I don't know how many others noticed it, but it was as plain as day to me that Dudley Byron is on the point of makin' a chump of himself. I begun to feel kind of sorry for him too; for he's a decent, well meanin' young chap. So I edges around where I can get a word with him on the side.

"Come out of the trance, Dudley," says I.

"I—I beg pardon?" says he, startin' guilty.

"You'll only get your wings singed," says I. "Forget Veronica while there's a chance."

"But I don't wish to forget her," says he. "She—she's beautiful."

"Ah, what's the use?" says I. "She's mighty particular too."

"She has every right to be," says Dudley. "What delicious coloring! What a carriage! She has the bearing of a Queen."

"Maybe," says I. "But wouldn't you rattle around some on a throne? Keep that in mind, Dudley."

"Yes, yes," says he. "I suppose I must remember how unimpressive I am."

He's an easy forgetter that evenin', though. When Sadie suggests that Miss Adams favor us, blessed if it ain't Dudley who's right there doin' the music turnin' act. I wonder how many others has struck that same pose, and lost good sleep thinkin' it over afterwards? But never a one, I'll bet, that looked like such a hopeless starter.

He seemed to be enjoyin' it as much as any, though. And afterwards, when the other four settles themselves around the card table for the usual three rubbers, blamed if Dudley don't have the nerve to tow Veronica into the next room, stretchin' on tiptoe to talk earnest in her ear.

I could guess what it was all about. Veronica had a nice way of soundin' people for their pet hobbies, and she must have got Dudley started on his; for it's the only subject I ever knew him to get real gabby over. And you'd never guess from his looks what it was. Farmin'!

Course he ain't doin' the reg'lar Rube kind,—hay and hogs, hogs and hay. He goes at it scientific,—one of these book farmers, you understand. Establishin' model farms is his fad. Dudley told me all about it once,—intensive cultivation, soil doctorin', harvestin' efficiency, all such dope, with a cost-bearin' side line to fall back on in the winter.

Not that he needs the money, but he says he wants to keep busy and make himself useful. So his scheme is to buy up farms here and there, take each one in turn, put it on a payin' basis by studyin' the best stuff to raise and gettin' wise to the market, and then showin' his neighbors how to turn the trick too. No rollin' out at four A.M. to milk the cows for Dudley! He hires a good crew at topnotch wages, and puts in his time plannin' irrigatin' ditches, experimentin' with fertilizers, doin' the seed testin', and readin' government reports; even has a farm bookkeeper.



Then when cold weather comes, instead of turnin' off his help, he springs his side line,—maybe workin' up the wood lot into shippin' crates, or developin' a stone quarry. Last I heard he was settin' out willows he'd imported from Holland, and was growin' and makin' fancy veranda furniture. He's rung in a whole town on the deal, and they was all gettin' a good thing out of it. Establishing community industries, is the way Dudley puts it. Says every jay burg ought to have one of its own.

Most likely this was what he was so busy explainin' to Veronica. He's a good talker when he gets started too, and for such a quiet appearin' chap he can liven up a lot. Must have been goin' into the details deep with her; for they don't come back—and they don't come back. I'd read the evenin' papers, and poked up the log fire half a dozen times, and stood around watchin' the bridge game until I nearly yawned my head off; but they're still missin'.

I'd just strolled around into the front hall, kind of scoutin' to see if he'd talked her to sleep, or whether she'd come back at him with some brainy fad of her own and was givin' him the chilly spine, when out through the door dashes Dudley Byron, runnin' his fingers through his hair desperate and glarin' around wild.

"Aha!" says I. "So you got it too, did you?"

"McCabe," says he, hoarse and husky, "I—I've done a dreadful thing!"

"Why, Dudley!" says I. "I can't believe it."

"But I have," says he, clawin' me on the shoulder. "Oh, I—I've disgraced myself!"

"How?" says I. "Called some German composer out of his right name, or what?"

"No, no!" says he. "I—I can't tell you."

"Eh?" says I, starin' puzzled. "Well, you'd better."

"True, I'm your guest," says he. "But—but I forgot myself."

"Ah, cheer up," says I. "Veronica's a good sport. She wouldn't mind if you let slip a cussword."

"Oh, you don't understand," says Dudley, wringin' his hands. "Really, I have done something awful!"

"Come, come!" says I. "Let's have it, then."

"Believe me," says he, "I was carried away, quite intoxicated."

"Gwan!" says I. "Where'd you get the stuff?"

"I mean," says he, "by her wonderful beauty. And then, McCabe, in one moment I—I kissed her!"

"Great guns!" says I. "Didn't plant a reg'lar smack, did you?"

