jaw. He went at Samuel as if he meant to strike him. "What's this you're givin' us?" he cried.

"Why—why—" stammered Samuel, in alarm.

"You're tryin' to tell me that girl came from Lockman's?" roared the chief.

"Yes, sir!"

"And you expect me to believe that?"

"It's true, sir!"

"What're you tryin' to give me, anyhow?" demanded the man.

"But it's true, sir!" declared Samuel again.

"You tell me she was there at dinner?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Come! Quit your nonsense, boy!"

"But she was, sir!"

"What do you expect to make out of this, young fellow?"

"But she was, sir!"

Apparently the chief's method was to doubt every statement that Samuel made, and repeat his incredulity three times, each time in a louder tone of voice and with a more ferocious expression of countenance. Then, if the boy stuck it out, he concluded that he was telling the truth. By this exhausting method the examination reached its end, and Samuel was led back to his cell.

"Did you stick to your story?" asked his cellmate.

"Of course," said he.

"Well, if it is true," remarked the other, "there'll be something doing soon."

And there was. About an hour later the sergeant came again and entered. He drew the two men into a corner.

"See here, young fellow," he said to Samuel in a low voice. "Have you got anything against young Lockman?"

"No," replied Samuel. "Why?"

"If we let you go, will you shut up about this?"

"Why, yes," said the boy, "if you want me to,"

"All right," said the sergeant. "And you, Charlie—we've got you dead, you know."

"Yes," said the other, "I know."

"And there's ten years coming to you, you understand?"

"Yes, I guess so."

"All right. Then will you call it a bargain?"

"I will," said Charlie. "You'll skip the town, and hold your mouth?"

"I will."

"Very well. Here's your own kit—and you ought to get through them bars before daylight. And here's fifty dollars. You take this young fellow to New York and lose him. Do you see?"

"I see," said Charlie.

"All right," went on the sergeant. "And mind you don't play any monkey tricks!"

"I'm on," said Charlie with a chuckle.

And without more ado he selected a saw from his bag and set to work at the bars of the window. The sergeant retired; and Samuel sat down on the floor and gasped for breath.

For about an hour the man worked without a word. Then he braced himself against the wall and wrenched out one of the bars; then another wrench, and another bar gave way; after which he packed up his kit and slipped it into a pocket under his coat. "Now," he said, "come on."

He slipped through the opening and dropped to the ground, and Samuel followed suit. "This way," he whispered, and they darted down an alley and came out upon a dark street. For perhaps a mile they walked on in silence, then Charlie turned into a doorway and opened the door with a latch key, and they went up two flights of stairs and into a rear room. He lit the gas, and took off his coat and flung it on the bed. "Now, make yourself at home," he said.

"Is this your room?" asked Samuel.

"Yes," was the reply. "The bulls haven't found it, either!"

"But I thought we were to go out of town!" exclaimed the other.

"Humph!" laughed Charlie. "Young fellow, you're easy!"

"Do you mean you're not going?" cried Samuel.

"What! When I've got a free license to work the town?"

Samuel stared at him, amazed. "You mean they wouldn't arrest you?"

"Not for anything short of murder, I think."

"But—but what could you do?"

"Just suppose I was to tip off some newspaper with that story? Not here in Lockmanville—but the New York Howler, we'll say?"

"I see!" gasped Samuel.

Charlie had tilted back in his chair and was proceeding to fill his pipe. "Gee, sonny," he said, "they did me the greatest turn of my life when they poked you into that cell. I'll get what's coming to me now!"

"How will you get it?" asked the boy.

"I'm a gopherman," said the other.

"What's that?" asked Samuel.

"You'll have to learn to sling the lingo," said Charlie with a laugh. "It's what you call a burglar."

Samuel looked at the man in wonder. He was tall and lean, with a pale face and restless dark eyes. He had a prominent nose and a long neck, which gave him a peculiar, alert expression that reminded Samuel of a startled partridge.

"Scares you, hey?" he said. "Well, I wasn't always a gopherman."

"What were you before that?"

"I was an inventor."

"An inventor!" exclaimed Samuel.

"Yes. Have you seen the glass-blowing machines here in town?"

"No, I haven't."

"Well, I invented three of them. And old Henry Lockman robbed me of them."

"Robbed you!" gasped the boy amazed.

"Yes," said the other. "Didn't he rob everybody he ever came near?"

"I didn't know it," replied Samuel.

"Guess you never came near him," laughed the man. "Say—where do you come from, anyhow? Tell me about yourself."

So Samuel began at the beginning and told his story. Pretty soon he came to the episode of "Glass Bottle Securities."

