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Title: The Honorable Peter Stirling and What People Thought of Him

Author: Paul Leicester Ford

Release Date: December 30, 2004  [eBook #14532]
Most recently updated: December 22, 2008

Language: English

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THE HONORABLE PETER STIRLING and WHAT PEOPLE THOUGHT OF HIM

by

PAUL LEICESTER FORD

Stitt Publishing Company New York
Henry Holt & Co.

1894








    To

    THOSE DEAR TO ME
    AT
    STONEY WOLDE,
    TURNERS, NEW YORK;
    PINEHURST;
    NORWICH, CONNECTICUT;
    BROOK FARM,
    PROCTORSVILLE, VERMONT;
    AND
    DUNESIDE,
    EASTHAMPTON, NEW YORK,

    THIS BOOK,
    WRITTEN WHILE AMONG THEM,
    IS DEDICATED.






CHAPTER I.

ROMANCE AND REALITY.


Mr. Pierce was talking. Mr. Pierce was generally talking. From the day
that his proud mamma had given him a sweetmeat for a very inarticulate
"goo" which she translated into "papa," Mr. Pierce had found speech
profitable. He had been able to talk his nurse into granting him every
indulgence. He had talked his way through school and college. He had
talked his wife into marrying him. He had talked himself to the head of
a large financial institution. He had talked his admission into society.
Conversationally, Mr. Pierce was a success. He could discuss
Schopenhauer or cotillion favors; St. Paul, the apostle, or St. Paul,
the railroad. He had cultivated the art as painstakingly as a
professional musician. He had countless anecdotes, which he introduced
to his auditors by a "that reminds me of." He had endless quotations,
with the quotation marks omitted. Finally he had an idea on every
subject, and generally a theory as well. Carlyle speaks somewhere of an
"inarticulate genius." He was not alluding to Mr. Pierce.

Like most good talkers, Mr. Pierce was a tongue despot. Conversation
must take his course, or he would none of it. Generally he controlled.
If an upstart endeavored to turn the subject, Mr. Pierce waited till the
intruder had done speaking, and then quietly, but firmly would remark:
"Relative to the subject we were discussing a moment ago--" If any one
ventured to speak, even _sotto voce_, before Mr. Pierce had finished all
he had to say, he would at once cease his monologue, wait till the
interloper had finished, and then resume his lecture just where he had
been interrupted. Only once had Mr. Pierce found this method to fail in
quelling even the sturdiest of rivals. The recollection of that day is
still a mortification to him. It had happened on the deck of an ocean
steamer. For thirty minutes he had fought his antagonist bravely. Then,
humbled and vanquished, he had sought the smoking-room, to moisten his
parched throat, and solace his wounded spirit, with a star cocktail. He
had at last met his superior. He yielded the deck to the fog-horn.

At the present moment Mr. Pierce was having things very much his own
way. Seated in the standing-room of a small yacht, were some eight
people. With a leaden sky overhead, and a leaden sea about it, the boat
gently rose and fell with the ground swell. Three miles away could be
seen the flash-light marking the entrance to the harbor. But though
slowly gathering clouds told that wind was coming, the yacht now lay
becalmed, drifting with the ebb tide. The pleasure-seekers had been
together all day, and were decidedly talked out. For the last hour they
had been singing songs--always omitting Mr. Pierce, who never so trifled
with his vocal organs. During this time he had been restless. At one
point he had attempted to deliver his opinion on the relation of verse
to music, but an unfeeling member of the party had struck up "John
Brown's Body," and his lecture had ended, in the usual serial style, at
the most interesting point, without even the promise of a "continuation
in our next." Finally, however, the singers had sung themselves hoarse
in the damp night air, the last "Spanish Cavalier" had been safely
restored to his inevitable true-love, and the sound of voices and banjo
floated away over the water. Mr. Pierce's moment had come.

Some one, and it is unnecessary to mention the sex, had given a sigh,
and regretted that nineteenth century life was so prosaic and
unromantic. Clearing his throat, quite as much to pre-empt the pause as
to articulate the better, Mr. Pierce spoke:

"That modern times are less romantic and interesting than bygone
centuries is a fallacy. From time immemorial, love and the battle
between evil and good are the two things which have given the world
romance and interest. Every story, whether we find it in the myths of
the East, the folklore of Europe, the poems of the Troubadours, or in
our newspaper of this morning, is based on one or the other of these
factors, or on both combined. Now it is a truism that love never played
so important a part as now in shaping the destinies of men and women,
for this is the only century in which it has obtained even a partial
divorce from worldly and parental influences. Moreover the great battle
of society, to crush wrong and elevate right, was never before so
bravely fought, on so many fields, by so many people as to-day. But
because our lovers and heroes no longer brag to the world of their
doings; no longer stand in the moonlight, and sing of their 'dering
does,' the world assumes that the days of tourneys and guitars were the
only days of true love and noble deeds. Even our professed writers of
romance join in the cry. 'Draw life as it is,' they say. 'We find
nothing in it but mediocrity, selfishness, and money-loving.' By all
means let us have truth in our novels, but there is truth and truth.
Most of New York's firemen presumably sat down at noon to-day to a
dinner of corned-beef and cabbage. But perhaps one of them at the same
moment was fighting his way through smoke and flame, to save life at the
risk of his own. Boiled dinner and burned firemen are equally true. Are
they equally worthy of description? What would the age of chivalry be,
if the chronicles had recorded only the brutality, filthiness and
coarseness of their contemporaries? The wearing of underclothing
unwashed till it fell to pieces; the utter lack of soap; the eating with
fingers; the drunkenness and foul-mouthedness that drove women from the
table at a certain point, and so inaugurated the custom, now continued
merely as an excuse for a cigar? Some one said once that a man finds in
a great city just the qualities he takes to it. That's true of romance
as well. Modern novelists don't find beauty and nobility in life,
because they don't look for them. They predicate from their inner souls
that the world is 'cheap and nasty' and that is what they find it to be.
There is more true romance in a New York tenement than there ever was in
a baron's tower--braver battles, truer love, nobler sacrifices. Romance
is all about us, but we must have eyes for it. You are young people,
with your lives before you. Let me give you a little advice. As you go
through life look for the fine things--not for the despicable. It won't
make you any richer. It won't make you famous. It won't better you in a
worldly way. But it will make your lives happier, for by the time you
are my age, you'll love humanity, and look upon the world and call it
good. And you will have found romance enough to satisfy all longings for
mediaeval times."

"But, dear, one cannot imagine some people ever finding anything
romantic in life," said a voice, which, had it been translated into
words would have said, "I know you are right, of course, and you will
convince me at once, but in my present state of unenlightenment it seems
to me that--" the voice, already low, became lower. "Now"--a moment's
hesitation--"there is--Peter Stirling."

"Exactly," said Mr. Pierce. "That is a very case in point, and proves
just what I've been saying. Peter is like the novelists of whom I've
been talking. I don't suppose we ought to blame him for it. What can you
expect of a son of a mill-foreman, who lives the first sixteen years of
his life in a mill-village? If his hereditary tendencies gave him a
chance, such an experience would end it. If one lives in the country,
one may get fine thoughts by contact with Nature. In great cities one is
developed and stimulated by art, music, literature, and contact with
clever people. But a mill-village is one vast expanse of mediocrity and
prosaicness, and it would take a bigger nature than Peter's to recognize
the beautiful in such a life. In truth, he is as limited, as exact, and
as unimaginative as the machines of his own village. Peter has no
romance in him; hence he will never find it, nor increase it in this
world. This very case only proves my point; that to meet romance one
must have it. Boccaccio said he did not write novels, but lived them.
Try to imagine Peter living a romance! He could be concerned in a dozen
and never dream it. They would not interest him even if he did notice
them. And I'll prove it to you." Mr. Pierce raised his voice. "We are
discussing romance, Peter. Won't you stop that unsocial tramp of yours
long enough to give us your opinion on the subject?"

A moment's silence followed, and then a singularly clear voice, coming
from the forward part of the yacht, replied: "I never read them, Mr.
Pierce."

Mr. Pierce laughed quietly. "See," he said, "that fellow never dreams of
there being romance outside of novels. He is so prosaic that he is
unconscious of anything bigger than his own little sphere of life. Peter
may obtain what he wants in this world, for his desires will be of the
kind to be won by work and money. But he will never be controlled by a
great idea, nor be the hero of a true romance."

Steele once wrote that the only difference between the Catholic Church
and the Church of England was, that the former was infallible and the
latter never wrong. Mr. Pierce would hardly have claimed for himself
either of these qualities. He was too accustomed in his business to
writing, "E. and O.E." above his initials, to put much faith in human
dicta. But in the present instance he felt sure of what he said, and the
little group clearly agreed. If they were right, this story is like that
recounted in Mother Goose, which was ended before it was begun. But Mr.
Pierce had said that romance is everywhere to those who have the spirit
of it in them. Perhaps in this case the spirit was lacking in his
judges--not in Peter Stirling.




CHAPTER II.

APPEARANCES.


The unconscious illustration of Mr. Pierce's theory was pacing backwards
and forwards on the narrow space between the cuddy-roof and the gunwale,
which custom dignifies with the name of deck. Six strides forward and
turn. Six strides aft and turn. That was the extent of the beat. Yet had
Peter been on sentry duty, he could not have continued it more regularly
or persistently. If he were walking off his supper, as most of those
seated aft would have suggested, the performance was not particularly
interesting. The limit and rapidity of the walk resembled the tramp of a
confined animal, exercising its last meal. But when one stands in front
of the lion's cage, and sees that restless and tireless stride, one
cannot but wonder how much of it is due to the last shin-bone, and how
much to the wild and powerful nature under the tawny skin. The question
occurs because the nature and antecedents of the lion are known. For
this same reason the yachters were a unit in agreeing that Stirling's
unceasing walk was merely a digestive promenade. The problem was whether
they were right? Or whether, to apply Mr. Pierce's formula, they merely
imposed their own frame of mind in place of Stirling's, and decided,
since their sole reason for walking at the moment would be entirely
hygienic, that he too must be striding from the same cause?

Dr. Holmes tells us that when James and Thomas converse there are really
six talkers. First, James as James thinks he is, and Thomas as Thomas
thinks he is. Second James as Thomas thinks him, and Thomas as James
thinks him. Finally, there are James and Thomas as they really are.
Since this is neither an autobiography nor an inspired story, the
world's view of Peter Stirling must be adopted without regard to its
accuracy. And because this view was the sum of his past and personal,
these elements must be computed before we can know on what the world
based its conclusions concerning him.

His story was as ordinary and prosaic as Mr. and Mrs. Pierce seemed to
think his character. Neither riches nor poverty had put a shaping hand
to it. The only child of his widowed mother, he had lived in one of the
smaller manufacturing cities of New England a life such as falls to most
lads. Unquestionably he had been rather more shielded from several forms
of temptation than had most of his playmates, for his mother's isolation
had made him not merely her son, but very largely her companion. In
certain ways this had tended to make him more manly than the average
fellow of his age, but in others it had retarded his development; and
this backwardness had been further accentuated by a deliberate mind,
which hardly kept pace with his physical growth. His school record was
fair: "Painstaking, but slow," was the report in studies. "Exemplary,"
in conduct. He was not a leader among the boys, but he was very
generally liked. A characteristic fact, for good or bad, was that he had
no enemies. From the clergyman to the "hired help," everybody had a
kind word for him, but tinctured by no enthusiasm. All spoke of him as
"a good boy," and when this was said, they had nothing more to say.

One important exception to this statement is worthy of note. The girls
of the High School never liked him. If they had been called upon for
reasons, few could have given a tangible one. At their age, everything
this world contains, be it the Falls of Niagara, or a stick of chewing
gum, is positively or negatively "nice." For some crime of commission or
omission, Peter had been weighed and found wanting. "He isn't nice," was
the universal verdict of the scholars who daily filed through the door,
which the town selectmen, with the fine contempt of the narrow man for
his unpaid "help," had labelled, "For Females." If they had said that he
was "perfectly horrid," there might have been a chance for him. But the
subject was begun and ended with these three words. Such terseness in
the sex was remarkable and would have deserved a psychological
investigation had it been based on any apparent data. But women's
opinions are so largely a matter of instinct and feeling, and so little
of judgment and induction, that an analysis of the mental processes of
the hundred girls who had reached this one conclusion, would probably
have revealed in each a different method of obtaining this product. The
important point is to recognize this consensus of opinion, and to note
its bearing on the development of the lad.

That Peter could remain ignorant of this feeling was not conceivable. It
puzzled him not a little when he first began to realize the prejudice,
and he did his best to reverse it. Unfortunately he took the very worst
way. Had he avoided the girls persistently and obviously, he might have
interested them intensely, for nothing is more difficult for a woman to
understand than a woman-hater; and from the days of mother Eve the
unknown is rumored to have had for her sex a powerful fascination. But
he tried to win their friendship by humbleness and kindness, and so only
made himself the more cheap in their eyes. "Fatty Peter," as they
jokingly called him, epitomized in two words their contempt of him.

Nor did things mend when he went to Harvard. Neither his mother's
abilities nor his choice were able to secure for him an _entree_ to the
society which Cambridge and Boston dole out stintedly to certain
privileged collegians. Every Friday afternoon he went home, to return by
an early train Monday morning. In his first year it is to be questioned
if he exchanged ten words with women whose names were known to him,
except during these home-visits. That this could long continue, was
impossible. In his second year he was several times taken by his chum,
Watts D'Alloi, to call. But always with one result. Invariably Peter
would be found talking to Mamma, or, better still, from his point of
view, with Pater-familias, while Watts chatted with the presumptive
attractions. Watts laughed at him always. Laughed still more when one of
these calls resulted in a note, "requesting the pleasure" of Mr. Peter
Stirling's company to dinner. It was Watts who dictated the acceptance,
helped Peter put the finishing touches to his toilet, and eventually
landed him safely in Mrs. Purdie's parlor. His description to the boys
that night of what followed is worthy of quotation:

"The old fellow shook hands with Mrs. P., O.K. Something was said about
the weather, and then Mrs. P. said, 'I'll introduce you to the lady you
are to take down, Mr. Stirling, but I shan't let you talk to her before
dinner. Look about you and take your choice of whom you would like to
meet?' Chum gave one agonized look round the room. There wasn't a woman
over twenty-five in sight! And what do you think the wily old fox said?
Call him simple! Not by a circumstance! A society beau couldn't have
done it better. Can't guess? Well, he said, 'I'd like to talk to you,
Mrs. Purdie.' Fact! Of course she took it as a compliment, and was as
pleased as could be. Well, I don't know how on earth he ever got through
his introduction or how he ever reached the dining-room, for my
inamorata was so pretty that I thought of nothing till we were seated,
and the host took her attention for a moment. Then I looked across at
chum, who was directly opposite, to see how he was getting on. Oh, you
fellows would have died to see it! There he sat, looking straight out
into vacancy, so plainly laboring for something to say that I nearly
exploded. Twice he opened his lips to speak, and each time closed them
again. The girl of course looked surprised, but she caught my eye, and
entered into the joke, and we both waited for developments. Then she
suddenly said to him, 'Now let's talk about something else.' It was too
much for me. I nearly choked. I don't know what followed. Miss Jevons
turned and asked me something. But when I looked again, I could see the
perspiration standing on Peter's forehead, while the conversation went
by jerks and starts as if it was riding over a ploughed field. Miss
Callender, whom he took in, told me afterwards that she had never had a
harder evening's work in her life. Nothing but 'yeses' and 'noes' to be
got from him. She wouldn't believe what I said of the old fellow."