He bows his head solemn. "Right on the lips," says he. "You see, we were talking, her lovely face was very close, her glorious eyes were shining into mine, when suddenly—well, it seemed as if I became dizzy, and the next moment I seized her brutally in my arms and—and——"

"Good night!" says I, gaspin'. "What did she hit you with?"

"I—I can't say exactly what happened next," says Dudley. "I think I dropped her and ran out here."

"Of all the boob plays!" says I. "To take a Brodie plunge like that, and then do the fade-away!"

"But what must I do now?" groans Dudley. "Oh, what can I do?"

"Is she still in there?" says I.

"I—I suppose so," says he.

"Well, so far as I can see," says I, "you got to go back and apologize."

"What! Now?" says he.

"Before she has time to sick the old man on you with a gun," says I.

"Yes, yes!" says he. "Not that I am afraid of that. I wish he would shoot me! I hope someone does! But I suppose I ought to beg her pardon."

"In with you, then!" says I, leadin' him towards the door.

With his hand on the knob he balks. "Oh, I can't!" says he. "I simply cannot trust myself. If I should try, if I should find myself close to her once more. McCabe, I—I might do it all over again."

"Say, look here, Dudley!" says I. "This ain't a habit you're breakin' yourself of, you know: it's just a single slip you've got to apologize for."

"I know," says he; "but you cannot imagine how madly in love with her I am."

"I'm glad I can't," says I.

And, say, he sticks to it. No, Sir, I can't push him in there with Veronica again. I had him out on the front steps for fifteen minutes, tryin' to argue some sense into him; but all he wants to do is go jump off the rocks into the Sound and have me tell Aunty he died disgraced but happy. Fin'ly, though, he agrees to wait while I go sleuthin' in and find whether Veronica has rushed in tears to Daddy, or is still curled up on the davenport bitin' the cushions in rage.

I slips into the livin' room, where I find 'em addin' up the scores and talkin' over the last hand, but otherwise calm and peaceful. Then I opens the door soft into the next room, steps in, and shuts the door behind me. No wild sobs. No broken furniture. There's Veronica, rockin' back and forth under the readin' light, with a book in her lap.

"Well?" says I, waitin' breathless for the storm to break.

She gives a little jump, glances up quick, and pinks up like a poppy. "Oh!" says she, "It's you?"

"Uh-huh," says I. "I—er—I've just been talkin' with Dudley."

"Ye-e-es?" says she, rollin' a leaf of the book over her finger nervous and droopin' her long lashes.

"You see," says I, fidgetin' some on my own account, "he—he's goin' home in a minute or two."

"Oh, is he?" says she. "There! And I meant to ask him if he wouldn't call to-morrow. Won't you do it for me, Mr. McCabe?"

How about that for a reverse jolt, eh? I backs out of the room lookin' foolish. And Dudley he near collapses when I brings him the glad news.

As for Sadie, she couldn't believe me at all when I tells her Dudley looks like a sure winner. She had to wait until a few days later when she catches 'em just breakin' a clinch, before she'll admit I ain't stringin' her.

"But a shy, diffident fellow like Dudley!" says she. "I don't see how he did it."

"Neither does Dudley," says I. "Guess it must have been a case of a guy with the goods comin' across with the swift tackle. Maybe that's what she'd been waitin' for all along."



CHAPTER XIX

A LITTLE WHILE WITH ALVIN

I can't say just how I got roped in; whether it was me that discovered Alvin, or him who took to me. Must have been some my fault; for here was a whole subway car full of people, and I'm the one he seems to pick. I might lay it to an odd break, only things of that kind has happened to me so often.

Anyway, here I am, doin' the strap-swingin' act patient, without makin' any mad dash for a seat at stations, but hangin' on and watchin' the crowds shift sort of curious. You might as well, you know; for if you do get a chance to camp down durin' the rush hours, along comes some fat lady and stands puffin' in front of you, or a thin, tired lookin' one who glares at you over the top of your paper. But if you're a standee yourself you feel free to look any of 'em in the eye.

And, say, ain't we a glum, peevish, sour lookin' lot, here in New York? You'd most think that showin' any signs of good nature was violatin' a city ordinance, and that all our dispositions had been treated with acetic acid. Why, by the suspicious looks we give the stranger who rubs elbows with us, you might suppose our population was ninety per cent. escaped criminals.

As the idea struck me I may have loosened my mouth corners a little, or may not. Anyway, as we pulls into 72d-st., and the wild scramble to catch a packed express begins, I finds myself gazin' absentminded at this slim, stoop-shouldered gent in the corner. Next thing I know he's smilin' friendly and pointin' to a vacant seat alongside.