"My God!" exclaimed the other. "I thought you said old Lockman had never robbed you!"

"I did," answered Samuel.

"But don't you see that he robbed you then?"

"Why, no. It wasn't his fault. The stock went down when he died."

"But why should it have gone down when he died, except that he'd unloaded it on the public for a lot more than it was worth?"

Samuel's jaw fell. "I never thought of that," he said.

"Go on," said Charlie.

Then Samuel told how he was starving, and how he had gone to Professor Stewart, and how the professor had told him he was one of the unfit. His companion had taken his pipe out of his mouth and was staring at him.

"And you swallowed all that?" he gasped.

"Yes," said Samuel.

"And you tried to carry it out! You went away to starve!"

"But what else was there for me to do?" asked the boy.

"But the Lord!" ejaculated the other. "When it came time for ME to starve, I can promise you I found something else to do!"

"Go on," he said after a pause; and Samuel told how he had saved young Lockman's life, and what happened afterwards.

"And so he was your dream!" exclaimed the other. "You were up against a brace game, Sammy!"

"But how was I to know?" protested the boy.

"You should read the papers. That kid's been cutting didoes in the Tenderloin for a couple of years. He wasn't worth the risking of your little finger—to say nothing of your life."

"It seems terrible," said Samuel dismayed.

"The trouble with you, Sammy," commented the other, "is that you're too good to live. That's all there is to your unfitness. You take old Lockman, for instance. What was all his 'fitness'? It was just that he was an old wolf. I was raised in this town, and my dad went to school with him. He began by cheating his sisters out of their inheritance. Then he foreclosed a mortgage on a glass factory and went into the business. He was a skinflint, and he made money—they say he burned the plant down for the insurance, but I don't know. Anyway, he had rivals, and he made a crooked deal with some of the railroad people— gave them stock you know—and got rebates. And he had some union leaders on his pay rolls, and he called strikes on his rivals, and when he'd ruined them he bought them out for a song. And when he had everything in his hands, and got tired of paying high wages, he fired some of the union men and forced a strike. Then he brought in some strike-breakers and hired some thugs to slug them, and turned the police loose on the men—and that was the end of the unions. Meanwhile he'd been running the politics of the town, and he'd given himself all the franchises—there was nobody could do anything in Lockmanville unless he said so. And finally, when he'd got the glass trade cornered, he formed the Trust, and issued stock for about five times what the plants had cost, and dumped it on the market for suckers like you to buy. And that's the way he made his millions—that's the meaning of his palace and all the wonders you saw up there. And now he's dead, and all his fortune belongs to Master Albert, who never did a stroke of work in his life, and isn't 'fit' enough to be a ten- dollar-a-week clerk. And you come along and lie down for him to walk on, and the more nails he has in his boots the better you like it! And there's the whole story for you!"

Samuel had been listening awe-stricken. The abysmal depths of his ignorance and folly!

"Now he's got his money," said the other—"and he means to keep it. So there are the bulls, to slam you over the head if you bother him. That's called the Law! And then he hires some duffer to sit up and hand you out a lot of dope about your being 'unfit'; and that's called a College! Don't you see?"

"Yes," whispered Samuel. "I see!"

His companion stabbed at him with his finger. "All that was wrong with you, Sammy," he said, "was that you swallowed the dope! That's where your 'unfitness' came in! Why—take his own argument. Suppose you hadn't given up. Suppose you'd fought and won out. Then you'd have been as good as any of them, wouldn't you? Suppose, for instance, you'd hit that son-of-a-gun over the head with a poker and got away with his watch and his pocketbook—then you'd have been 'fitter' than he, wouldn't you?"

Samuel had clutched at the arms of his chair and was staring with wide-open eyes.

"You never thought of that, hey, Sammy? But that's what I found myself facing a few years ago. They'd got every cent I had, and I was ready for the scrap heap. But I said, 'Nay, nay, Isabel!' I'd played their game and lost—but I made a new game—and I made my own rules, you can bet!"

"You mean stealing!" cried the boy.

"I mean War," replied the other. "And you see—I've survived! I'm not pretty to look at and I don't live in a palace, but I'm not starving, and I've got some provisions salted away."

"But they had you in jail!"

"Of course. I've done my bit—twice. But that didn't kill me; and I can learn things, even in the pen."

There was a pause. Then Charlie Swift stood up and shook the ashes out of his pipe. "Speaking of provisions," he said, "these midnight adventures give you an appetite." And he got out a box of crackers and some cheese and a pot of jam. "Move up," he said, "and dip in. You'll find that red stuff the real thing. My best girl made it. One of the things that bothered me in jail was the fear that the bulls might get it."