Three or four such experiences ended Peter's dining out. He was
recognized as unavailable material. He received an occasional card to a
reception or a dance, for anything in trousers passes muster for such
functions. He always went when invited, and was most dutiful in the
counter-calls. In fact, society was to him a duty which he discharged
with the same plodding determination with which he did his day's
studies. He never dreamed of taking his social moments frivolously. He
did not recognize that society is very much like a bee colony--stinging
those who approached it shyly and quietly, but to be mastered by a bold
beating of tin pans. He neither danced nor talked, and so he was shunted
by the really pleasant girls and clever women, and passed his time with
wall-flowers and unbearables, who, in their normal sourness, regarded
and, perhaps, unconsciously made him feel, hardly to his encouragement,
that his companionship was a sort of penance. If he had been asked, at
the end of his senior year, what he thought of young women and society,
he would probably have stigmatized them, as he himself had been
formerly: "not nice." All of which, again to apply Mr. Pierce's theory,
merely meant that the phases which his own characteristics had shown
him, had re-acted on his own mind, and had led him to conclude that
girls and society were equally unendurable.

The condition was a dangerous one, and if psychology had its doctors
they would have predicted a serious heart illness in store for him. How
serious, would depend largely on whether the fever ran its natural
course, or whether it was driven inwards by disappointment. If these
doctors had ceased studying his mental condition and glanced at his
physical appearance, they would have had double cause to shake their
heads doubtingly.

Peter was not good-looking. He was not even, in a sense, attractive. In
spite of his taking work so hardly and life so seriously, he was
entirely too stout. This gave a heaviness to his face that neutralized
his really pleasant brown eyes and thick brown hair, which were his best
features. Manly the face was, but, except when speaking in unconscious
moments, dull and unstriking. A fellow three inches shorter, and
two-thirds his weight would have been called tall. "Big" was the
favorite adjective used in describing Peter, and big he was. Had he gone
through college ten years later, he might have won unstinted fame and
admiration as the full-back on the team, or stroke on the crew. In his
time, athletics were but just obtaining, and were not yet approved of
either by faculties or families. Shakespeare speaks of a tide in the
affairs of men. Had Peter been born ten years later the probabilities
are that his name would have been in all the papers, that he would have
weighed fifty pounds less, have been cheered by thousands, have been the
idol of his class, have been a hero, have married the first girl he
loved (for heroes, curiously, either marry or die, but never remain
bachelors) and would have--but as this is a tale of fact, we must not
give rein to imagination. To come back to realism, Peter was a hero to
nobody but his mother.

Such was the man, who, two weeks after graduation from Harvard, was
pacing up and down the deck of Mr. Pierce's yacht, the "Sunrise," as she
drifted with the tide in Long Island Sound. Yet if his expression, as he
walked, could for a moment have been revealed to those seated aft, the
face that all thought dull and uninteresting would have riveted their
attention, and set each one questioning whether there might not be
something both heroic and romantic underneath. The set determination of
his look can best be explained by telling what had given his face such
rigid lines.




CHAPTER III.

A CRAB CHAPTER.


Mr. Pierce and those about him had clearly indicated by the
conversation, or rather monologue, already recorded, that Peter was in a
sense an odd number in the "Sunrise's" complement of pleasure-seekers.
Whether or no Mr. Pierce's monologue also indicated that he was not a
map who dealt in odd numbers, or showered hospitality on sons of
mill-overseers, the fact was nevertheless true. "For value received," or
"I hereby promise to pay," were favorite formulas of Mr. Pierce, and if
not actually written in such invitations as he permitted his wife to
write at his dictation to people whom he decided should be bidden to the
Shrubberies, a longer or shorter time would develop the words, as if
written in sympathetic ink. Yet Peter had had as pressing an invitation
and as warm a welcome at Mr. Pierce's country place as had any of the
house-party ingathered during the first week of July. Clearly something
made him of value to the owner of the Shrubberies. That something was
his chum, Watts D'Alloi.

Peter and Watts were such absolute contrasts that it seemed impossible
that they could have an interest or sympathy, in common. Therefore they
had become chums. A chance in their freshman year had brought them
together. Watts, with the refined and delicate sense of humor abounding
in collegians, had been concerned with sundry freshmen in an attempt to
steal (or, in collegiate terms, "rag") the chapel Bible, with a view to
presenting it to some equally subtle humorists at Yale, expecting a
similar courtesy in return from that college. Unfortunately for the
joke, the college authorities had had the bad taste to guard against the
annually attempted substitution. Two of the marauders were caught, while
Watts only escaped by leaving his coat in the hands of the watchers.
Even then he would have been captured had he not met Peter in his
flight, and borrowed the latter's coat, in which he reached his room
without detection. Peter was caught by the pursuers, and summoned before
the faculty, but he easily proved that the captured coat was not his,
and that he had but just parted from one of the tutors, making it
certain that he could not have been an offender. There was some talk of
expelling him for aiding and abetting in the true culprit's escape, and
for refusing to tell who it was. Respect for his motives, however, and
his unimpeachable record saved him from everything but an admonition
from the president, which changed into a discussion of cotton printing
before that august official had delivered half of his intended rebuke.
People might not enthuse over Peter, but no one ever quarrelled with
him. So the interview, after travelling from cotton prints to spring
radishes, ended with a warm handshake, and a courteous suggestion that
he come again when there should be no charges nor admonitions to go
through with. Watts told him that he was a "devilish lucky" fellow to
have been on hand to help, for Peter had proved his pluck to his class,
had made a friend of the president and, as Watts considerately put it:
"but for your being on the corner at 11:10 that evening, old chap, you'd
never have known me." Truly on such small chances do the greatest events
of our life turn. Perhaps, could Peter have looked into the future, he
would have avoided that corner. Perhaps, could he have looked even
further, he would have found that in that chance lay the greatest
happiness of his life. Who can tell, when the bitter comes, and we later
see how we could have avoided it, what we should have encountered in its
place? Who can tell, when sweet comes, how far it is sweetened by the
bitterness that went before? Dodging the future in this world is a
success equal to that of the old woman who triumphantly announced that
she had borrowed money enough to pay all her debts.

As a matter of course Watts was grateful for the timely assistance, and
was not slow either to say or show it. He told his own set of fellows
that he was "going to take that Stirling up and make him one of us," and
Watts had a remarkable way of doing what he chose. At first Peter did
not respond to the overtures and insistance of the handsome,
well-dressed, free-spending, New York swell. He was too conscious of the
difference between himself and Watts's set, to wish or seek
identification with them. But no one who ever came under Watts's
influence could long stand out against his sunny face and frank manner,
and so Peter eventually allowed himself to be "taken up." Perhaps the
resistance encountered only whetted Watts's intention. He was certainly
aided by Peter's isolation. Whether the cause was single or multiple,
Peter was soon in a set from which many a seemingly far more eligible
fellow was debarred.

Strangely enough, it did not change him perceptibly. He still plodded on
conscientiously at his studies, despite laughter and attempts to drag
him away from them. He still lived absolutely within the comfortable
allowance that his mother gave him. He still remained the quiet, serious
looking fellow of yore. The "gang," as they styled themselves, called
him "kill-joy," "graveyard," or "death's head," in their evening
festivities, but Peter only puffed at his pipe good-naturedly, making no
retort, and if the truth had really been spoken, not a man would have
changed him a particle. His silence and seriousness added the dash of
contrast needed to make the evening perfect. All joked him. The most
popular verse in a class-song Watts wrote, was devoted to burlesquing
his soberness, the gang never tiring of singing at all hours and places:

    "Goodness gracious! Who's that in the 'yard' a yelling in the rain?
     That's the boy who never gave his mother any pain,
            But now his moral character is sadly on the wane,
            'Tis little Peter Stirling, bilin' drunk again.
                        Oh, the Sunday-school boy,
                        His mamma's only joy,
            Is shouting drunk as usual, and raising Cain!"

Yet joke Peter as they would, in every lark, be it drive, sail, feed,
drink, or smoke, whoever's else absence was commented upon, his never
passed unnoticed.

In Sophomore year, Watts, without quite knowing why, proposed that they
should share rooms. Nor would he take Peter's refusal, and eventually
succeeded in reversing it.

"I can't afford your style of living," Peter had said quietly, as his
principal objection.

"Oh, I'll foot the bills for the fixings, so it shan't cost you a cent
more," said Watts, and when Peter had finally been won over to give his
assent, Watts had supposed it was on this uneven basis. But in the end,
the joint chambers were more simply furnished than those of the rest of
the gang, who promptly christened them "the hermitage," and Peter had
paid his half of the expense. And though he rarely had visitors of his
own asking at the chambers, all cost of wine and tobacco was equally
borne by him.

The three succeeding years welded very strong bands round these two. It
was natural that they should modify each other strongly, but in truth,
as in most cases, when markedly different characteristics are brought in
contact, the only effect was to accentuate each in his peculiarities.
Peter dug at his books all the harder, by reason of Watts's neglect of
them. Watts became the more free-handed with his money because of
Peter's prudence. Watts talked more because of Peter's silence, and
Peter listened more because of Watts's talk. Watts, it is true, tried to
drag Peter into society, yet in truth, Peter was really left more alone
than if he had been rooming with a less social fellow. Each had in truth
become the complement of the other, and seemed as mutually necessary as
the positive and negative wires in electricity. Peter, who had been
taking the law lectures in addition to the regular academic course, and
had spent his last two summers reading law in an attorney's office, in
his native town, taking the New York examination in the previous
January, had striven to get Watts to do the same, with the ultimate
intention of their hanging out a joint legal shingle in New York.

"I'll see the clients, and work up the cases, Watts, and you'll make the
speeches and do the social end," said Peter, making a rather long speech
in the ardor of his wishes.

Watts laughed. "I don't know, old man. I rather fancy I shan't do
anything. To do something requires that one shall make up one's mind
what to do, and that's such devilish hard work. I'll wait till I've
graduated, and had a chin with my governor about it Perhaps he'll make
up my mind for me, and so save my brain tissue. But anyway, you'll come
to New York, and start in, for you must be within reach of me. Besides,
New York's the only place in this country worth living in."

Such were the relations between the two at graduation time. Watts, who
had always prepared his lessons in a tenth part of the time it had taken
Peter, buckled down in the last few weeks, and easily won an honorable
mention. Peter had tried hard to win honors, but failed.

"You did too much outside work, old man," said Watts, who would
cheerfully have given his own triumph to his friend. "If you want
success in anything, you've got to sacrifice other things and
concentrate on the object. The Mention's really not worth the ink it's
written with, in my case, but I knew it would please mammy and pappy, so
I put on steam, and got it. If I'd hitched on a lot of freight cars
loaded with stuff that wouldn't have told in Exams, I never could have
been in on time."

Peter shook his head rather sadly. "You outclass me in brains, Watts, as
much as you do in other things"

"Nonsense," said Watts. "I haven't one quarter of your head. But my
ancestors--here's to the old coves--have been brain-culturing for three
hundred years, while yours have been land-culturing; and of course my
brain moves quicker and easier than yours. I take to a book, by
hereditary instinct, as a duck to water, while you are like a yacht,
which needs a heap of building and fitting before she can do the same.
But you'll beat me in the long run, as easily as the boat does the duck.
And the Honor's nothing."

"Except, as you said, to one's"--Peter hesitated for a moment, divided
in mind by his wish to quote accurately, and his dislike of anything
disrespectful, and then finished "to one's mother."

"That's the last person it's needed for, chum," replied Watts. "If
there's one person that doesn't need the world's or faculty's opinion to
prove one's merit, it's one's dear, darling, doating, self-deluded and
undisillusioned mamma. Heigh-ho. I'll be with mine two weeks from now,
after we've had our visit at the Pierces'. I'm jolly glad you are going,
old man. It will be a sort of tapering-off time for the summer's
separation. I don't see why you insist on starting in at once in New
York? No one does any law business in the summertime. Why, I even think
the courts are closed. Come, you'd better go on to Grey-Court with me,
and try it, at least. My mammy will kill the fatted calf for you in
great style."

"We've settled that once," said Peter, who was evidently speaking
journalistically, for he had done the settling.

Watts said something in a half-articulate way, which certainly would
have fired the blood of every dime museum-keeper in the country, had
they been there to hear the conversation, for, as well as could be
gathered from the mumbling, it related to a "pig-headed donkey" known of
to the speaker. "I suppose you'll be backing out of the Pierce affair
yet," he added, discontentedly.

"No," said Peter.

"An invitation to Grey-Court is worth two of the Shrubberies. My mother
knows only the right kind of people, while Mr. Pierce--"

"Is to be our host," interrupted Peter, but with no shade of correction
in his voice.

"Yes," laughed Watts, "and he is a host. He'll not let any one else get
a word in edgewise. You are just the kind of talker he'll like. Mark my
word, he'll be telling every one, before you've been two hours in the
house, that you are a remarkably brilliant conversationalist."

"What will he say of you?" said Peter, in a sentence which he broke up
into reasonable lengths by a couple of pulls at his pipe in the middle
of it.

"Mr. Pierce, chum," replied Watts, with a look in his eyes which Peter
had learned to associate with mischief on Watts's part, "has too great
an affection for yours truly to object to anything I do. Do you suppose,
if I hadn't been sure of my footing at the Shrubberies, that I should
have dared to ask an invitation for"--then Watts hesitated for a moment,
seeing a half-surprised, half-anxious look come into Peter's face, "for
myself?" he continued.

"Tell truth and shame the devil," said Peter.

Watts laughed. "Confound you! That's what comes of letting even such a
stupid old beggar as you learn to read one's thoughts. It's mighty
ungrateful of you to use them against me. Yes. I did ask to have you
included in the party. But you needn't put your back up, Mr. Unbendable,
and think you were forced on them. Mr. Pierce gave me _carte blanche_,
and if it hadn't been you, it would have been some other donkey."

"But Mrs. Pierce?" queried Peter.