First off, of course, I thinks he must be someone I've met casual and forgot; but as I slides in beside him and gets a closer view I know that he's one of the ninety-odd millions of unfortunates who, up to date, ain't had the benefit of my acquaintance. In other words, he's one of the common suspects, an utter stranger.

Course, as far as his looks go, he might be a perfect gent. He's dressed neat and plain, except for the brown spats; but as you run across a spat wearer only now and then, you're bound to guess they ain't just right somewhere. The sallow-complected face with the prominent cheekbones don't count so much against him. Them points are common. What caught me, though, was the lively brown eyes with just the hint of a twinkle in 'em. Always does. I know some like the wide-set, stary kind that go with an open-faced smile and a loud haw-haw; but for me the quiet chuckle and the twinklin' eye! Still, he hadn't proved yet that he wa'n't a pickpocket or a wife beater; so I just nods non-committal over my shoulder and resumes my usual aristocratic reserve.

"How does it happen," says he, "that you aren't on your way to the funeral too?"

"Eh?" says I, a little jarred at this odd openin'.

"Or is it that they have all been indulgin' in family rows? Look at them!" he goes on, wavin' his hand at the carful.

"Oh, I get you," says I. "Not so cheerful as they might be, are they?"

"But is it necessary for us all to be so selfishly sad," says he, "so gloomily stern? True, we have each our troubles, some little, some big; but why wear them always on our faces? Why inflict them on others? Why not, when we can, the brave, kindly smile?"

"Just the way it struck me a minute ago," says I.

"Did it?" says he, beamin'. "Then I claim you for our clan."

"Your which?" says I.

"Our brotherhood," says he.

"Can't be very exclusive," says I, "if I've qualified so easy. Any partic'lar passwords or grip to it?"

"We rehearsed the whole ritual before you sat down," says he. "The friendly glance, that's all. And now—well, I prefer to be called Alvin."

"So-o-o?" says I sort of distant. But I'd no more'n got it out than I felt mean. What if he was a con man, or worse? I ought to be able to take care of myself. So I goes on, "McCabe's my name; but among friends I'm gen'rally known as Shorty."

"The best of credentials!" says he. "Then hail, Shorty, and welcome to the Free Brotherhood of Ego Tamers!"

I shakes my head puzzled. "Now I've lost you," says I. "If it's a comedy line, shoot it."

"Ah, but it's only tragedy," says Alvin, "the original tragedy of man. See how its blight rests on these around us! Simply over-stimulation of the ego; our souls in the strait-jacket of self; no freedom of thought or word or deed to our fellows. Ego, the tyrant, rules us. Only we of the Free Brotherhood are seeking to tame ours. Do I put it clumsily?"

"If you was readin' it off a laundry ticket, it couldn't be clearer," says I. "Something about tappin' the upper-case I too frequent, ain't it?"

"An excellent paraphrase," says he. "You have it!"

"Gee!" says I. "Didn't know I was so close behind you. But whisper, I ain't got my Ego on the mat with his tongue out, not yet."

"And who of us has?" says he. "But at least we give him a tussle now and then. We've broken a fetter here and there. We have worked loose the gag."

Say, he had, all right, or else he'd swallowed it; for as an easy and fluent converser Alvin headed the bill. Course, it's an odd line he hands out, the kind that keeps you guessin'. In spots it listens like highbrow book stuff, and then again it don't. But somehow I finds it sort of entertainin'. Besides, he seems like such a good-natured, well meanin' gink that I lets him run on, clear to 42d-st.

"Well, so long," says I. "I get out here."

"To leave me among the Ishmaelites!" says he. "And I've two useless hours to dispose of. Let me go a way with you?"

I hadn't counted on annexin' Alvin for the rest of the day, and I expect I could have shook him if I'd tried; but by that time he'd got me kind of curious to know who and what he was, and why. So I tows him over as far as the Physical Culture Studio.

"Here's where I make some of 'em forget their egos, at so much per," says I, pointin' to the sign.

"Ah, the red corpuscle method!" says he. "Primitive; but effective, I've no doubt. I must see it in operation."

And an hour later he's still there, reposin' comf'table in an office chair with his feet on the windowsill, smokin' cigarettes, and throwin' off chunks of classy dialogue that had Swifty Joe gawpin' at him like he was listenin' to a foreign language.

"My assistant, Mr. Gallagher," says I, by way of apologizin'.

Alvin jumps up and shakes him hearty by the mitt. "Allow me to offer you a cigarette, Sir," says he.

"Much obliged," says Swifty, eyin' the thin silver case with the gold linin'. "Gee! what a swell box!"

"Do you fancy it?" says Alvin. "Then it is yours, with my best compliments."

"Ah-r-r-r chee, no!" protests Swifty.