Samuel was too much excited to eat. But he sat and watched, while his companion stowed away crackers and cheese.

"What am I going to do now?" he said half to himself.

"You come with me," said Charlie. "I'll teach you a trade where you'll be your own boss. And I'll give you a quarter of the swag until you've learned it."

"What!" gasped Samuel in horror. "Be a burglar!"

"Sure," said the other. "What else can you do?"

"I don't know," said the boy.

"Have you got any money?"

"Only a few pennies. I hadn't got my wages yet."

"I see. And will you go and ask Master Albert for them?"

"No," said Samuel quickly. "I'll never do that!"

"Then you'll go out and hunt for a job again, I suppose? Or will you start out on that starving scheme again?"

"Don't!" cried the boy wildly. "Let me think!"

"Come! Don't be a summer-boarder!" exclaimed the other. "You've got the professor's own warrant for it, haven't you? And you've got a free field before you—you can help yourself to anything you want in Lockmanville, and the bulls won't dare to lift a finger! You'll be a fool if you let go of such a chance."

"But it's wrong!" protested Samuel. "You know it's wrong!"

"Humph!" laughed Charlie. And he shut the top of the cracker box with a bang and rose up. "You sleep over it," he said. "You'll be hungry to-morrow morning."

"That won't make any difference!" cried the boy.

"Maybe not," commented the other; and then he added with a grin: "Don't you ask me for grub. For that would be charity; and if you're really one of the unfit, it's not for me to interfere with nature!"

And so all the next day Samuel sat in Charlie's room and faced the crackers and cheese and the pot of jam, and wrestled with the problem. He knew what it would mean to partake of the food, and Charlie knew what it would mean also; and feeling certain that Samuel would not partake upon any other terms, he left the covers off the food, so that the odors might assail the boy's nostrils.

Of course Samuel might have gone out and bought some food with the few pennies he had in his pocket. But that would have been merely to postpone the decision, and what was the use of that? And to make matters ten times worse, he owed money to the Stedmans—for he had lived upon the expectation of his salary!

In the end it was not so much hunger that moved him, as it was pure reason. For Samuel, as we know, was a person who took an idea seriously; and there was no answer to be found to Charlie's argument. Doubtless the reader will find a supply of them, but Samuel racked his wits in vain. If, as the learned professor had said, life is a struggle for existence, and those who have put money in their purses are the victors; and if they have nothing to do for the unemployed save to let them starve or put them in jail; then on the other hand, it would seem to be up to the unemployed to take measures for their own survival. And apparently the only proof of their fitness would be to get some money away from those who had it. Had not Herbert Spencer, the authority in such matters, stated that "inability to catch prey shows a falling short of conduct from its ideal"? And if the good people let themselves be starved to death by the wicked, would that not mean that only the wicked would be left alive? It was thoughts like this that were driving Samuel—he had Bertie Lockman's taunts ringing in his ears, and for the life of him he could not see why he should vacate the earth in favor of Bertie Lockman!

So breakfast time passed, and dinner time passed, and supper time came. And his friend spread out the contents of his larder again, and then leaned over the table and said, "Come and try it once and see how you like it!"

And Samuel clenched his hands suddenly and answered—"All right, I'll try it!"

Then he started upon a meal. But in the middle of it he stopped, and set down an untasted cracker, and gasped within himself—"Merciful Heaven! I've promised to be a burglar!"

The other was watching him narrowly. "Ain't going to back out?" he asked.

"No," said Samuel. "I won't back out! But it seems a little queer, that's all."



CHAPTER XIV

The meal over, Charlie Swift took out a pencil and paper. "Now," said he. "To business!"

Samuel pulled up his chair and the other drew a square. "This is a house I've been studying. It's on a corner—these are streets, and here's an alley. This is the side door that I think I can open. There's a door here and one in back here. Fix all that in your mind."

"I have it," said the boy.

"You go in, and here's the entrance hall. The front stairs are here. What I'm after is the family plate, and it's up on the second floor. I'll attend to that. The only trouble is that over here beyond the library there's a door, and, somebody sleeps in that room. I don't know who it is. But I want you to stay in the hall, and if there's anyone stirs in that room you're to dart upstairs and give one whistle at the top. Then I'll come."

"And what then?"

"This is the second floor," said Charlie, drawing another square. "And here's the servant's stairway, and we can get down to this entrance in the rear, that I'll open before I set to work. On the other hand, if you hear me whistle upstairs, then you're to get out by the way we came. If there's any alarm given, then it's each for himself."