"Oh," explained Watts, "of course Mrs. Pierce wrote the letter. I
couldn't do it in my name, and so Mr. Pierce told her to do it. They're
very land of me, old man, because my governor is the largest
stockholder, and a director in Mr. P.'s bank, and I was told I could
bring down some fellows next week for a few days' jollity. I didn't care
to do that, but of course I wouldn't have omitted you for any amount of
ducats."

Which explanation solves the mystery of Peter's presence at the
Shrubberies. To understand his face we must trace the period between his
arrival and the moment this story begins.




CHAPTER IV.

BEGINNINGS.


How far Watts was confining himself to facts in the foregoing dialogue
is of no concern, for the only point of value was that Peter was
invited, without regard to whether Watts first asked Mr. Pierce, or Mr.
Pierce first asked Watts. A letter which the latter wrote to Miss
Pierce, as soon as it was settled that Peter should go, is of more
importance, and deserves quotation in full:

    JUNE 7TH.

    MY DEAR HELEN--

    Between your Pater and my Peter, it has taken an amount of
    diplomacy to achieve the scheme we planned last summer, which
    would be creditable to Palmerston at his palmiest and have made
    Bismarck even more marked than he is. But the deed, the mighty
    deed is done, and June twenty-ninth will see chum and me at the
    Shrubberies "if it kills every cow in the barn," which is merely
    another way of saying that in the bright lexicon of youth, there's
    no such word as fail.

    Now a word as to the fellow you are so anxious to meet. I have
    talked to you so much about him, that you will probably laugh at
    my attempting to tell you anything new. I'm not going to try, and
    you are to consider all I say as merely a sort of underlining to
    what you already know. Please remember that he will never take a
    prize for his beauty--nor even for his grace. He has a pleasing
    way with girls, not only of not talking himself, but of making it
    nearly impossible for them to talk. For instance, if a girl asks
    me if I play croquet, which by the way, is becoming very _passe_
    (three last lines verge on poetry) being replaced by a new game
    called tennis, I probably say, "No. Do you?" In this way I make
    croquet good for a ten minutes' chat, which in the end leads up to
    some other subject. Peter, however, doesn't. He says "No," and so
    the girl can't go on with croquet, but must begin a new subject.
    It is safest to take the subject-headings from an encyclopaedia,
    and introduce them in alphabetical order. Allow about ninety to
    the hour, unless you are brave enough to bear an occasional
    silence. If you are, you can reduce this number considerably, and
    chum doesn't mind a pause in the least, if the girl will only look
    contented. If she looks worried, however, Peter gets worried, too.
    Just put the old chap between you and your mamma at meals, and
    pull him over any rough spots that come along. You, I know, will
    be able to make it easy for him. Neglect me to any extent. I
    shan't be jealous, and shall use that apparent neglect as an
    excuse for staying on for a week after he goes, so as to have my
    innings. I want the dear old blunderbuss to see how nice a really
    nice girl can be, so do your prettiest to him, for the sake of

    WATTS CLARKSON D'ALLOI.

When Watts and Peter saved the "cows in the barn" by stepping off the
train on June 29th, the effect of this letter was manifest. Watts was
promptly bestowed on the front seat of the trap with Mr. Pierce, while
Peter was quickly sitting beside a girl on the back seat. Of course an
introduction had been made, but Peter had acquired a habit of not
looking at girls, and as a consequence had yet to discover how far Miss
Pierce came up to the pleasant word-sketch Watts had drawn of her.
Indeed, Peter had looked longingly at the seat beside Mr. Pierce, and
had attempted, in a very obvious manner, though one which seemed to him
the essence of tact and most un-apparent, to have it assigned to him.
But two people, far his superior in natural finesse and experience, had
decided beforehand that he was to sit with Helen, and he could not
resist their skilful manoeuvres. So he climbed into place, hoping that
she wouldn't talk, or if that was too much to expect, that at least
Watts would half turn and help him through.

Neither of these fitted, however, with Miss Pierce's plans. She gave
Peter a moment to fit comfortably into his seat, knowing that if she
forced the running before he had done that, he would probably sit awry
for the whole drive. Then: "I can't tell you how pleased we all are over
Watts's success. We knew, of course, he could do it if he cared to, but
he seemed to think the attempt hardly worth the making, and so we did
not know if he would try."

Peter breathed more easily. She had not asked a question, and the
intonation of the last sentence was such as left him to infer that it
was not his turn to say something; which, Peter had noticed, was the way
in which girls generally ended their remarks.

"Oh, look at that absurd looking cow," was her next remark, made before
Peter had begun to worry over the pause.

Peter looked at the cow and laughed. He would like to have laughed
longer, for that would have used up time, but the moment he thought the
laugh could be employed in place of conversation, the laugh failed.
However, to be told to look at a cow required no rejoinder, so there was
as yet no cause for anxiety.

"We are very proud of our roads about here," said Miss Pierce. "When we
first bought they were very bad, but papa took the matter in hand and
got them to build with a rock foundation, as they do in Europe."

Three subjects had been touched upon, and no answer or remark yet forced
upon him. Peter thought of _rouge et noir_, and wondered what the odds
were that he would be forced to say something by Miss Pierce's next
speech.

"I like the New England roadside," continued Miss Pierce, with an
apparent relativeness to the last subject that delighted Peter, who was
used by this time to much disconnection of conversation, and found not a
little difficulty in shifting quickly from one topic to another. "There
is a tangled finish about it that is very pleasant. And in August, when
the golden-rod comes, I think it is glorious. It seems to me as if all
the hot sunbeams of the summer had been gathered up in--excuse the
expression--it's a word of Watts's--into 'gobs' of sunshine, and
scattered along the roads and fields."

Peter wondered if the request to be excused called for a response, but
concluded that it didn't.

"Papa told me the other day," continued Miss Pierce, "that there were
nineteen distinct varieties of golden-rod. I had never noticed that
there were any differences."

Peter began to feel easy and comfortable. He made a mental note that
Miss Pierce had a very sweet voice. It had never occurred to Peter
before to notice if a girl had a pleasant voice. Now he distinctly
remembered that several to whom he had talked--or rather who had talked
to him--had not possessed that attraction.

"Last year," said Miss Pierce, "when Watts was here, we had a golden-rod
party. We had the whole house decked with it, and yellow lamps on the
lawn."

"He told me about it," said Peter.

"He really was the soul of it," said Miss Pierce, "He wove himself a
belt and chaplet of it and wore it all through the evening. He was so
good-looking!"

Peter, quite unconscious that he had said anything, actually continued:
"He was voted the handsomest man of the class."

"Was he really? How nice!" said Miss Pierce.

"Yes," said Peter. "And it was true." Peter failed to notice that a
question had been asked, or that he had answered it. He began to think
that he would like to look at Miss Pierce for a moment. Miss Pierce,
during this interval, remarked to herself: "Yes. That was the right way,
Helen, my dear."

"We had quite a houseful for our party," Miss Pierce remarked, after
this self-approval. "And that reminds me that I must tell you about whom
you meet to-day." Then the next ten minutes were consumed in naming and
describing the two fashionable New York girls and their brother, who
made the party then assembled.

During this time Peter's eyes strayed from Watts's shapely back, and
took a furtive glance at Miss Pierce. He found that she was looking at
him as she talked, but for some reason it did not alarm him, as such
observation usually did. Before the guests were properly catalogued,
Peter was looking into her eyes as she rambled on, and forgot that he
was doing so.

The face that he saw was not one of any great beauty, but it was sweet,
and had a most attractive way of showing every change of mood or
thought. It responded quickly too, to outside influence. Many a girl of
more real beauty was less popular. People liked to talk to Miss Pierce,
and many could not escape from saying more than they wished, impelled
thereto by her ready sympathy. Then her eyes were really beautiful, and
she had the trimmest, dearest little figure in the world; "squeezable"
was the word Watts used to describe it, and most men thought the same.
Finally, she had a pleasant way of looking into people's eyes as she
talked to them, and for some reason people felt very well satisfied when
she did.

It had this effect upon Peter. As he looked down into the large gray
eyes, really slate-color in their natural darkness, made the darker by
the shadows of the long lashes, he entirely forgot place and
circumstances; ceased to think whose turn it was to speak; even forgot
to think whether he was enjoying the moment. In short he forgot himself
and, what was equally important, forgot that he was talking to a girl.
He felt and behaved as he did with men. "Moly hoses!" said Watts to
himself on the front seat, "the old fellow's getting loquacious.
Garrulity must be contagious, and he's caught it from Mr. Pierce."
Which, being reduced to actual facts, means that Peter had spoken eight
times, and laughed twice, in the half hour that was passed between the
station and the Shrubberies' gate.




CHAPTER V.

MINES AND COUNTER-MINES.


The sight of the party on the veranda of the Shrubberies brought a
return of self-consciousness to Peter, and he braced himself, as the
trap slowed up, for the agony of formal greetings. If Miss Pierce had
been a less sweet, sympathetic girl, she could hardly have kept from
smiling at the way Peter's face and figure stiffened, as the group came
in sight. But Miss Pierce had decided, before she met Peter, that she
should like him, and, moreover, that he was a man who needed help. Let
any woman reach these conclusions about a man, and for some reason quite
beyond logic or philosophy, he ceases to be ridiculous. So instead of
smiling, she bridged over the awful greetings with feminine engineering
skill quite equal to some great strategic movement in war. Peter was
made to shake hands with Mrs. Pierce, but was called off to help Miss
Pierce out of the carriage, before speech was necessary. Then a bundle
was missing in the bottom of the carriage, and Mr. Pawling, the New York
swell, was summoned to help Peter find it, the incident being seized
upon to name the two to each other. Finally, he was introduced to the
two girls, but, almost instantly, Watts and Peter were sent to their
rooms; and Miss Pierce, nodding her head in a way which denoted
satisfaction, remarked as she went to her own room, "Really, Helen, I
don't think it will be so very hard, after all. He's very tractable."

As Peter came downstairs, before dinner, he speculated on whether he
should be able to talk to Miss Pierce. He rather doubted from past
experience, if such a result was attainable, seeing that there were two
other men, who would of course endeavor to do the same. But strangely
enough the two men were already seated by the New York girls, and a
vacant chair was next that holding Miss Pierce. What was more, he was at
once summoned to fill it, and in five minutes was again entirely
unconscious of everything but the slate-colored eyes, looking so
pleasantly into his. Then he took Miss Pierce in to dinner, and sat
between her and her mother again becoming absorbed in the slate-colored
eyes, which seemed quite willing to be absorbed. After dinner, too, when
the women had succeeded the weed, Peter in someway found it very easy to
settle himself near Miss Pierce. Later that night Peter sat in his room,
or rather, with half his body out of the window, puffing his pipe, and
thinking how well he had gone through the day. He had not made a single
slip. Nothing to groan over. "I'm getting more experienced," he thought,
with the vanity noticeable in even the most diffident of collegians,
never dreaming that everything that he had said or done in the last few
hours, had been made easy for him by a woman's tact.

The following week was practically a continuation of this first day. In
truth Peter was out of his element with the fashionables; Mr. Pierce did
not choose to waste his power on him; and Mrs. Pierce, like the
yielding, devoted wife she was, took her coloring from her husband.
Watts had intended to look after him, but Watts played well on the
piano, and on the billiard table; he rowed well and rode well; he sang,
he danced, he swam, he talked, he played all games, he read aloud
capitally, and, what was more, was ready at any or all times for any or
all things. No man who can do half these had better intend seriously to
do some duty in a house-party in July. For, however good his intentions,
he will merely add to the pavement of a warmer place than even a July
temperature makes Long Island Sound. Instinctively, Peter turned to Miss
Pierce at every opportunity. He should have asked himself if the girl
was really enjoying his company more than she did that of the other
young people. Had he been to the manner born he would have known better
than to force himself on a hostess, or to make his monopoly of a young
girl so marked. But he was entirely oblivious of whether he was doing as
he ought, conscious only that, for causes which he made no attempt to
analyze, he was very happy when with her. For reasons best known to Miss
Pierce, she allowed herself to be monopolized. She was even almost as
devoted to Peter as he was to her, and no comparison could be stronger.
It is to be questioned if she enjoyed it very much, for Peter was not
talkative, and the little he did say was neither brilliant nor witty.
With the jollity and "high jinks" (to use a word of Watts's) going on
about her, it is hardly possible that Peter's society shone by contrast.
Yet in drawing-room or carriage, on the veranda, lawn, or yacht's deck,
she was ever ready to give him as much of her attention and help as he
seemed to need, and he needed a good deal. Watts jokingly said that "the
moment Peter comes in sight, Helen puts out a sign 'vacant, to let,'"
and this was only one of many jokes the house-party made over the dual
devotion.

It was an experience full of danger to Peter. For the first time in his
life he was seeing the really charming phases which a girl has at
command. Attractive as these are to all men, they were trebly so to
Peter, who had nothing to compare with them but the indifferent
attitudes hitherto shown him by the maidens of his native town, and by
the few Boston women who had been compelled to "endure" his society. If
he had had more experience he would have merely thought Miss Pierce a
girl with nice eyes, figure and manner. But as a single glass of wine is
dangerous to the teetotaller, so this episode had an over-balancing
influence on Peter, entirely out of proportion to its true value. Before
the week was over he was seriously in love, and though his natural
impassiveness and his entire lack of knowledge how to convey his
feelings to Miss Pierce, prevented her from a suspicion of the fact, the
more experienced father and mother were not so blind.

"Really, Charles," said Mrs. Pierce, in the privacy of their own room,
"I think it ought to be stopped."

"Exactly, my dear," replied her other half, with an apparent yielding to
her views that amazed and rather frightened Mrs. Pierce, till he
continued: "Beyond question _it_ should be stopped, since you say so.
_It_ is neuter, and as neutral things are highly objectionable, stop
_it_ by all means."

"I mean Mr. Stirling--" began Mrs. Pierce.

"Yes?" interrupted Mr. Pierce, in an encouraging, inquiring tone. "Peter
is certainly neuter. I think one might say negative, without gross
exaggeration. Still, I should hardly stop him. He finds enough
difficulty in getting out an occasional remark without putting a stopper
in him. Perhaps, though, I mistake your meaning, and you want Peter
merely to stop here a little longer."

"I mean, dear," replied Mrs. Pierce, with something like a tear in her
voice, for she was sadly wanting in a sense of humor, and her husband's
jokes always half frightened her, and invariably made her feel inferior
to him, "I mean his spending so much time with Helen. I'm afraid he'll
fall in love with her."

"My dear," said Mr. Pierce, "you really should be a professional
mind-reader. Your suggestion comes as an awful revelation to me. Just
supposing he should--aye--just supposing he has, fallen in love with
Helen!"

"I really think he has," said Mrs. Pierce, "though he is so different
from most men, that I am not sure."

"Then by all means we must stop him. By the way, how does one stop a
man's falling in love?" asked Mr. Pierce.

"Charles!" said Mrs. Pierce.