"Please, as a favor to me," insists Alvin, pushin' the case into his hand. "One finds so few ways of giving pleasure. In return I shall remember gratefully the direct sincerity of your manner. Charming!"

And, say, I expect it's the first time in his whole career that anybody ever discovered any good points about Swifty Joe Gallagher on first sight. He backs out with his mouth open and his face tinted up like an old maid's that's been kissed in the dark.

But that little play only makes it all the harder for me to shoo him out. The fact is, though, it's gettin' almost time for a directors' meetin' that's to be pulled off in my front office. Sounds imposin', don't it? Didn't know I was on a board, eh? Well, I am, and up to date it's been one of the richest luxuries I ever blew myself to. I'd been roped, that's all.

Young Blair Woodbury, one of my downtown reg'lars, had opened the cellar door for me. Thinks he's a great promoter, Blair does. And somewhere he'd dug up this nutty inventor with his milk container scheme. Oh, it listens good, the way he put it. Just a two-ounce, woodpulp, mailin' cartridge lined with oiled paper, that could be turned out for a dollar a thousand, pint and quart sizes, indestructible, absolutely sanitary, air tight, germ proof, and so on.

Simple little thing; but it was goin' to put the Milk Trust out of business inside of six months, set back the high cost of livin' a full notch, give every dairy farmer an automobile, and land the Universal Container Company's stockholders at No. 1 Easy-st. For, instead of payin' two prices for an imitation blend doctored up with formaldehyde, you got the real, creamy stuff straight from the farm at five a quart, and passed in at the front door with your morning mail. Didn't the parcel post bring your drygoods? Why not your milk? And when it got to be common the P.O. Department would put on carts for a six A.M. delivery. There you are!

So I'd subscribed for a thousand shares, payin' fifty per cent. down for development expenses, the rest on call. Yes, I know. But you should have heard Blair Woodbury pull the prospectus stuff, and describe how the dividends would come rollin' in!

That was six or eight months ago, and we'd stood for two assessments. Then it turned out there was something wrong with the pulp compressor dingus that was to have shot out containers at the rate of two hundred a minute. Some of us went over to Jersey to see it work; but all it produced while we was there was a groanin' sound and a smell of sour dough. I could have bought out the holdin's of the entire bunch for my return ticket. But the ticket looked above par to me.

After that our board meetin's wa'n't such gay affairs. A grouchy lot of tinhorn investors we was, believe me; for the parties young Mr. Woodbury had decoyed into this fool scheme wa'n't Standard Oil plutes or any of the Morgan crowd: mostly salaried men, with a couple of dentists, a retail grocer, and a real estate agent! None of us was stuck on droppin' a thousand or so into a smelly machine that wouldn't behave. Maybe it would next time; but we had our doubts. What we wanted most was to get from under, and this meetin' to-day was called to chew over a proposition for dumpin' the stock on the Curb on the chance that there might be enough suckers to go around. It wouldn't be a cheerful seance, either, and bystanders might not be exactly welcome. Misery may like comp'ny; but it don't yearn for a gallery.

So I has to hint to Alvin that as I had a little business meetin' comin' on maybe he wouldn't find it so entertainin'.

"Nothing bores me," says he. "Humanity, in all its phases, all its efforts, is interesting."

"Huh!" says I. "Humanity beefin' over a dollar it's dropped through a crack wouldn't furnish any Easter card scheme. Talk about grouchy people! You ought to see this bunch, with their egos clutchin' their checkbooks."

"Ah!" says Alvin. "A financial deal, is it?"

"It was," says I. "These are the obsequies we're about to hold."

And he's so prompt with the sympathy dope that I has to sketch the disaster out for him, includin' a description of the container scheme.

"Why," says he, "that seems quite practical. Rather a brilliant idea, and far too good to be abandoned without a thorough trial. It appeals strongly to me, Friend McCabe. Besides, I've had some experience in such affairs. Perhaps I could help. Let me try."

"I'll put it up to the board," says I. "If they say—— Ah, here comes Doc Fosdick and Meyers the grocer now."

They don't appear arm in arm. In fact, at the last session they'd had a hot run-in; so now they takes chairs on opposite sides of the room and glares at each other hostile. A thin, nervous little dyspeptic, Doc Fosdick is; while Meyers is bull necked and red faced. They'd mix about as well as a cruet of vinegar and a pail of lard. Course I has to introduce Alvin, and he insists on shakin' hands cordial.

"You professional chaps," says he to the Doc, "are such fine fellows to know. Ah, a bit crusty on the surface perhaps; but underneath—what big hearts! Delighted, Mr. Meyers! One can readily see how you translate good health into good nature. And I congratulate you both on being associated in such a splendid enterprise as this milk container scheme. Bound to be a big thing; for it is founded on the public good. Altruism always wins in the long run, you know, always."