"I see," said Samuel; and gripped his hands so that his companion might not see how he was quaking.

Charlie got out his kit and examined it to make sure that the police had kept nothing. Then he went to a bureau drawer and got a revolver, examined it and slipped it into his pocket. "They kept my best one," he said. "So I've none to lend you."

"I—I wouldn't take it, anyway," stammered the other in horror.

"You'll learn," said the burglar with a smile.

Then he sat down again and drew a diagram of the streets of Lockmanville, so that Samuel could find his way back in case of trouble. "We don't want to take any chances," said he. "And mind, if I get caught, I'll not mention you—wild horses couldn't drag it out of me. And you make the same promise."

"I make it," said Samuel.

"Man to man," said Charlie solemnly; and Samuel repeated the words.

"How did you come to know so much about the house?" he asked after a while.

"Oh! I've lived here and I've kept my eyes open. I worked as a plumber's man for a couple of months and I made diagrams."

"But don't the police get to know you?"

"Yes—they know me. But I skip out when I've done a job. And when I come back it's in disguise. Once I grew a beard and worked in the glass works all day and did my jobs at night; and again I lived here as a woman."

"A woman!" gasped the boy.

"You see," said the other with a laugh, "there's more ways than one to prove your fitness." And he went on, narrating some of his adventures- -adventures calculated to throw the glamour of romance about the trade of burglar. Samuel listened breathless with wonder.

"We'd better get a bit of sleep now," said Charlie later on. "We'll start about one." And he stretched himself out on the bed, while the other sat motionless in the chair, pondering hard over his problem. There was no sleeping for Samuel that night.

He would carry out his bargain—that was his decision. But he would not take his share of the plunder, except just enough to pay Mrs. Stedman. And he would never be a burglar again!

At one o'clock he awakened his companion, and they set out through the deserted streets. They crossed the bridge to the residential part of town; and then, at a corner, Charlie stopped. "There's the place," he said, pointing to a large house set back within a garden.

They gazed about. The coast was clear; and they darted into the door which had been indicated in the diagram. Samuel crouched in the doorway, motionless, while the other worked at the lock. Samuel's knees were trembling so that he could hardly stand up.

The door was opened without a sound having been made, and they stole into the entrance. They listened—the house was as still as death. Then Charlie flashed his lantern, and Samuel had quick glimpses of a beautiful and luxuriously furnished house. It was nothing like "Fairview," of course; but it was finer than Professor Stewart's home. There was a library, with great leather armchairs; and in the rear a dining room, where mirrors and cut glass flashed back the far-off glimmer of the light.

"There's your door over there," whispered Charlie. "And you'd better stay behind those curtains."

So Samuel took up his post; the light vanished and his companion started for the floor above. Several times the boy heard the stairs creaking, and his heart leaped into his throat; but then the sounds ceased and all was still.

The minutes crawled by—each one seemed an age. He stood rooted to the spot, staring into the darkness—half-hypnotized by the thought of the door which he could not see, and of the person who might be asleep behind it. Surely this was a ghastly way for a man to have to gain his living—it were better to perish than to survive by such an ordeal! Samuel was appalled by the terrors which took possession of him, and the tremblings and quiverings which he could not control. Any danger in the world he would have faced for conscience' sake; but this was wrong—he knew it was wrong! And so all the glow of conviction was gone from him.

What could be the matter? Why should Charlie be so long? Surely he had had time enough to ransack the whole house! Could it be that he had got out by the other way—that he had planned to skip town, and leave Samuel there in the lurch?

And then again came a faint creaking upon the stairs. He was coming back! Or could it by any chance be another person? He dared not venture to whisper; he stood, tense with excitement, while the sounds came nearer—it was as if some monster were creeping upon him in the darkness, and folding its tentacles about him!

He heard a sound in the hall beside him. Why didn't Charlie speak? What was the matter with him? What—

And then suddenly came a snapping sound, and a blinding glare of light flashed up, flooding the hallway and everything about him. Samuel staggered back appalled. There was some one standing there before him! He was caught!

Thus for one moment of dreadful horror. And then he realized that the person confronting him was a little girl!

She was staring at him; and he stared at her. She could not have been more than ten years old, and wore a nightgown trimmed with lace. She had bright yellow hair, and her finger was upon the button which controlled the lights.

For fully a minute neither of them moved. Then Samuel heard a voice whispering: "Are you a burglar?"

He could not speak, but he nodded his head. And then again he heard the child's voice: "Oh, I'm so glad!"

"I'm so glad!" she repeated again, and her tone was clear and sweet. "I'd been praying for it! But I'd almost given up hope!"