This remark of Mrs. Pierce's generally meant a resort to a handkerchief,
and Mr. Pierce did not care for any increase of atmospheric humidity
just then. He therefore concluded that since his wit was taken
seriously, he would try a bit of seriousness, as an antidote.

"I don't think there is any occasion to interfere. Whatever Peter does
can make no difference, for it is perfectly evident that Helen is nice
to him as a sort of duty, and, I rather suspect, to please Watts. So
anything she may do will be a favor to him, while the fact that she is
attractive to Peter will not lessen her value to--others."

"Then you don't think--?" asked Mrs. Pierce, and paused there.

"Don't insult my intelligence," laughed Mr. Pierce. "I do think. I think
things can't be going better. I was a little afraid of Mr. Pawling, and
should have preferred to have him and his sisters later, but since it is
policy to invite them and they could not come at any other time, it was
a godsend to have sensible, dull old Peter to keep her busy. If he had
been in the least dangerous, I should not have interfered, but I should
have made him very ridiculous. That's the way for parents to treat an
ineligible man. Next week, when all are gone but Watts, he will have his
time, and shine the more by contrast with what she has had this week."

"Then you think Helen and Watts care for each other?" asked Mrs. Pierce,
flushing with pleasure, to find her own opinion of such a delightful
possibility supported by her husband's.

"I think," said Mr. Pierce, "that the less we parents concern ourselves
with love the better. If I have made opportunities for Helen and Watts
to see something of each other, I have only done what was to their
mutual interests. Any courtesy I have shown him is well enough accounted
for on the ground of his father's interest in my institution, without
the assumption of any matrimonial intentions. However, I am not opposed
to a marriage. Watts is the son of a very rich man of the best social
position in New York, besides being a nice fellow in himself. Helen will
make any man a good wife, and whoever wins her will not be the poorer.
If the two can fix it between themselves, I shall cry _nunc dimittis_,
but further than this, the deponent saith and doeth not."

"I am sure they love each other," said Mrs. Pierce.

"Well," said Mr. Pierce, "I think if most parents would decide whom it
was best for their child to marry, and see that the young people saw
just enough of each other, before they saw too much of the world, they
could accomplish their purpose, provided they otherwise kept their
finger out of the pot of love. There is a certain period in a man's life
when he must love something feminine, even if she's as old as his
grandmother. There is a certain period in a girl's life when it is
well-nigh impossible for her to say 'no' to a lover. He really only
loves the sex, and she really loves the love and not the lover; but it
is just as well, for the delusion lasts quite as long as the more
personal love that comes later. And, being young, they need less
breaking for double harness."

Mrs. Pierce winced. Most women do wince when a man really verges on his
true conclusions concerning love in the abstract, however satisfactory
his love in the concrete may be to them. "I am sure they love each
other," she affirmed.

"Yes, I think they do," replied Mr. Pierce. "But five years in the world
before meeting would have possibly brought quite a different conclusion.
And now, my dear, if we are not going to have the young people eloping
in the yacht by themselves, we had better leave both the subject and the
room, for we have kept them fifteen minutes as it is."




CHAPTER VI.

A MONOLOGUE AND A DIALOGUE.


It was at the end of this day's yachting that Peter was having his
"unsocial walk." Early on the morrow he would be taking the train for
his native town, and the thought of this, in connection with other
thoughts, drew stern lines on his face. His conclusions were something
to this effect:

"I suspected before coming that Watts and Miss Pierce loved each other.
I was evidently wrong, for if they did they could not endure seeing so
little of each other. How could he know her and not love her? But it's
very fortunate for me, for I should stand no chance against him, even
supposing I should try to win the girl he loved. She can't care for me!
As Watts says, 'I'm an old stupid naturally, and doubly so with girls.'
Still, I can't go to-morrow without telling her. I shan't see her again
till next winter. I can't wait till then. Some one else--I can't wait."

Then he strode up and down half a dozen times repeating the last three
words over and over again. His thoughts took a new turn.

"It's simply folly, and you have no right to give in to it. You have
your own way to make. You have no right to ask mother for more than the
fifteen hundred she says you are to have as an allowance, for you know
that if she gave you more, it would be only by scrimping herself. What
is fifteen hundred a year to such a girl? Why, her father would think I
was joking!"

Then Peter looked out on the leaden waters and wished it was not
cowardly to end the conflict by letting them close over him. The dark
color made him think, however, of a pair of slate-colored eyes, so
instead of jumping in, he repeated "I can't wait" a few times, and
walked with redoubled energy. Having stimulated himself thereby, he went
on thinking.

"She has been so kind to me that--no--she can't care for me. But if
she--if by chance--if--supposing she does! Why, the money is nothing. We
can wait."

Peter repeated this last remark several times, clearly showing that he
made a great distinction between "I can wait" and "We can wait."
Probably the same nice distinction has been made before, and lovers have
good authority for the distinction, for many an editor's public "We
think" is the exact opposite of his private "I think." Then Peter
continued:

"Of course I shall have difficulty with Mr. Pierce. He's a worldly man.
That's nothing, though, if she cares for me. If she cares for me?"

Peter repeated this last sentence a number of times and seemed to enjoy
the prospect it conjured up. He saw Peter Stirling taking a fond
farewell of a certain lady. He saw him entering the arena and struggling
with the wild beasts, and of course conquering them. He saw the day when
his successes would enable him to set up his own fireside. He saw that
fireside made perfect by a pair of slate-colored eyes, which breakfast
opposite him, follow him as he starts for his work, and greet him on his
return. A pair of eyes to love when present, and think of when absent.
Heigho! How many firesides and homes have been built out of just such
materials!

From all this the fact can be gathered that Peter was really, despite
his calm, sober nature, no more sensible in love matters than are other
boys verging on twenty-one. He could not see that success in this love
would be his greatest misfortune. That he could not but be distracted
from his work. That he would almost certainly marry before he could well
afford it, and thus overweight himself in his battle for success. He
forgot prudence and common-sense, and that being what a lover usually
does, he can hardly be blamed for it.

Bump!

Down came the air-castle. Home, fireside, and the slate-colored eyes
dissolved into a wooden wharf. The dream was over.

"Bear a hand here with these lunch-baskets, chum," called Watts. "Make
yourself useful as well as ornamental."

And so Peter's solitary tramp ceased, and he was helping lunch-baskets
and ladies to the wharf.

But the tramp had brought results which were quickly to manifest
themselves. As the party paired off for the walk to the Shrubberies,
both Watts and Peter joined Miss Pierce, which was not at all to Peter's
liking.

"Go on with the rest, Watts," said Peter quietly.

Miss Pierce and Watts both stopped short in surprise.

"Eh?" said the latter.

"You join the rest of the party on ahead," said Peter.

"I don't understand," said Watts, who could hardly have been more
surprised if Peter had told him to drown himself.

"I want to say something to Miss Pierce," explained Peter.

Watts caught his breath. If Peter had not requested his absence and
given his reason for wishing it, in Miss Pierce's hearing, Watts would
have formed an instant conclusion as to what it meant, not far from the
truth. But that a man should deliberately order another away, in the
girl's hearing, so that he might propose to her, was too great an
absurdity for Watts to entertain for more than a second. He laughed, and
said, "Go on yourself, if you don't like the company."

"No," said Peter. "I want you to go on." Peter spoke quietly, but there
was an inflexion in his singularly clear voice, which had more command
in it than a much louder tone in others. Watts had learned to recognize
it, and from past experience knew that Peter was not to be moved when he
used it. But here the case was different. Hitherto he had been trying to
make Peter do something. Now the boot was on the other leg, and Watts
saw therein a chance for some fun. He therefore continued to stand
still, as they had all done since Peter had exploded his first speech,
and began to whistle. Both men, with that selfishness common to the sex,
failed entirely to consider whether Miss Pierce was enjoying the
incident.

"I think," remarked Miss Pierce, "that I will leave you two to settle
it, and run on with the rest."

"Don't," spoke Peter quickly. "I have something to say to you."

Watts stopped his whistling. "What the deuce is the old boy up to?" he
thought to himself. Miss Pierce hesitated. She wanted to go, but
something in Peter's voice made it very difficult. "I had no idea he
could speak so decidedly. He's not so tractable as I thought. I think
Watts ought to do what he asks. Though I don't see why Mr. Stirling
wants to send him away," she said to herself.

"Watts," said Peter, "this is the last chance I shall really have to
thank Miss Pierce, for I leave before breakfast to-morrow."

There was nothing appealing in the way it was said. It seemed a mere
statement of a fact. Yet something in the voice gave it the character of
a command.

"'Nough said, chum," said Watts, feeling a little cheap at his smallness
in having tried to rob Peter of his farewell. The next moment he was
rapidly overtaking the advance-party.

By all conventions there should have been an embarrassing pause after
this extraordinary colloquy, but there was not. When Peter decided to do
a thing, he never faltered in the doing. If making love or declaring it
had been a matter of directness and plain-speaking, Peter would have
been a successful lover. But few girls are won by lovers who carry
business methods and habits of speech into their courtship.

"Miss Pierce," said Peter, "I could not go without thanking you for your
kindness to me. I shall never forget this week."

"I am so glad you have enjoyed it," almost sang Miss Pierce, in her
pleasure at this reward for her week of self-sacrifice.

"And I couldn't go," said Peter, his clear voice suddenly husking,
"without telling you how I love you."

"Love me!" exclaimed Miss Pierce, and she brought the walk again to a
halt, in her surprise.

"Yes," replied Peter simply, but the monosyllable meant more than the
strongest protestations, as he said it.

"Oh," almost cried his companion, "I am so sorry."

"Don't say that," said Peter; "I don't want it to be a sorrow to you."

"But it's so sudden," gasped Miss Pierce.

"I suppose it is," said Peter, "but I love you and can't help telling
it. Why shouldn't one tell one's love as soon as one feels it? It's the
finest thing a man can tell a woman."

"Oh, please don't," begged Miss Pierce, her eyes full of tears in
sympathy for him. "You make it so hard for me to say that--that you
mustn't"

"I really didn't think you could care for me--as I cared for you,"
replied Peter, rather more to the voice than to the words of the last
speech. "Girls have never liked me."

Miss Pierce began to sob. "It's all a mistake. A dreadful mistake," she
cried, "and it is my fault."

"Don't say that," said Peter, "It's nothing but my blundering."

They walked on in silence to the Shrubberies, but as they came near to
the glare of the lighted doorway, Peter halted a moment.

"Do you think," he asked, "that it could ever be different?"

"No," replied Miss Pierce.

"Because, unless there is--is some one else," continued Peter, "I shall
not----"

"There is," interrupted Miss Pierce, the determination in Peter's voice
frightening her info disclosing her secret.

Peter said to himself, "It is Watts after all." He was tempted to say it
aloud, and most men in the sting of the moment would have done so. But
he thought it would not be the speech of a gentleman. Instead he said,
"Thank you." Then he braced himself, and added: "Please don't let my
love cause you any sorrow. It has been nothing but a joy to me.
Good-night and good-bye."

He did not even offer to shake hands in parting. They went into the
hallway together, and leaving the rest of the party, who were already
raiding the larder for an impromptu supper, to their own devices, they
passed upstairs, Miss Pierce to bathe her eyes and Peter to pack his
belongings.

"Where are Helen and Stirling?" inquired Mr. Pierce when the time came
to serve out the Welsh rarebit he was tending.

"They'll be along presently," said Watts. "Helen forgot something, and
they went back after it."

"They will be properly punished by the leathery condition of the
rarebit, if they don't hurry. And as we are all agreed that Stirling is
somewhat lacking in romance, he will not get a corresponding pleasure
from the longer stroll to reward him for that. There, ladies and
gentlemen, that is a rarebit that will melt in your mouth, and make the
absent ones regret their foolishness. As the gourmand says in
'Richelieu,' 'What's diplomacy compared to a delicious pate?'"




CHAPTER VII.

FACING THE WORLD.


Army surgeons recognize three types of wounded. One type so nervous,
that it drops the moment it is struck, whether the wound is disabling or
not. Another so nerveless, that it fights on, unconscious that it has
been hit. A third, who, feeling the wound, goes on fighting, sustained
by its nerve. It is over the latter sort that the surgeons shake their
heads and look anxious.

Peter did his packing quietly and quickly, not pausing for a moment in
the task. Then he went downstairs, and joined the party, just finishing
the supper. He refused, it is true, to eat anything, and was quiet, but
this phase was so normal in him, that it occasioned no remark. Asked
where Miss Pierce was, he explained briefly that he had left her in the
hall, in order to do his packing and had not seen her since.

In a few moments the party broke up. Peter said a good-bye to each,
quite conscious of what he was doing, yet really saying more and better
things than he had said in his whole visit, and quite surprising them
all in the apparent ease with which he went through the duty.

"You must come and see us when you have put your shingle out in New
York," said Mr. Pierce, not quite knowing why, having previously decided
that they had had enough of Peter. "We shall be in the city early in
September, and ready to see our friends."

"Thank you," replied Peter. He turned and went upstairs to his room. He
ought to have spent the night pacing his floor, but he did not. He went
to bed instead Whether Peter slept, we cannot say. He certainly lay very
still, till the first ray of daylight brightened the sky. Then he rose
and dressed. He went to the stables and explained to the groom that he
would walk to the station, and merely asked that his trunk should be
there in time to be checked. Then he returned to the house and told the
cook that he would breakfast on the way. Finally he started for the
station, diverging on the way, so as to take a roundabout road, that
gave him a twelve-mile tramp in the time he had before the train left.

Perhaps the hardest thing Peter encountered was answering his mother's
questions about the visit. Yet he never flinched nor dodged from a true
reply, and if his mother had chosen, she could have had the whole story.
But something in the way Peter spoke of Miss Pierce made Mrs. Stirling
careful, and whatever she surmised she kept to herself, merely kissing
him good-night with a tenderness that was unusual not merely in a
New-Englander, but even in her. During the rest of his stay, the Pierces
were quite as much kept out of sight, as if they had never been known.
Mrs. Stirling was not what we should call a "lady," yet few of those who
rank as such, would have been as considerate or tender of Peter's
trouble, if the power had been given them to lay it bare. Love,
sympathy, unselfishness and forbearance are not bad equivalents for
breeding and etiquette, and have the additional advantage of meeting new
and unusual conditions which sometimes occur to even the most
conventional.

One hope did come to her, "Perhaps, now that"--and Mrs. Stirling left
"that" blank even in her thoughts; "now my boy, my Peter, will not be so
set on going to New York." In this, however, she was disappointed. On
the second day of his stay, Peter spoke of his intention to start for
New York the following week.

"Don't you think you could do as well here?" said Mrs. Stirling.