Doc he tries to sniff disagreeable, and Meyers grunts disapprovin'; but Alvin had 'em goin' for all that. You could tell by the satisfied way the grocer lights up a cigar, and the soothed actions of Fosdick. As the others drops in one by one, Alvin kept on spreadin' seeds of sunshine, and before the meetin' was called to order he was on chummy terms with nearly everyone in the room. The point of whether he was to stay or not wa'n't even raised.

It was Manning, the real estate man, who sprung the new proposition. "That fool inventor Nevins," says he, "insists that if we can give him two weeks more and raise twenty-five thousand, he can perfect his machine and start manufacturing. Now if we could only find buyers for half those unsubscribed shares——"

"Bah!" snorts Fosdick. "Hasn't Woodbury hawked 'em all over town? Why isn't he here now? Tell me that, will you? Because he's done with us! We're squeezed lemons, we are, and he can't find any more to squeeze!"

"Pardon me," says Alvin, "but I wish to state that I believe fully in this enterprise. It's sound, it's scientific, it's progressive. And while as a rule I don't go in for speculative investments, I shall be very glad, in this instance, providing you all agree to stand by and see it through with me, to take—say ten thousand shares at par. In fact, I stand ready to write a check for the full amount this minute. What do you say?"

Well, we gasps and gawps at Alvin like so many orphan asylum kids when Santa Claus bounces in at the Christmas exercises.

Manning gets his breath back first. "Gentlemen," says he, "isn't this offer worth considering? Let's see, did I get your name right, Mr.—er——"

"Alvin Pratt Barton," says our Santa Claus.

"Pratt Barton?" repeats Manning. "Any connection with the brokerage firm of that name?"

Alvin shrugs his shoulders and smiles. "The late Mr. Barton was my father," says he. "Mr. Pratt is my uncle by marriage. But I am doing this on my own initiative, you know. I should like an expression of opinion."

Say, he got it! Inside of three minutes we'd voted unanimous to hold on for two months longer, made Alvin vice president of the comp'ny, and his check has been handed over to the treasurer, which is me. Then he'd shaken hands hearty with each one, patted 'em on the back, and even got Doc Fosdick smilin' amiable as he leaves.

"Alvin," says I after they'd all gone, "take it from me, you're some pacifier! Why, if it hadn't been for you jumpin' in, I expect we'd jawed away here for hours until we broke up in a free-for-all. Honest, you got the white dove of peace lookin' like a mad fish hawk."

"Tut, tut!" says Alvin. "No spoofing, you know. Really, it takes very little to bring men together; for, after all, we are brothers. Only at times we forget."

"You mean most of us never remember," says I. "But you're a true sport, anyway, and the least I can do is to blow you to the best lunch on Fifth-ave. Come on."

He consents ready enough, providin' I'll stroll over to the Grand Central with him first, while he sees about some baggage. We was makin' a dash through the traffic across Sixth-ave. when I misses Alvin, and turns around to find him apologizin' to a young female he's managed to bump into and spill in the slush just as he fetched the curb. He has his hat off and is beggin' her pardon in his best society way too; although he must have seen at a glance what she was,—one of these brassy-eyed parties with a hand-decorated complexion and a hangover breath.

"Ah, chop the soft stuff!" says she, brushin' the mud off her slit skirt vigorous. "And next time lamp who you're buttin' into, you pie-faced, turkey-shanked——"

Well, maybe that's enough of the lady's repartee to quote exact; for the rest wa'n't strictly ladylike. And the more Alvin tries to convince her how sorry he is, the livelier she cuts loose with her tongue, until a crowd collects to enjoy the performance.

"Beat it!" says I, tuggin' Alvin by the arm.

"Please wait here a moment, Madam," says he, and then starts off, leavin' her starin' after him and still statin' her opinion of him reckless. He only goes as far as the florist's, next to the corner, and I follows.

"A dozen of those American beauties quickly, please," says Alvin, fishin' hasty through his pockets. "Oh, I say, McCabe, can you lend me fifteen for a few moments? Thank you."

And in a jiffy he's back at the curb, presentin' that armful of roses to Tessie of the tabasco tongue, and doin' it as graceful and dignified as if he was handin' 'em to a Pittsburgh Duchess. He don't wait for any thanks, either; but takes me by the arm and hurries off. I had to have one more look, though, and as I glances back she's still standin' there starin' at the flowers sort of stupid, with the brine leakin' from both eyes.

"Alvin," says I, "it's some education to travel with you."