Samuel found voice enough to gasp, "Why?"

"My mamma read me a story," said the child. "It was about a little girl who met a burglar. And ever since I've been waiting for one to come."

There was a pause. "Are you a really truly burglar?" the child whispered.

"I—I think so," replied Samuel.

"You look very young," she said.

And the other bethought himself. "I'm only a beginner," he said. "This is really my first time."

"Oh!" said the child with a faint touch of disappointment. "But still you will do, won't you?"

"Do for what?" asked the boy in bewilderment.

"You must let me reform you," exclaimed the other. "That's what the little girl did in the story. Will you?"

"Why—why, yes"—gasped Samuel. "I—I really meant to reform."

Then suddenly he thought he heard a sound in the hall above. He glanced up, and for one instant he had a glimpse of the face of Charlie peering down at him.

"What are you looking at?" asked the child.

"I thought—that is—there's some one with me," stammered Samuel, forgetting his solemn vow.

"Oh! two burglars!" cried the child in delight. "And may I reform him, too?"

"I think you'd better begin with me," said Samuel.

"Will he go away, do you think?"

"Yes—I think he's gone now."

"But you—you won't go yet, will you?" asked the child anxiously. "You'll stay and talk to me?"

"If you wish"—gasped the boy.

"You aren't afraid of me?" she asked.

"Not of you," said he. "But if some one else should waken."

"No, you needn't think of that. Mamma and grandma both lock their doors at night. And papa's away."

"Who sleeps there?" asked Samuel, pointing to the door he had been watching.

"That's papa's room," said the child; and the other gave a great gasp of relief.

"Come," said the little girl; and she seated herself in one of the big leather armchairs. "Now," she continued, "tell me how you came to be a burglar."

"I had no money," said Samuel, "and no work."

"Oh!" exclaimed the child; and then, "What is your work?"

"I lived on a farm all my life," said he. "My father died and then I wanted to go to the city. I was robbed of all my money, and I was here without any friends and I couldn't find anything to do at all. I was nearly starving."

"Why, how dreadful!" cried the other. "Why didn't you come to see papa?"

Your father?" said he. "I didn't want to beg—"

"It wouldn't have been begging. He'd have been glad to help you."

"I—I didn't know about him," said Samuel. "Why should he—-"

"He helps everyone," said the child. "That's his business."

"How do you mean?"

"Don't you know who my father is?" she asked in surprise.

"No," said he, "I don't."

"My father is Dr. Vince," she said; and then she gazed at him with wide-open eyes. "You've never heard of him!"

"Never," said Samuel.

"He's a clergyman," said the little girl.

"A clergyman!" echoed Samuel aghast. Somehow it seemed far worse to have been robbing a clergyman.

"And he's so good and kind!" went on the other. "He loves everyone, and tries to help them. And if you had come to him and told him, he'd have found some work for you."

"There are a great many people in Lockmanville out of work," said Samuel gravely.

"Oh! but they don't come to my papa!" said the child. "You must come and let him help you. You must promise me that you will."

"But how can I? I've tried to rob him!"

"But that won't make any difference! You don't know my papa. If you should tell him that you had done wrong and that you were sorry—you are sorry, aren't you?"

"Yes, I'm very sorry."

"Well, then, if you told him that, he'd forgive you—he'd do anything for you, I know. If he knew that I'd helped to reform you, he'd be so glad!—I did help a little, didn't I?"

"Yes," said Samuel. "You helped."

"You—you weren't very hard to reform, somehow," said the child hesitatingly. "The little girl in the story had to talk a good deal more. Are you sure that you are going to be good now?"

Samuel could not keep back a smile. "Truly I will," he said.

"I guess you were brought up to be good," reflected the other. "I don't think you were very bad, anyway. It must be very hard to be starving."

"It is indeed," said the boy with conviction.

"I never heard of anyone starving before," went on the other. "If that happened to people often, there'd be more burglars, I guess."

There was a pause. "What is your name?" asked the little girl. "Mine is Ethel. And now I'll tell you what we'll do. My papa's on his way home—his train gets here early in the morning. And you come up after breakfast—I'll make him wait for you. And then you can tell it all to him, and then you won't have any more troubles. Will you do that?"

"You think he won't be angry with me?" asked Samuel.

"No, I'm sure of it."

"And he won't want to have me arrested?"

"Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Ethel with an injured look. "Why, my papa goes to see people in prison, and tries to help them get out! I'll promise you, truly."

"Very well," said Samuel, "I'll come."

And so they parted. And Samuel found himself out upon the street again, with the open sky above him, and a great hymn of relief and joy in his soul. He was no longer a burglar!