"Up to a certain point, better. But New York has a big beyond," said
Peter. "I'll try it there first, and if I don't make my way, I'll come
back here"

Few mothers hope for a son's failure, yet Mrs. Stirling allowed herself
a moment's happiness over this possibility. Then remembering that her
Peter could not possibly fail, she became despondent. "They say New
York's full of temptations," she said.

"I suppose it is, mother," replied Peter, "to those who want to be
tempted."

"I know I can trust you, Peter," said his mother, proudly, "but I want
you to promise me one thing."

"What?"

"That if you do yield, if you do what you oughtn't to, you'll write and
tell me about it?" Mrs. Stirling put her arms about Peter's neck, and
looked wistfully into his face.

Peter was not blind to what this world is. Perhaps, had his mother known
it as he did, she might have seen how unfair her petition was. He did
not like to say yes, and could not say no.

"I'll try to go straight, mother," he replied, "but that's a good deal
to promise."

"It's all I'm going to ask of you, Peter," urged Mrs. Stirling.

"I have gone through four years of my life with nothing in it I couldn't
tell her," thought Peter. "If that's possible, I guess another four is."
Then he said aloud, "Well, mother, since you want it, I'll do it."

The reason of Peter's eagerness to get to New York, was chiefly to have
something definite to do. He tried to obtain this distraction of
occupation, at present, in a characteristic way, by taking excessively
long walks, and by struggling with his mother's winter supply of wood.
He thought that every long stride and every swing of the axe was working
him free from the crushing lack of purpose that had settled upon him. He
imagined it would be even easier when he reached New York. "There'll be
plenty to keep me busy there," was his mental hope.

All his ambitions and plans seemed in a sense to have become
meaningless, made so by the something which but ten days before had been
unknown to him. Like Moses he had seen the promised land. But Moses
died. He had seen it, and must live on without it. He saw nothing in the
future worth striving for, except a struggle to forget, if possible, the
sweetest and dearest memory he had ever known. He thought of the
epigram: "Most men can die well, but few can live well." Three weeks
before he had smiled over it and set it down as a bit of French
cynicism. Now--on the verge of giving his mental assent to the theory, a
pair of slate-colored eyes in some way came into his mind, and even
French wit was discarded therefrom.

Peter was taking his disappointment very seriously, if quietly. Had he
only known other girls, he might have made a safe recovery, for love's
remedy is truly the homeopathic "similia similibus curantur," woman
plural being the natural cure for woman singular. As the Russian in the
"Last Word" says, "A woman can do anything with a man--provided there is
no other woman." In Peter's case there was no other woman. What was
worse, there seemed little prospect of there being one in the future.




CHAPTER VIII.

SETTLING.


The middle of July found Peter in New York, eager to begin his grapple
with the future. How many such stormers have dashed themselves against
its high ramparts, from which float the flags of "worldly success;" how
many have fallen at the first attack; how many have been borne away,
stricken in the assault; how many have fought on bravely, till driven
back by pressure, sickness or hunger; how few have reached the top, and
won their colors!

As already hinted, Peter had chosen the law as his ladder to climb these
ramparts. Like many another fellow he had but a dim comprehension of the
struggle before him. His college mates had talked over professions, and
agreed that law was a good one in New York. The attorney in his native
town, "had known of cases where men without knowing a soul in a place,
had started in and by hard work and merit had built up a good practice,
and I don't see why it can't be done as well in New York as in Lawrence
or Lowell. If New York is bigger, then there is more to be done." So
Peter, whose New York acquaintances were limited to Watts and four other
collegians, the Pierces and their fashionables, and a civil engineer
originally from his native town, had decided that the way to go about it
was to get an office, hang up a sign, and wait for clients.

On the morning after his arrival, his first object was a lodging.
Selecting from the papers the advertisements of several boarding-houses,
he started in search of one. Watts had told him about where to locate,
"so as to live in a decent part of the city," but after seeing and
pricing a few rooms near the "Avenue," about Thirtieth Street, Peter saw
that Watts had been thinking of his own purse, rather than of his
friend's.

"Can you tell me where the cheaper boarding-houses are?" he asked the
woman who had done the honors of the last house.

"If it's cheapness you want, you'd better go to Bleecker Street," said
the woman with a certain contemptuousness.

Peter thanked her, and, walking away, accosted the first policeman.

"It's Blaker Strate, is it? Take the Sixth Avenue cars, there beyant,"
he was informed.

"Is it a respectable street?" asked Peter.

"Don't be afther takin' away a strate's character," said the policeman,
grinning good-naturedly.

"I mean," explained Peter, "do respectable people live there?"

"Shure, it's mostly boarding-houses for young men," replied the unit of
"the finest." "Ye know best what they're loike."

Reassured, Peter, sought and found board in Bleecker Street, not
comprehending that he had gone to the opposite extreme. It was a dull
season, and he had no difficulty in getting such a room as suited both
his expectations and purse. By dinner-time he had settled his simple
household goods to his satisfaction, and slightly moderated the
dreariness of the third floor front, so far as the few pictures and
other furnishings from his college rooms could modify the effect of
well-worn carpet, cheap, painted furniture, and ugly wall-paper.

Descending to his dinner, in answer to a bell more suitable for a
fire-alarm than for announcing such an ordinary occurrence as meals, he
was introduced to the four young men who were all the boarders the
summer season had left in the house. Two were retail dry-goods clerks,
another filled some function in a butter and cheese store, and the
fourth was the ticket-seller at one of the middle-grade theatres. They
all looked at Peter's clothes before looking at his face, and though the
greetings were civil enough, Peter's ready-made travelling suit, bought
in his native town, and his quiet cravat, as well as his lack of
jewelry, were proof positive to them that he did not merit any great
consideration. It was very evident that the ticket-seller, not merely
from his natural self-assertion but even more because of his enviable
acquaintance with certain actresses and his occasional privileges in the
way of free passes, was the acknowledged autocrat of the table. Under
his guidance the conversation quickly turned to theatrical and "show"
talk. Much of it was vulgar, and all of it was dull. It was made the
worse by the fact that they all tried to show, off a little before the
newcomer, to prove their superiority and extreme knowingness to him. To
make Peter the more conscious of this, they asked him various questions.

"Do you like--?" a popular soubrette of the day.

"What, never seen her? Where on earth have you been living?"

"Oh? Well, she's got too good legs to waste herself on such a little
place."

They would like to have asked him questions about himself, but feared to
seem to lower themselves from their fancied superiority, by showing
interest in Peter. One indeed did ask him what business he was in.

"I haven't got to work yet," answered Peter

"Looking for a place" was the mental comment of all, for they could not
conceive of any one entitled to practise law not airing his advantage.
So they went on patronizing Peter, and glorifying themselves. When time
had developed the facts that he was a lawyer, a college graduate, and a
man who seemed to have plenty of money (from the standpoint of dry-goods
clerks) their respect for him considerably increased. He could not,
however, overcome his instinctive dislike to them. After the manly
high-minded, cultivated Harvard classmates, every moment of their
society was only endurable, and he neither went to their rooms nor asked
them to his. Peter had nothing of the snob in him, but he found reading
or writing, or a tramp about the city, much the pleasanter way of
passing his evenings.

The morning after this first day in New York, Peter called on his
friend, the civil engineer, to consult him about an office; for Watts
had been rather hazy in regard to where he might best locate that. Mr.
Converse shook his head when Peter outlined his plan.

"Do you know any New York people," he asked, "who will be likely to give
you cases?"

"No," said Peter.

"Then it's absolutely foolish of you to begin that way," said Mr.
Converse. "Get into a lawyer's office, and make friends first before you
think of starting by yourself. You'll otherwise never get a client."

Peter shook his head. "I've thought it out," he added, as if that
settled it.

Mr. Converse looked at him, and, really liking the fellow, was about to
explain the real facts to him, when a client came in. So he only said,
"If that's so, go ahead. Locate on Broadway, anywhere between the
Battery and Canal Street." Later in the day, when he had time, he shook
his head, and said, "Poor devil! Like all the rest."

Anywhere between the Battery and Canal Street represented a fairly large
range of territory, but Peter went at the matter directly, and for the
next three days passed his time climbing stairs, and inspecting rooms
and dark cells. At the end of that time he took a moderate-sized office,
far back in a building near Worth Street. Another day saw it fitted with
a desk, two chairs (for Peter as yet dreamed only of single clients) and
a shelf containing the few law books that were the monuments of his
Harvard law course, and his summer reading. On the following Monday,
when Peter faced his office door he felt a glow of satisfaction at
seeing in very black letters on the very newly scrubbed glass the sign
of:

    PETER STIRLING

    ATTORNEY AND COUNSELLOR-AT-LAW.

He had come to his office early, not merely because at his boarding
place they breakfasted betimes, but because he believed that early hours
were one way of winning success. He was a little puzzled what to do with
himself. He sat down at his desk and thrummed it for a minute. Then he
rose, and spread his books more along the shelf, so as to leave little
spaces between them, thinking that he could make them look more imposing
thereby. After that he took down a book--somebody "On Torts,"--and dug
into it. In the Harvard course, he had had two hours a week of this
book, but Peter worked over it for nearly three hours. Then he took
paper, and in a very clear, beautifully neat hand, made an abstract of
what he had read. Then he compared his abstract with the book. Returning
the book to the shelf, very much pleased with the accuracy of his
memory, he looked at his watch. It was but half-past eleven. Peter sat
down at his desk. "Would all the days go like this?" he asked himself.
He had got through the first week by his room and office-seeking and
furnishing. But now? He could not read law for more than four hours a
day, and get anything from it. What was to be done with the rest of the
time? What could he do to keep himself from thinking of--from thinking?
He looked out of his one window, over the dreary stretch of roofs and
the drearier light shafts spoken of flatteringly as yards. He compressed
his lips, and resorted once more to his book. But he found his mind
wandering, and realized that he had done all he was equal to on a hot
July morning. Again he looked out over the roofs. Then he rose and stood
in the middle at his room, thinking. He looked at his watch again, to
make sure that he was right. Then he opened his door and glanced about
the hall. It was one blank, except for the doors. He went down the two
flights of stairs to the street. Even that had the deserted look of
summer. He turned and went back to his room. Sitting down once more at
his desk, and opening somebody "On Torts" again, he took up his pen and
began to copy the pages literally. He wrote steadily for a time, then
with pauses. Finally, the hand ceased to follow the lines, and became
straggly. Then he ceased to write. The words blurred, the paper faded
from view, and all Peter saw was a pair of slate-colored eyes. He laid
his head down on the blotter, and the erect, firm figure relaxed.

There is no more terrible ordeal of courage than passive waiting. Most
of us can be brave with something to do, but to be brave for months, for
years, with nothing to be done and without hope of the future! So it was
in Peter's case. It was waiting--waiting--for what? If clients came, if
fame came, if every form of success came,--for what?

There is nothing in loneliness to equal the loneliness of a big city.
About him, so crowded and compressed together as to risk life and
health, were a million people. Yet not a soul of that million knew that
Peter sat at his desk, with his head on his blotter, immovable, from
noon one day till daylight of the next.




CHAPTER IX.

HAPPINESS BY PROXY.


The window of Peter's office faced east, and the rays of the morning sun
shining dazzlingly in his eyes forced him back to a consciousness of
things mundane. He rose, and went downstairs, to find the night
watch-man just opening the building. Fortunately he had already met the
man, so that he was not suspected as an intruder; and giving him a
pleasant "good-morning," Peter passed into the street. It was a good
morning indeed, with all that freshness and coolness which even a great
city cannot take from a summer dawn. For some reason Peter felt more
encouraged. Perhaps it was the consciousness of having beaten his
loneliness and misery by mere physical endurance. Perhaps it was only
the natural spring of twenty years. At all events, he felt dimly, that
miserable and unhopeful as the future looked, he was not conquered yet;
that he was going to fight on, come what might.

He turned to the river front, and after bargaining with a passing cart
for a pint of what the poorer people of the city buy as milk, he turned
north, and quickening his pace, walked till he had left the city proper
and had reached the new avenue or "drive," which, by the liberality of
Mr. Tweed with other people's money, was then just approaching
completion. After walking the length of it, he turned back to his
boarding-place, and after a plunge, felt as if he could face and fight
the future to any extent.

As a result of this he was for the first time late at breakfast The
presider over the box-office had ascertained that Peter had spent the
night out, and had concluded he would have a gird or two at him. He
failed, however, to carry out his intention. It was not the first time
that both he and his companions had decided to "roast" Peter, absent,
but had done other wise with Peter, present. He had also decided to say
to Peter, "Who's your dandy letter-writer?" But he also failed to do
that. This last intention referred to a letter that lay at Peters place,
and which was examined by each of the four in turn. That letter had an
air about it. It was written on linen paper of a grade which, if now
common enough, was not so common at that time. Then it was postmarked
from one of the most, fashionable summer resorts of the country.
Finally, it was sealed with wax, then very unusual, and the wax bore the
impression of a crest. They were all rather disappointed when Peter put
that letter in his pocket, without opening it.

Peter read the letter at his office that morning. It was as follows:

    GREY-COURT, July 21st.

    DEAR. OLD MAN--

    Like a fool I overslept myself on the morning you left, so did not
    get my talk with you. You know I never get up early, and never
    can, so you have only your refusal to let me in that night to
    blame for our not having a last chat. If I had had the news to
    tell you that I now have, I should not have let you keep me out,
    even if you had forced me to break my way in.

    Chum, the nicest girl in the world has told me that she loves me,
    and we are both as happy as happy can be, I know you will not be
    in a moment's doubt as to who she is, I have only run down here to
    break it to my family, and shall go back to the Shrubberies early
    next week--to talk to Mr. Pierce, you understand!

    My governor has decided that a couple of years' travel will keep
    me out of mischief as well as anything else he can devise, and as
    the prospect is not unpleasant, I am not going to let my new
    plans interfere with it, merely making my journeyings a _solitude
    a deux_, instead of solus. So we shall be married in September, at
    the Shrubberies, and sail for Europe almost immediately.

    Now, I want you to stand by me in this, as you have in other
    things, and help me through. I want you, in short, to be my "best
    man" as you have been my Best friend. "Best man," I should inform
    you, is an English wedding institution, which our swell people
    have suddenly discovered is a necessity to make a marriage
    ceremony legal. He doesn't do much. Holding his principal's hat, I
    believe, is the most serious duty that falls to him, though
    perhaps not stepping on the bridal dresses is more difficult.

    My Mamma wants me to drive with her, so this must be continued in
    our next.

    Aff.,

    W.

Peter did not read law that morning. But after sitting in his chair for
a couple of hours, looking at the opposite wall, and seeing something
quite different, he took his pen, and without pause, or change of face,
wrote two letters, as follows:

    DEAR WATTS:

    You hardly surprised me by your letter. I had suspected, both from
    your frequent visits to the Shrubberies, and from a way in which
    you occasionally spoke of Miss Pierce, that you loved her. After
    seeing her, I felt that it was not possible you did not. So I was
    quite prepared for your news. You have indeed been fortunate in
    winning such a girl. That I wish you every joy and happiness I
    need not say.