"I'm a clumsy ass!" says he. "Poor wretch! I could think of nothing sensible to do for her. Let's say no more about it. I must get that suitcase from the baggage room."

He greets the grumpy checkroom tyrant like a friend and brother, and has just slipped him a cigar when a husky-built square-jawed gent steps up behind and taps Alvin familiar on the shoulder.

Alvin's jaw sags disappointed for a second as he turns; but he recovers quick and gives the cheerful hail. "Oh, it's you, is it, Scully?" says he. "I thought I'd given you the slip completely this time. Hope I haven't made you a lot of trouble."

"Not a bit, Mr. Barton," says Scully. "You know it's a change for us, Sir, getting out this way, with all expenses paid. They sent Talcott with me, Sir."

"Fine!" says Alvin. "Of course I like them all; but I'm glad it happened to be you and Talcott this trip."

"Hope you're ready to go back, Sir," says Scully.

"Oh, quite," says Alvin. "I've had a bully good time; but I'm getting a little tired. And, by the way, please remember to have the doctor send fifteen dollars to my friend McCabe here. You explain, will you, Scully?"

Scully does. "From Dr. Slade's Restorium," says he, noddin' at Alvin and tappin' his forehead. "Quite a harmless gentleman, Sir."

"Eh?" says I, turnin' to Alvin. "You from a nut factory? Good night!"

"It's a whim of Uncle's," says Alvin, chucklin'. "He's gone a little cracked over making and saving money. Poor old chap! Ego developed most abnormally. But the Judge he took me before was that kind too; so I am compelled to live with Dr. Slade. Jolly crowd up there, though. Come along, Scully; we mustn't be late for dinner."

And off he goes, smilin' contented and friendly at anyone who happens to look his way. Wouldn't that crimp you?

Course, my first move after gettin' back to the studio was to dig that check of his out of the safe and query the bank. "No account here," the clerk 'phones back prompt, and I could see the Universal Liquid Container Company takin' a final plunge down the coal chute.

For days, though, I put off callin' the bunch together and announcin' the sad fact. More'n a week went by, and I was still dreadin' to do it. Then here this mornin' in romps young Blair Woodbury, his eyes sparklin' and a broad grin on his face. He's flourishin' a bundle about the size of a two weeks' fam'ly wash, and as he sees me he lets out a joy yelp.

"Well, why the riot?" says I. "What you got there?"

"Containers!" says he. "Old Nevins has got the compressor working. Sixty seconds to make these, my boy—two hundred in one minute! Count 'em!"

"I'll take your word for it," says I. "That's fine, too. But I'm carryin' all the comp'ny stock I can stand. Go out and convince some other come-ons."

"I don't have to," says he. "Why, during the last four days the issue has been oversubscribed. It was getting that Mr. Barton, of Pratt & Barton, on our list that turned the trick."

"Alvin!" I gasps. "Why—why, he's only a batty nephew, that they keep under guard. Bughouse, you know. His check's no good."

"Doesn't matter in the least," says Blair. "He made good bait. We're established, I tell you! Get the board together, and we'll let the contracts for the factory. And then—well, McCabe, if our stock doesn't hit one hundred and fifty inside of six months, I—I'll eat every one of these!"

And, say, allowin' for all his extra enthusiasm, it looks like we stood to win. I expect the other directors'll be some jarred, though, when they hear about Alvin. I started in to break it to Swifty Joe.

"By the way, Swifty," says I, "you remember that Barton party who was in here one day?"

"Mister Barton," says he reprovin'. "Say, he was a reg'lar guy, he was!"

"Think so?" says I.

"Think!" explodes Swifty indignant. "Ahr-r-r chee! Why, say, any bonehead could see he was a real' gent to the last tap of the gong."

And, say, I didn't have the heart to break the spell. For, after all, admittin' the state of his belfry, I don't know that many of us has so much on Alvin, at that.

THE END



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JOHN FOX, JR'S. STORIES OF THE KENTUCKY MOUNTAINS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.

THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE. Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.

The "lonesome pine" from which the story takes its name was a tall tree that stood in solitary splendor on a mountain top. The fame of the pine lured a young engineer through Kentucky to catch the trail, and when he finally climbed to its shelter he found not only the pine but the foot-prints of a girl. And the girl proved to be lovely, piquant, and the trail of these girlish foot-prints led the young engineer a madder chase than "the trail of the lonesome pine."

THE LITTLE SHEPHERD OF KINGDOM COME Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.

This is a story of Kentucky, in a settlement known as "Kingdom Come." It is a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural and honest, from which often springs the flower of civilization.