    I think you could have found some other of the fellows better
    suited to stand with you, but if you think otherwise, I shall not
    fail you.

    You will have to tell me about details, clothes, etc. Perhaps you
    can suggest a gift that will do? I remember Miss Pierce saying she
    was very fond of pearls. Would it be right to give something of
    that kind?

    Faithfully yours,

    PETER.

    DEAR MISS PIERCE:

    A letter from Watts this morning tells me of his good fortune.
    Fearing lest my blindness may perhaps still give you pain, I write
    to say that your happiness is the most earnest wish of my life,
    and nothing which increases it can be other than good news to me.
    If I can ever serve you in any way, you will be doing me a great
    favor by telling me how.

    Please give my regards to Mr. and Mrs. Pierce, and believe me,

    Yours ever sincerely,

    PETER STIRLING.

After these letters were written, Peter studied the wall again for a
time. Studied it till long after the hour when he should have lunched.
The wall had three cracks in it which approximated to an outline of
Italy, but though Peter gazed at this particular wall a good many hours
in the next few weeks, he did not discover this interesting fact till
long after this time of wall-gazing.

In the early morning and after dinner, in spite of the summer heat, he
took long walks. During the day he sat in his office doing nothing, with
the exception of an occasional letter to his mother, and one or two to
Watts in respect to the coming wedding. Two visits to the tailor's, and
another to Tiffany's, which resulted in a pearl pin rather out of
proportion to his purse, were almost the sole variations of this
routine. It was really a relief to this terrible inactivity, when he
found himself actually at the Shrubberies, the afternoon before the
wedding.

Peter was rather surprised at the ease with which he went through the
next twenty-four hours. It is true that the house was too full, and each
person too busy, to trouble the silent groomsman with attention, so he
might have done pretty much what he wished, without being noticed. He
arrived late, thus having no chance for greetings till after a hurried
dressing for dinner, when they were made in the presence of the whole
party, who had waited his coming to go to the meal. He went through the
ordeal well, even that with Miss Pierce, actually showing less
embarrassment than she did. What was more astonishing, he calmly offered
his arm to the bridesmaid who fell to his lot, and, after seating her,
chatted without thinking that he was talking. Indeed, he hardly heeded
what he did say, but spoke mechanically, as a kind of refuge from
thought and feeling.

"I didn't find him a bit so," the girl said to Miss Pierce, later in the
evening, with an indefiniteness which, if not merely feminine, must
presuppose a previous conversation. "He isn't exactly talkative, but he
is perfectly easy to get on with. I tried him on New York, and found he
had gone into a good many odd places and can tell about them. He
describes things very well, so that one sees them."

"It must be your tact, then, Miss Leroy," said Mrs. Pierce, "for we
could get nothing out of him before."

"No? I had nothing to do with it, and, between ourselves, I think he
disapproved of me. If Helen hadn't told me about him, I should have been
very cool to him, his manner was so objectionable. He clearly talked to
me because he felt it a duty, and not a pleasure."

"That's only that unfortunate manner of his," said Helen. "I really
think at heart he's dreadfully afraid of us. At least that's what Watts
says. But he only behaves as if--as if--well, you know what I mean,
Alice!"

"Exactly," said Alice. "You can't describe it. He's so cool, and stolid,
and silent, that you feel shoddy and cheap, and any simple little remark
doesn't seem enough to say. You try to talk up to him, and yet feel
small all the time."

"Not at all," said Helen. "You talk down to him, as if he
were--were--your old grandfather, or some one else you admired, but
thought very dull and old-fashioned."

"But the worst is the way he looks at you. So gravely, even when you try
to joke. Now I really think I'm passably pretty, but Mr. Stirling said
as plainly as could be: 'I look at you occasionally because that's the
proper thing to do, when one talks, but I much prefer looking at that
picture over your head.' I don't believe he noticed how my hair was
dressed, or the color of my eyes. Such men are absolutely maddening.
When they've finished their smoke, I'm going to make him notice me."

But Miss Leroy failed in her plan, try as she would. Peter did not
notice girls any more. After worrying in his school and college days,
over what women thought of him and how they treated him, he had suddenly
ceased to trouble himself about them. It was as if a man, after long
striving for something, had suddenly discovered that he did not wish
it--that to him women's opinions had become worthless. Perhaps in this
case it was only the Fox and the Grapes over again. At all events, from
this time on Peter cared little what women did. Courteous he tried to
be, for he understood this to be a duty. But that was all. They might
laugh at him, snub him, avoid him. He cared not. He had struck women out
of his plan of life. And this disregard, as we have already suggested,
was sure to produce a strange change, not merely in Peter, but in
women's view and treatment of him. Peter trying to please them, by dull,
ordinary platitudes, was one thing. Peter avoiding them and talking to
them when needs must, with that distant, uninterested look and voice,
was quite another.

The next morning, Peter, after finding what a fifth wheel in a coach all
men are at weddings, finally stood up with his friend. He had not been
asked to stay on for another night, as had most of the bridal party, so
he slipped away as soon as his duty was done, and took a train that put
him into New York that evening. A week later he said good-bye to the
young couple, on the deck of a steamship.

"Don't forget us, Peter," shouted Watts, after the fasts were cast off
and the steamer was slowly moving into mid-stream.

Peter waved his hat, and turning, walked off the pier.

"Could he forget them?" was the question he asked himself.




CHAPTER X

WAITING.


"My friend," said an old and experienced philosopher to a young man, who
with all the fire and impatience of his years wished to conquer the
world quickly, "youth has many things to learn, but one of the most
important is never to let another man beat you at waiting."

Peter went back to his desk, and waited. He gave up looking at the wall
of his office, and took to somebody "On Torts" again. When that was
finished he went through the other law books of his collection. Those
done, he began to buy others, and studied them with great thoroughness
and persistence. In one of his many walks, he stumbled upon the
Apprentices' Library. Going in, he inquired about its privileges, and
became a regular borrower of books. Peter had always been a reader, but
now he gave from three or four hours a day to books, aside from his law
study. Although he was slow, the number of volumes, he not merely read,
but really mastered was marvellous. Books which he liked, without much
regard to their popular reputation, he at once bought; for his simple
life left him the ability to indulge himself in most respects within
moderation. He was particularly careful to read a classic occasionally
to keep up his Greek and Latin, and for the same reason he read French
and German books aloud to himself. Before the year was out, he was a
recognized quantity in certain book-stores, and was privileged to
browse at will both among old and new books without interference or
suggestion from the "stock" clerks. "There isn't any good trying to sell
him anything," remarked one. "He makes up his mind for himself."

His reading was broadened out from the classic and belles-lettres
grooves that were still almost a cult with the college graduate, by
another recreation now become habitual with him. In his long tramps
about the city, to vary the monotony, he would sometimes stop and chat
with people--with a policeman, a fruit-vender, a longshoreman or a
truckster. It mattered little who it was. Then he often entered
manufactories and "yards" and asked if he could go through them,
studying the methods, and talking to the overseer or workers about the
trade. When he occasionally encountered some one who told him "your kind
ain't got no business here" he usually found the statement "my father
was a mill-overseer" a way to break down the barrier. He had to use it
seldom, for he dressed plainly and met the men in a way which seldom
failed to make them feel that he was one of them. After such inspection
and chat, he would get books from the library, and read up about the
business or trade, finding that in this way he could enjoy works
otherwise too technical, and really obtain a very good knowledge of many
subjects. Just how interesting he found such books as "Our
Fire-Laddies," which he read from cover to cover, after an inspection
of, and chat with, the men of the nearest fire-engine station; or
Latham's "The Sewage Difficulty," which the piping of uptown New York
induced him to read; and others of diverse types is questionable.
Probably it was really due to his isolation, but it was much healthier
than gazing at blank walls.

When the courts opened, Peter kept track of the calendars, and whenever
a case or argument promised to be interesting, or to call out the great
lights of the profession, he attended and listened to them. He tried to
write out the arguments used, from notes, and finally this practice
induced him to give two evenings a week during the winter mastering
shorthand. It was really only a mental discipline, for any case of
importance was obtainable in print almost as soon as argued, but Peter
was trying to put a pair of slate-colored eyes out of his thoughts, and
employed this as one of the means.

When winter came, and his long walks became less possible, he turned to
other things. More from necessity than choice, he visited the art and
other exhibitions as they occurred, he went to concerts, and to plays,
all with due regard to his means, and for this reason the latter were
the most seldom indulged in. Art and music did not come easy to him, but
he read up on both, not merely in standard books, but in the reviews of
the daily press, and just because there was so much in both that he
failed to grasp, he studied the more carefully and patiently.

One trait of his New England training remained to him. He had brought a
letter from his own Congregational church in his native town, to one of
the large churches of the same sect in New York, and when admitted,
hired a sitting and became a regular attendant at both morning and
evening service. In time this produced a call from his new pastor. It
was the first new friend he had gained in New York. "He seems a quiet,
well-informed fellow," was the clergyman's comment; "I shall make a
point of seeing something of him." But he was pastor of a very large and
rich congregation, and was a hard-worked and hard-entertained man, so
his intention was not realized.

Peter spent Christmastide with his mother, who worried not a little over
his loss of flesh.

"You have been overworking," she said anxiously.

"Why mother, I haven't had a client yet," laughed Peter.

"Then you've worried over not getting on," said his mother, knowing
perfectly well that it was nothing of the sort. She had hoped that Peter
would be satisfied with his six months' trial, but did not mention her
wish. She marvelled to herself that New York had not yet discovered his
greatness.

When Peter returned to the city, he made a change in his living
arrangements. His boarding-place had filled up with the approach of
winter, but with the class of men he already knew too well. Even though
he met them only at meals, their atmosphere was intolerable to him. When
a room next his office fell vacant, and went begging at a very cheap
price, he decided to use it as a bedroom. So he moved his few belongings
on his return from his visit to his mother's.

Although he had not been particularly friendly to the other boarders,
nor made himself obtrusive in the least, not one of them failed to speak
of his leaving. Two or three affected to be pleased, but
"Butter-and-cheese" said he "was a first-rate chap," and this seemed to
gain the assent of the table generally.

"I'm dreadfully sorry to lose him," his landlady informed her other
boarders, availing herself, perhaps, of the chance to deliver a side hit
at some of them. "He never has complained once, since he came here, and
he kept his room as neat as if he had to take care of it himself."

"Well," said the box-office oracle, "I guess he's O.K., if he is a bit
stiff; and a fellow who's best man to a big New York swell, and gets his
name in all the papers, doesn't belong in a seven-dollar,
hash-seven-days-a-week, Bleecker Street boarding-house."

Peter fitted his room up simply, the sole indulgence (if properly so
called) being a bath, which is not a usual fitting of a New York
business office, consciences not yet being tubbable. He had made his
mother show him how to make coffee, and he adopted the Continental
system of meals, having rolls and butter sent in, and making a French
breakfast in his own rooms. Then he lunched regularly not far from his
office, and dined wherever his afternoon walk, or evening plans carried
him. He found that he saved no money by the change, but he saved his
feelings, and was far freer to come and go as he chose.

He did not hear from the honeymoon party. Watts had promised to write to
him and send his address "as soon as we decide whether we pass the
winter in Italy or on the Nile." But no letter came. Peter called on the
Pierces, only to find them out, and as no notice was taken of his
pasteboard, he drew his own inference, and did not repeat the visit.

Such was the first year of Peter's New York life. He studied, he read,
he walked, and most of all, he waited. But no client came, and he seemed
no nearer one than the day he had first seen his own name on his office
door. "How much longer will I have to wait? How long will my patience
hold out?" These were the questions he asked himself, when for a moment
he allowed himself to lose courage. Then he would take to a bit of
wall-gazing, while dreaming of a pair of slate-colored eyes.




CHAPTER XI.

NEW FRIENDS.


Mr. Converse had evidently thought that the only way for Peter to get on
was to make friends. But in this first year Peter did not made a single
one that could be really called such. His second summer broadened his
acquaintance materially, though in a direction which promised him little
law practice.

When the warm weather again closed the courts and galleries, and brought
an end to the concerts and theatres, Peter found time harder to kill,
the more, because he had pretty well explored the city. Still he walked
much to help pass the time, and to get outside of his rooms into the
air. For the same reason he often carried his book, after the heat of
the day was over, to one of the parks, and did his reading there. Not
far from his office, eastwardly, where two streets met at an angle, was
a small open space too limited to be called a square, even if its shape
had not been a triangle. Here, under the shade of two very sickly trees,
surrounded by tall warehouses, were a couple of benches. Peter sat here
many evenings smoking his pipe. Though these few square feet made
perhaps the largest "open" within half a mile of his office, the angle
was confined and dreary. Hence it is obvious there must have been some
attraction to Peter, since he was such a walker, to make him prefer
spending his time there rather than in the parks not far distant The
attraction was the children.

Only a few hundred feet away was one of the most densely crowded
tenement districts of New York. It had no right to be there, for the
land was wanted for business purposes, but the hollow on which it was
built had been a swamp in the old days, and the soft land, and perhaps
the unhealthiness, had prevented the erection of great warehouses and
stores, which almost surrounded it. So it had been left to the storage
of human souls instead of merchandise, for valuable goods need careful
housing, while any place serves to pack humanity. It was not a nice
district to go through, for there was a sense of heat and dirt, and
smell, and crowd, and toil and sorrow throughout. It was probably no
nicer to live in, and nothing proved it better than the overflow of the
children therefrom into the little, hot, paved, airless angle. Here they
could be found from five in the morning till twelve at night. Here, with
guards set, to give notice of the approach of the children's
joy-destroying Siva--otherwise the policeman--they played ball. Here
"cat" and "one old cat" render bearable many a wilting hour for the
little urchins. Here "Sally in our Alley" and "Skip-rope" made the
little girls forget that the temperature was far above blood-heat. Here
of an evening, Peter smoked and watched them.