"Chad," the "little shepherd," did not know who he was nor whence he came—he had just wandered from door to door since early childhood, seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who gladly fathered and mothered this waif about whom there was such a mystery—a charming waif, by the way, who could play the banjo better that anyone else in the mountains.

A KNIGHT OF THE CUMBERLAND. Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.

The scenes are laid along the waters of the Cumberland, the lair of moonshiner and feudsman. The knight is a moonshiner's son, and the heroine a beautiful girl perversely christened "The Blight." Two impetuous young Southerners' fall under the spell of "The Blight's" charms and she learns what a large part jealousy and pistols have in the love making of the mountaineers.

Included in this volume is "Hell fer-Sartain" and other stories, some of Mr. Fox's most entertaining Cumberland valley narratives.

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STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY GENE STRATTON-PORTER

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.

LADDIE. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer.

This is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in Indiana. The story is told by Little Sister, the youngest member of a large family, but it is concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love affairs of older members of the family. Chief among them is that of Laddie, the older brother whom Little Sister adores, and the Princess, an English girl who has come to live in the neighborhood and about whose family there hangs a mystery. There is a wedding midway in the book and a double wedding at the close.

THE HARVESTER. Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs.

"The Harvester," David Langston, is a man of the woods and fields, who draws his living from the prodigal hand of Mother Nature herself. If the book had nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would be notable. But when the Girl comes to his "Medicine Woods," and the Harvester's whole being realizes that this is the highest point of life which has come to him—there begins a romance of the rarest idyllic quality.

FRECKLES. Decorations by E. Stetson Crawford.

Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which he takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the great Limberlost Swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs to the charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "The Angel" are full of real sentiment.

A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST. Illustrated by Wladyslaw T. Brenda.

The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, lovable type of the self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and kindness towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. And by the sheer beauty of her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren and unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage.

AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW. Illustrations in colors by Oliver Kemp.

The scene of this charming love story is laid in Central Indiana. The story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love. The novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

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MYRTLE REED'S NOVELS May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

LAVENDER AND OLD LACE.

A charming story of a quaint corner of New England where bygone romance finds a modern parallel. The story centers round the coming of love to the young people on the staff of a newspaper—and it is one of the prettiest, sweetest and quaintest of old fashioned love stories, * * * a rare book, exquisite in spirit and conception, full of delicate fancy, of tenderness, of delightful humor and spontaneity.

A SPINNER IN THE SUN.

Miss Myrtle Reed may always be depended upon to write a story in which poetry, charm, tenderness and humor are combined into a clever and entertaining book. Her characters are delightful and she always displays a quaint humor of expression and a quiet feeling of pathos which give a touch of active realism to all her writings. In "A Spinner in the Sun" she tells an old-fashioned love story, of a veiled lady who lives in "solitude and whose features her neighbors have never seen. There is a mystery at the heart of the book that throws over it the glamour of romance."

THE MASTER'S VIOLIN.

A love story in a musical atmosphere. A picturesque, old German virtuoso is the reverent possessor of a genuine "Cremona." He consents to take for his pupil a handsome youth who proves to have an aptitude for technique, but not the soul of an artist. The youth has led the happy, careless life of a modern, well-to-do young American and he cannot, with his meagre past, express the love, the passion and the tragedies of life and all its happy phases as can the master who has lived life in all its fulness. But a girl comes into his life—a beautiful bit of human driftwood that his aunt had taken into her heart and home, and through his passionate love for her, he learns the lessons that life has to give—and his soul awakes.

Founded on a fact that all artists realize.

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GROSSET & DUNLAP'S DRAMATIZED NOVELS THE KIND THAT ARE MAKING THEATRICAL HISTORY

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

WITHIN THE LAW. By Bayard Veiller & Marvin Dana. Illustrated by Wm. Charles Cooke.

This is a novelization of the immensely successful play which ran for two years in New York and Chicago.

The plot of this powerful novel is of a young woman's revenge directed against her employer who allowed her to be sent to prison for three years on a charge of theft, of which she was innocent.

WHAT HAPPENED TO MARY. By Robert Carlton Brown. Illustrated with scenes from the play.

This is a narrative of a young and innocent country girl who is suddenly thrown into the very heart of New York, "the land of her dreams," where she is exposed to all sorts of temptations and dangers.

The story of Mary is being told in moving pictures and played in theatres all over the world.

THE RETURN OF PETER GRIMM. By David Belasco. Illustrated by John Rae.

This is a novelization of the popular play in which David Warfield, as Old Peter Grimm, scored such a remarkable success.

The story is spectacular and extremely pathetic but withal, powerful, both as a book and as a play.

THE GARDEN OF ALLAH. By Robert Hichens.

This novel is an intense, glowing epic of the great desert, sunlit barbaric, with its marvelous atmosphere of vastness and loneliness.

It is a book of rapturous beauty, vivid in word painting. The play has been staged with magnificent cast and gorgeous properties.

BEN HUR. A Tale of the Christ. By General Lew Wallace.

The whole world has placed this famous Religious-Historical Romance on a height of pre-eminence which no other novel of its time has reached. The clashing of rivalry and the deepest human passions, the perfect reproduction of brilliant Roman life, and the tense, fierce atmosphere of the arena have kept their deep fascination. A tremendous dramatic success.

BOUGHT AND PAID FOR. By George Broadhurst and Arthur Hornblow. Illustrated with scenes from the play.

A stupendous arraignment of modern marriage which has created an interest on the stage that is almost unparalleled. The scenes are laid in New York, and deal with conditions among both the rich and poor.

The interest of the story turns on the day-by-day developments which show the young wife the price she has paid.

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GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26th ST., NEW YORK

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GROSSET & DUNLAP'S DRAMATIZED NOVELS

Original, sincere and courageous—often amusing—the kind that are making theatrical history.

MADAME X. By Alexandre Bisson and J. W. McConaughy. Illustrated with scenes from the play.

A beautiful Parisienne became an outcast because her husband would not forgive an error of her youth. Her love for her son is the great final influence in her career. A tremendous dramatic success.

THE GARDEN OF ALLAH. By Robert Hichens.

An unconventional English woman and an inscrutable stranger meet and love in an oasis of the Sahara. Staged this season with magnificent cast and gorgeous properties.

THE PRINCE OF INDIA. By Lew. Wallace.

A glowing romance of the Byzantine Empire, presenting with extraordinary power the siege of Constantinople, and lighting its tragedy with the warm underglow of an Oriental romance. As a play it is a great dramatic spectacle.

TESS OF THE STORM COUNTRY. By Grace Miller White. Illust. by Howard Chandler Christy.

A girl from the dregs of society, loves a young Cornell University student, and it works startling changes in her life and the lives of those about her. The dramatic version is one of the sensations of the season.

YOUNG WALLINGFORD. By George Randolph Chester. Illust. by F. R. Gruger and Henry Raleigh.

A series of clever swindles conducted by a cheerful young man, each of which is just on the safe side of a State's prison offence. As "Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford," it is probably the most amusing expose of money manipulation ever seen on the stage.

THE INTRUSION OF JIMMY. By P. G. Wodehouse. Illustrations by Will Grefe.

Social and club life in London and New York, an amateur burglary adventure and a love story. Dramatized under the title of "A Gentleman of Leisure," it furnishes hours of laughter to the play-goers.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26th ST., NEW YORK

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B. M. BOWER'S NOVELS

Thrilling Western Romances

Large 12 mos. Handsomely bound in cloth. Illustrated

CHIP, OF THE FLYING U

A breezy wholesome tale, wherein the love affairs of Chip and Della Whitman are charmingly and humorously told. Chip's jealousy of Dr. Cecil Grantham, who turns out to be a big, blue eyed young woman is very amusing. A clever, realistic story of the American Cow-puncher.

THE HAPPY FAMILY

A lively and amusing story, dealing with the adventures of eighteen jovial, big hearted Montana cowboys. Foremost amongst them, we find Ananias Green, known as Andy, whose imaginative powers cause many lively and exciting adventures.

HER PRAIRIE KNIGHT

A realistic story of the plains, describing a gay party of Easterners who exchange a cottage at Newport for the rough homeliness of a Montana ranch-house. The merry-hearted cowboys, the fascinating Beatrice, and the effusive Sir Redmond, become living, breathing personalities.

THE RANGE DWELLERS

Here are everyday, genuine cowboys, just as they really exist. Spirited action, a range feud between two families, and a Romeo and Juliet courtship make this a bright, jolly, entertaining story, without a dull page.

THE LURE OF DIM TRAILS

A vivid portrayal of the experience of an Eastern author, among the cowboys of the West, in search of "local color" for a new novel. "Bud" Thurston learns many a lesson while following "the lure of the dim trails" but the hardest, and probably the most welcome, is that of love.

THE LONESOME TRAIL

"Weary" Davidson leaves the ranch for Portland, where conventional city life palls on him. A little branch of sage brush, pungent with the atmosphere of the prairie, and the recollection of a pair of large brown eyes soon compel his return. A wholesome love story.

THE LONG SHADOW

A vigorous Western story, sparkling with the free, outdoor, life of a mountain ranch. Its scenes shift rapidly and its actors play the game of life fearlessly and like men. It is a fine love story from start to finish.

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GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26TH ST., NEW YORK