At first he was an object of suspicion, and the sport visibly ceased
when he put in an appearance. But he simply sat on one of the benches
and puffed his pipe, and after a few evenings they lost all fear of him,
and went on as if he were not there. In time, an intercourse sprang up
between them. One evening Peter appeared with a stick of wood, and as he
smoked, he whittled at it with a _real_ jack-knife! He was scrutinized
by the keen-eyed youngsters with interest at once, and before he had
whittled long, he had fifty children sitting in the shape of a
semicircle on the stone pavement, watching his doings with almost
breathless Interest. When the result of his work actually developed into
a "cat" of marvellous form and finish, a sigh of intense joy passed
through the boy part of his audience. When the "cat" was passed over to
their mercies, words could not be found to express their emotions.
Another evening, the old clothes-line that served for a jump-rope, after
having bravely rubbed against the pavement many thousand times in its
endeavor to lighten the joyless life of the little pack, finally
succumbed, worn through the centre and quite beyond hope of further
knotting. Then Peter rose, and going to one of the little shops that
supplied the district, soon returned with a _real_ jump-rope, with
_wooden handles!_ So from time to time, _real_ tops, _real_ dolls,
_real_ marbles and various other _real_, if cheap, things, hitherto only
enjoyed in dreams, or at most through home-made attempts, found their
way into the angle, and were distributed among the little imps. They
could not resist such subtle bribery, and soon Peter was on as familiar
and friendly a footing as he could wish. He came to know each by name,
and was made the umpire in all their disputes and the confidant in all
their troubles. They were a dirty, noisy, lawless, and godless little
community, but they were interesting to watch, and the lonely fellow
grew to like them much, for with all their premature sharpness, they
were really natural, and responded warmly to his friendly overtures.

After a time, Peter tried to help them a little more than by mere small
gifts. A cheap box of carpenter's tools was bought, and under his
superintendence, evenings were spent in the angle, in making various
articles. A small wheel barrow, a knife-and-fork basket, a clock-bracket
and other easy things were made, one at a time. All boys, and indeed
some girls, were allowed to help. One would saw off the end of a plank;
another would rule a pencil line; the next would plane the plank down to
that line; the next would bore the holes in it; the next would screw it
into position; the next would sandpaper it The work went very slowly,
but every one who would, had his share in it, while the rest sat and
watched. When the article was completed, lots were drawn for it, and
happy was the fortunate one who drew the magnificent prize in life's
lottery!

Occasionally too, Peter brought a book with him, and read it aloud to
them. He was rather surprised to find that they did not take to
Sunday-school stories or fairy tales. Wild adventures in foreign lands
were the most effective; and together they explored the heart of Africa,
climbed the Swiss mountains, fought the Western Indians, and attempted
to discover the North Pole. They had a curious liking for torture,
blood-letting, and death. Nor were they without discrimination.

"I guess that fellow is only working his jaw," was one little chap's
criticism at a certain point of the narrative of a well-known African
explorer, rather famous for his success in advertising himself. Again,
"that's bully," was the comment uttered by another, when Peter, rather
than refuse their request to read aloud, had been compelled to choose
something in Macaulay's Essays, and had read the description of the
Black Hole of Calcutta, "Say, mister," said another, "I don't believe
that fellow wasn't there, for he never could a told it like that, if he
wasn't."

As soon as his influence was secure, Peter began to affect them in other
ways. Every fight, every squabble, was investigated, and the blame put
where it belonged. Then a mandate went forth that profanity was to
cease: and, though contrary to every instinct and habit, cease it did
after a time, except for an occasional unconscious slip. "Sporadic
swearing," Peter called it, and explained what it meant to the children,
and why he forgave that, while punishing the intentional swearer with
exclusion from his favor. So, too, the girls were told that to "poke"
tongues at each other, and make faces, was but another way of swearing;
"for they all mean that there is hate in your hearts, and it is that
which is wrong, and not the mere words or faces." He ran the risk of
being laughed at, but they didn't laugh, for something in his way of
talking to them, even when verging on what they called "goody-goody,"
inspired them with respect.

Before many weeks of this intercourse, Peter could not stroll east from
his office without being greeted with yells of recognition. The elders,
too, gave him "good-evening" pleasantly and smiled genially. The
children had naturally told their parents about him of his wonderful
presents, and great skill with knife and string.

"He can whittle anything you ask!"

"He knows how to make things you want!"

"He can tie a knot sixteen different kinds!"

"He can fold a newspaper into soldiers' and firemen's caps!"

"He's friends with the policeman!"

Such laudations, and a hundred more, the children sang of him to their
elders.

"Oh," cried one little four-year-old girl, voicing the unanimous feeling
of the children, "Mister Peter is just shplendid."

So the elders nodded and smiled when they met him, and he was pretty
well known to several hundred people whom he knew not.

But another year passed, and still no client came.




CHAPTER XII.

HIS FIRST CLIENT.


Peter sat in his office, one hot July day, two years after his arrival,
writing to his mother. He had but just returned to New York, after a
visit to her, which had left him rather discouraged, because, for the
first time, she had pleaded with him to abandon his attempt and return
to his native town. He had only replied that he was not yet prepared to
acknowledge himself beaten; but the request and his mother's
disappointment had worried him. While he wrote came a knock at the door,
and, in response to his "come in," a plain-looking laborer entered and
stood awkwardly before him.

"What can I do for you?" asked Peter, seeing that he must assist the man
to state his business.

"If you please, sir," said the man, humbly, "it's Missy. And I hope
you'll pardon me for troubling you."

"Certainly," said Peter. "What about Missy?"

"She's--the doctor says she's dying," said the man, adding, with a
slight suggestion of importance, blended with the evident grief he felt:
"Sally, and Bridget Milligan are dead already."

"And what can I do?" said Peter, sympathetically, if very much at sea.

"Missy wants to see you before she goes. It's only a child's wish, sir,
and you needn't trouble about it. But I had to promise her I'd come and
ask you. I hope it's no offence?"

"No." Peter rose, and, passing to the next room, took his hat, and the
two went into the street together.

"What is the trouble?" asked Peter, as they walked.

"We don't know, sir. They were all took yesterday, and two are dead
already." The man wiped the tears from his eyes with his shirtsleeve,
smearing the red brick dust with which it was powdered, over his face.

"You've had a doctor?"

"Not till this morning. We didn't think it was bad at first."

"What is your name?"

"Blackett, sir--Jim Blackett."

Peter began to see daylight. He remembered both a Sally and Matilda
Blackett.--That was probably "Missy."

A walk of six blocks transferred them to the centre of the tenement
district. Two flights of stairs brought them to the Blackett's rooms. On
the table of the first, which was evidently used both as a kitchen and
sitting-room, already lay a coffin containing a seven-year-old girl.
Candles burned at the four corners, adding to the bad air and heat. In
the room beyond, in bed, with a tired-looking woman tending her, lay a
child of five. Wan and pale as well could be, with perspiration standing
in great drops on the poor little hot forehead, the hand of death, as it
so often does, had put something into the face never there before.

"Oh, Mister Peter," the child said, on catching sight of him, "I said
you'd come."

Peter took his handkerchief and wiped the little head. Then he took a
newspaper, lying on a chair, twisted it into a rude fan, and began
fanning the child as he sat on the bed.

"What did you want me for?" he asked.

"Won't you tell me the story you read from the book? The one about the
little girl who went to the country, and was given a live dove and real
flowers."

Peter began telling the story as well as he could remember it, but it
was never finished. For while he talked another little girl went to the
country, a far country, from which there is no return--and a very
ordinary little story ended abruptly.

The father and mother took the death very calmly. Peter asked them a few
questions, and found that there were three other children, the eldest of
whom was an errand boy, and therefore away. The others, twin babies, had
been cared for by a woman on the next floor. He asked about money, and
found that they had not enough to pay the whole expenses of the double
funeral.

"But the undertaker says he'll do it handsome, and will let the part I
haven't money for, run, me paying it off in weekly payments," the man
explained, when Peter expressed some surprise at the evident needless
expense they were entailing on themselves.

While he talked, the doctor came in.

"I knew there was no chance," he said, when told of the death. "And you
remember I said so," he added, appealing to the parents.

"Yes, that's what he said," responded the father.

"Well," said the doctor, speaking in a brisk, lively way peculiar to
him, "I've found what the matter was."

"No?" said the mother, becoming interested at once.

"It was the milk," the doctor continued. "I thought there was something
wrong with it, the moment I smelt it, but I took some home to make
sure." He pulled a paper out of his pocket. "That's the test, and Dr.
Plumb, who has two cases next door, found it was just the same there."

The Blacketts gazed at the written analysis, with wonder, not
understanding a word of it. Peter looked too, when they had satisfied
their curiosity. As he read it, a curious expression came into his face.
A look not unlike that which his face had worn on the deck of the
"Sunrise." It could hardly be called a change of expression, but rather
a strengthening and deepening of his ordinary look.

"That was in the milk drunk by the children?" he asked, placing his
finger on a particular line.

"Yes," replied the doctor. "The milk was bad to start with, and was
drugged to conceal the fact. These carbonates sometimes work very
unevenly, and I presume this particular can of milk got more than its
share of the doctoring.

"There are almost no glycerides," remarked Peter, wishing to hold the
doctor till he should have had time to think.

"No," said the doctor. "It was skim milk."

"You will report it to the Health Board?" asked Peter.

"When I'm up there," said the doctor. "Not that it will do any good. But
the law requires it"

"Won't they investigate?"

"They'll investigate too much. The trouble with them is, they
investigate, but don't prosecute."

"Thank you," said Peter. He shook hands with the parents, and went
upstairs to the fourth floor. The crape on a door guided him to where
Bridget Milligan lay. Here preparations had gone farther. Not merely
were the candles burning, but four bottles, with the corks partly drawn,
were on the cold cooking stove, while a wooden pail filled with beer,
reposed in the embrace of a wash-tub, filled otherwise with ice. Peter
asked a few questions. There was only an elder brother and sister.
Patrick worked as a porter. Ellen rolled cigars. They had a little money
laid up. Enough to pay for the funeral. "Mr. Moriarty gave us the whisky
and beer at half price," the girl explained incidentally. "Thank you,
sir. We don't need anything." Peter rose to go. "Bridget was often
speaking of you to us. And I thank you for what you did for her."

Peter went down, and called next door, to see Dr. Plumb's patients.
These were in a fair way for recovery.

"They didn't get any of the milk till last night," the gray-haired,
rather sad-looking doctor told him, "and I got at them early this
morning. Then I suspected the milk at once, and treated them
accordingly. I've been forty years doing this sort of thing, and it's
generally the milk. Dr. Sawyer, next door, is a new man, and doesn't get
hold quite as quick. But he knows more of the science of the thing, and
can make a good analysis."

"You think they have a chance?"

"If this heat will let up a bit" said the doctor, mopping his forehead.
"It's ninety-eight in here; that's enough to kill a sound child."

"Could they be moved?"

"To-morrow, perhaps."

"Mrs. Dooley, could you take your children away to the country
to-morrow, if I find a place for you?"

"It's very little money I have, sir."

"It won't cost you anything. Can you leave your family?"

"There's only Moike. And he'll do very well by himself," he was told.

"Then if the children can go, be ready at 10:15 to-morrow, and you shall
all go up for a couple of weeks to my mother's in Massachusetts. They'll
have plenty of good food there," he explained to the doctor, "grass and
flowers close to the house and woods not far away."

"That will fix them," said the doctor.

"About this milk. Won't the Health Board punish the sellers?" Peter
asked.

"Probably not," he was told "It's difficult to get them to do anything,
and at this season so many of them are on vacations, it is doubly hard
to make them stir."

Peter went to the nearest telegraph, and sent a dispatch to his mother.
Then he went back to his office, and sitting down, began to study his
wall. But he was not thinking of a pair of slate-colored eyes. He was
thinking of his first case. He had found a client.




CHAPTER XIII.

THE CASE.


Peter went to work the next morning at an hour which most of us, if we
are indiscreet enough to wake, prefer to use as the preface to a further
two to four hours' nap. He had spent his evening in a freshening of his
knowledge in certain municipal laws, and other details which he thought
he might need, and as early as five o clock he was at work in the
tenement district, asking questions and taking notes. The inquiry took
little skill The milk had come from the cart of a certain company, which
passed daily through the locality, not to supply orders, but to peddle
milk to whoever cared to buy. Peter had the cart pointed out that
morning, but, beyond making a note of the exact name of the company, he
paid no attention to it. He was aiming at bigger game than a milk cart
or its driver.

His work was interrupted only by his taking Mrs. Dooley and the two
children to the train. That done, Peter walked northwardly and
westwardly, till he had nearly reached the river front. It took some
little inquiry, but after a while he stumbled on a small shanty which
had a sign:

NATIONAL MILK COMPANY.

OFFICE.

The place, however, was closed and no one around seemed connected with
it, though a number of milk carts were standing about. Close to these
was a long line of sheds, which in turn backed up against a great
brewery. A couple of men lounged at the door of the sheds. Peter walked
up to them, and asked if they could tell him where he could find any one
connected with the milk company.

"The boss is off for lunch," said one. "I can take an order, if that's
what you want."

Peter said it was not an order, and began chatting with the men. Before
he had started to question them, a third man, from inside the sheds,
joined the group at the door.

"That cow's dead," he remarked as he came up.

"Is it?" said the one called Bill. Both rose, and went into the shed.
Peter started to go with them.

"You can't come in," said the new-comer.

But Peter passed in, without paying the least attention to him.

"Come back," called the man, following Peter.

Peter turned to him: "You are one of the employees of the National Milk
Company?" he asked.

"Yes," said the man, "and we have orders--"

Peter usually let a little pause occur after a remark to him, but in
this case he spoke before the man completed his speech. He spoke, too,
with an air of decision and command that quieted the man.

"Go back to your work," he said, "and don't order me round. I know what
I'm about." Then he walked after the other two men as rapidly as the
dimness permitted. The employee scratched his head, and then followed.

Dim as the light was, Peter could discern that he was passing between
two rows of cows, with not more than space enough for men to pass each
other between the rows. It was filthy, and very warm, and there was a
peculiar smell in the air which Peter did not associate with a cow
stable. It was a kind of vapor which brought some suggestion to his
mind, yet one he could not identify. Presently he came upon the two men.
One had lighted a lantern and was examining a cow that lay on the
ground. That it was dead was plain. But what most interested Peter,
although he felt a shudder of horror at the sight, were the rotted tail
and two great sores on the flank that lay uppermost.

"That's a bad-looking cow," he said.

"Ain't it?" replied the one with the lantern. "But you can't help their
havin' them, if you feed them on mash."

"Hold your tongue, Bill," said the man who had followed Peter.

"Take some of your own advice," said Peter, turning quickly, and
speaking in a voice that made the man step back. A terrible feeling was
welling up in Peter's heart. He thought of the poor little
fever-stricken children. He saw the poor fever-stricken cow. He would
like to--to--.

He dropped the arm he had unconsciously raised. "Give me that lantern,"
he demanded.

The man hesitated and looked at the others.

"Give me that lantern," said Peter, speaking low, but his voice ringing
very clear.

The lantern was passed to him, and taking it, he walked along the line
of cows. He saw several with sores more or less developed. One or two he
saw in the advanced stages of the disease, where the tail had begun to
rot away. The other men followed him on his tour of inspection, and
whispered together nervously. It did not take Peter long to examine all
he wanted to see. Handing back the lantern at the door, he said: "Give
me your names."

The men looked nonplussed, and shifted their weights uneasily from leg
to leg.

"You," said Peter, looking at the man who had interfered with him.

"Wot do yer want with it?" he was asked.

"That's my business. What's your name?"

"John Tingley."

"Where do you live?"

"310 West 61st Street."

Peter obtained and wrote down the names and addresses of the trio. He
then went to the "office" of the company, which was now opened.

"Is this an incorporated company?" he asked of the man tilted back in a
chair.

"No," said the man, adding two chair legs to terra firma, and looking at
Peter suspiciously.

"Who owns it?" Peter queried.

"I'm the boss."

"That isn't what I asked."

"That's what I answered."

"And your name is?"

"James Coldman."

"Do you intend to answer my question?"

"Not till I know your business."

"I'm here to find out against whom to get warrants for a criminal
prosecution."

"For what?"

"The warrant will say."

The man squirmed in his chair. "Will you give me till to-morrow?"

"No. The warrant is to be issued to-day. Decide at once, whether you or
your principal, shall be the man to whom it shall be served."

"I guess you'd better make it against me," said the man.

"Very well," said Peter. "Of course you know your employer will be run
down, and as I'm not after the rest of you, you will only get him a few
days safety at the price of a term in prison."

"Well, I've got to risk it," said the man.

Peter turned and walked away. He went down town to the Blacketts.

"I want you to carry the matter to the courts," he told the father.
"These men deserve punishment, and if you'll let me go on with it, it
shan't cost you anything; and by bringing a civil suit as well, you'll
probably get some money out of it."

Blackett gave his assent. So too did Patrick Milligan, and "Moike"
Dooley. They had won fame already by the deaths and wakes, but a "coort
case" promised to give them prestige far beyond what even these
distinctions conferred. So the three walked away proudly with Peter, and
warrants were sworn to and issued against the "boss" as principal, and
the driver and the three others as witnesses, made returnable on the
following morning. On many a doorstep of the district, that night,
nothing else was talked of, and the trio were the most envied men in the
neighborhood. Even Mrs. Blackett and Ellen Milligan forgot their grief,
and held a joint _soiree_ on their front stoop.

"Shure, it's mighty hard for Mrs. Dooley, that she's away!" said one.
"She'll be feeling bad when she knows what she's missed."

The next morning, Peter, the two doctors, the Blacketts, the Milligans,
Dooley, the milk quintet, and as many inhabitants of the "district" as
could crush their way in, were in court by nine o'clock. The plaintiffs
and their friends were rather disappointed at the quietness of the
proceedings. The examinations were purely formal except in one instance,
when Peter asked for the "name or names of the owner or owners" of the
National Milk Company. Here the defendant's attorney, a shrewd criminal
lawyer, interfered, and there was a sharp passage at arms, in which an
attempt was made to anger Peter. But he kept his head, and in the end
carried his point. The owner turned out to be the proprietor of the
brewery, as Peter had surmised, who thus utilized the mash from his vats
in feeding cattle. But on Peter's asking for an additional warrant
against him, the defendant's lawyer succeeded in proving, if the
statement of the overseer proved it, that the brewer was quite ignorant
that the milk sold in the "district" was what had been unsalable the day
before to better customers, and that the skimming and doctoring of it
was unknown to him. So an attempt to punish the rich man as a criminal
was futile. He could afford to pay for straw men.

"Arrah!" said Dooley to Peter as they passed out of the court, "Oi think
ye moight have given them a bit av yer moind."

"Wait till the trial," said Peter. "We mustn't use up our powder on the
skirmish line."

So the word was passed through the district that "theer'd be fun at the
rale trial," and it was awaited with intense interest by five thousand
people.




CHAPTER XIV.

NEW YORK JUSTICE.


Peter saw the District Attorney the next morning for a few moments, and
handed over to him certain memoranda of details that had not appeared in
the committing court's record.

"It shall go before the grand jury day after to-morrow," that official
told him, without much apparent interest in the matter.

"How soon can it be tried, if they find a true bill? asked Peter.

"Can't say," replied the official.

"I merely wished to know," said Peter, "because three of the witnesses
are away, and I want to have them back in time."

"Probably a couple of weeks," yawned the man, and Peter, taking the
hint, departed.

The rest of the morning was spent in drawing up the papers in three
civil suits against the rich brewer. Peter filed them as soon as
completed, and took the necessary steps for their prompt service.

These produced an almost immediate result, in the shape of a call the
next morning from the same lawyer who had defended the milkmen in the
preliminary examination. Peter, as he returned from his midday meal, met
the lawyer on the stairs.

"Ah, Mr. Stirling. Good-morning," said the man, whose name was Dummer.
"I've just left your office, finding it closed."

"Come in," said Peter.

The lawyer glanced around the plain room, and a quiet look of
satisfaction came over his face. The two sat down.

"About those cases, Mr. Stirling?"

"Well?"

"For reasons you can easily understand, we don't wish them to come to
trial."

"Well?"

"And we take it for granted that your clients will be quite willing to
settle them."

"We will talk about that, after the criminal trial is over"

"Why not now?"

"Because we hope to make Coldman speak the truth in the trial, and thus
be able to reach Bohlmann."

"You're wasting your time."

"Not if there's the smallest chance of sending the brewer to prison."

"There isn't. Coldman will stick to what he said if the thing is ever
tried, which it won't be."

Peter eyed Dummer without changing a muscle. "The District Attorney
told me that it ought to be in the courts in a couple of weeks."

Dummer smiled blandly, and slowly closed one eye. "The District Attorney
tries to tell the truth," he said, "and I have no doubt he thought that
was what he was telling you. Now, name your figure?"

"The civil suits will not be compromised till the criminal one is
finished."

"But I tell you the criminal one is dead. Squashed. Bohlmann and I have
seen the right people, and they've seen the District Attorney. That case
won't even go to the grand jury. So now, drop it, and say what you'll
settle the civil suits for?"

"James Coldman shall go to prison for killing those children," said
Peter, "and till he does, it is waste time to talk of dropping or
settling anything."

"Humph," half laughed the lawyer, though with obvious disgust at the
mulishness in Peter's face and voice. "You think you know it all. But
you don't. You can work for ten years, and that case will be no nearer
trial than it is to-day. I tell you, young man, you don't know New
York."

"I don't know New York," said Peter, "but--"

"Exactly," interrupted Dummer. "And I do."

"Probably," replied Peter quietly, "You may know New York, Mr. Dummer,
but you don't know me. That case shall be tried."

"Well," laughed Dummer, "if you'll agree not to press the civil suits,
till that's out of the way, we shall have no need to compromise.
Good-day."

The next morning Peter went to the District Attorney's office, and
inquired for him.

"He's gone to Bar Harbor for a couple of weeks' vacation," he was told.

"Whom must I see in his stead?" And after some time Peter was brought
face to face with the acting official.

"Mr. Nelson told me he should present the Coldman case to the grand jury
to-day, and finding he has left the city, I wish to know who has it in
charge?" asked Peter.

"He left all the presentments with me," the deputy replied, "but there
was no such case as that."

"Could he have left it with some one else to attend to?"

"No."

Peter went back to his office, took down the Code and went over certain
sections. His eyes had rather a sad look as they gazed at his wall,
after his study, as if what he had read had not pleased him. But if the
eyes were sad, the heavy jaw had a rigidness and setness which gave no
indication of weakness or yielding.

For two weeks Peter waited, and then once more invaded officialdom.

"The District Attorney's engaged, and can't see you," he was told. Peter
came again in the afternoon, with the same result. The next morning,
brought only a like answer, and this was duplicated in the afternoon.
The third day he said he would wait, and sat for hours in the ante-room,
hoping to be called, or to intercept the officer. But it was only to see
man after man ushered into the private office, and finally to be told
that the District Attorney had gone to lunch, and would not return that
day. The man who told him this grinned, and evidently considered it a
good joke, nor had Peter been unconscious that all the morning the
clerks and underlings had been laughing, and guying him as he waited.
Yet his jaw was only set the more rigidly, as he left the office.

He looked up the private address of the officer in the directory, and
went to see him that evening. He was wise enough not to send in his
name, and Mr. Nelson actually came into the hall to see him.

The moment he saw Peter, however, he said: "Oh, it's you. Well, I never
talk business except in business hours."

"I have tried to see you--" began Peter.

"Try some more," interrupted the man, smiling, and going toward the
parlor.

Peter followed him, calmly. "Mr. Nelson," he said, "do you intend to
push that case?"

"Of course," smiled Nelson. "After I've finished four hundred
indictments that precede it."

"Not till then?"

"No."

"Mr. Nelson, can't you overlook politics for a moment, and think of--"

"Who said anything of politics?" interrupted Nelson, "I merely tell you
there are indictments which have been in my office for five years and
are yet to be tried, and that your case is going to take its turn."
Nelson passed into the back room, leaving his caller alone.

Peter left the room, and passed out of the front door, just as a man was
about to ring the bell.

"Is Mr. Nelson in?" asked the man.

"I have just left him, Mr. Dummer," said Peter.

"Ah! Good-evening, Mr. Stirling. I think I can guess your business.
Well. How do you come on?" Dummer was obviously laughing internally.

Peter started down the steps without answering.

"Perhaps I can help you?" said Dummer. "I know Mr. Nelson very well in
politics, and so does Mr. Bohlmann. If you'll tell me what you are
after, I'll try to say a good word for you?"

"I don't need your help, thank you," said Peter calmly.

"Good," said Dummer. "You think a briefless lawyer of thirty can go it
alone, do you, even against the whole city government?"

"I know I have not influence enough to get that case pushed, Mr. Dummer,
but the law is on my side, and I'm not going to give up yet."

"Well, what are you going to do about it?" said Dummer, sneeringly.

"Fight," said Peter, walking away.

He went back to his office, and sitting at his desk, wrote a formal
letter to the District Attorney, calling his attention to the case, and
asking information as to when it would be brought to trial. Then he
copied this, and mailed the original. Then he read the Code again. After
that he went over the New York reports, making notes. For a second time
the morning sun found Peter still at his desk. But this time his head
was not bowed upon his blotter, as if he were beaten or dead. His whole
figure was stiff with purpose, and his jaw was as rigid as a mastiff's.




CHAPTER XV.

THE FIGHT.


The only reply which Peter received to his letter to the
District-Attorney, was a mere formal reiteration of that officer's
verbal statement, that the case would be taken up in its due order,
after those which preceded it had been dealt with. Peter knew enough of
the numberless cases which never reach trial to understand that this
meant in truth, the laying aside of the case, till it was killed by the
statute of limitations.

On receiving this reply, Peter made another move, by going to three
newspapers, and trying to see their managing editors. One declined to
see him. A second merely told Peter, after his statement, which the
editor only allowed him partly to explain, that he was very busy and
could not take time to look into it, but that Peter might come again in
about a month. The third let Peter tell his story, and then shook his
head:

"I have no doubt you are right, but it isn't in shape for us to use.
Such a case rarely goes to trial for six months or a year, and so, if we
begin an attack now, it will simply fall flat. If you can get us a
written statement from the District Attorney that he doesn't intend to
push the case, we can do something, but I suppose he's far too shrewd to
commit himself."

"Yes."

"Then there's no use in beginning an attack, for you really have no
powder. Come in again a year from now, and then we may be able to say
something, if he hasn't acted in the meantime."

Peter left the office, knowing that that chance of pressure was gone. If
the papers of the Republican party would not use it, it was idle
spending time in seeing or trying to see the editors of the Democratic
papers. He wasted therefore no more efforts on newspapers.

The next three days Peter passed in the New York Law Institute Library,
deep in many books. Then he packed his bag, and took an afternoon train
for Albany. He was going to play his last card, with the odds of a
thousand to one against his winning. But that very fact only nerved him
the more.

Promptly at ten o'clock, the morning after his arrival at the state
capital, he sent in his card to the Governor. Fortunately for him, the
middle of August is not a busy time with that official, and after a
slight delay, he was ushered into the executive chamber.

Peter had been planning this interview for hours, and without
explanation or preamble, he commenced his statement. He knew that he
must interest the Governor promptly, or there would be a good chance of
his being bowed out. So he began with a description of the cow-stables.
Then he passed to the death of the little child. He sketched both
rapidly, not taking three minutes to do it, but had he been pleading for
his own life, he could not have spoken more earnestly nor feelingly.

The Governor first looked surprised at Peter's abruptness; then weary;
then interested; and finally turned his revolving chair so as to put his
back to Peter. And after Peter had ended his account, he remained so for
a moment. That back was very expressive to Peter. For the first time he
felt vanquished.

But suddenly the Governor turned, and Peter saw tears on his cheek. And
he said, after a big swallow, "What do you want of me?" in a voice that
meant everything to Peter.

"Will you listen to me for five minutes?" asked Peter, eagerly.

"Yes."

Than Peter read aloud a statement of the legal proceedings, and of his
interviews with the District Attorney and with Dummer, in the clearest
and most compact sentences he had been able to frame.

"You want me to interfere?" asked the Governor.

"Yes."

"I'm afraid it's not possible. I can of course remove the District
Attorney, but it must be for cause, and I do not see that you can
absolutely prove his non intention to prosecute those scoundrels."

"That is true. After study, I did not see that you could remove him. But
there's another remedy."

"What is that?"

"Through the State Attorney you can appoint a special counsel for this
case."

"Are you sure?"

Peter laid one of the papers in his hands before the Governor. After
reading it, the Governor rang a bell.

"Send for Mr. Miller," he said to the boy. Then he turned, and with
Peter went over the court papers, till Mr. Miller put in an appearance.

"State the matter to Mr. Miller," said the Governor, and Peter read his
paper again and told what he wished.

"The power unquestionably exists," said the Attorney-General. "But it
has not been used in many years. Perhaps I had better look into it a
bit."

"Go with Mr. Miller, Mr. Stirling, and work over your papers with him,"
said the Governor.

"Thank you," said Peter simply, but his hand and face and voice said far
more, as he shook hands. He went out with the first look of hope his
face had worn for two years.

The ground which the Attorney-General and his subordinates had to
traverse was that over which Peter had so well travelled already, that
he felt very much at home, while his notes indeed aided the study, and
were doubly welcomed, because the summer season had drained the office
of its underlings. Half as assistant, and half as principal, he worked
till three o'clock, with pleasure that grew, as he saw that the opinion
of the Attorney-General seemed to agree more and more with his own. Then
they returned to the Governor, to whom the Attorney-General gave his
opinion that his present conclusion was that the Governor could empower
him, or some appointee, to prosecute the case.

"Well," said the Governor, "I'm glad you think so. But if we find that
it isn't possible, Mr. Stirling, I'll have a letter written to the
District Attorney that may scare him into proceeding with the case."

Peter thanked him, and rose to go.

"Are you going to New York at once?" asked the Governor.

"Yes. Unless I can be of use here."

"Suppose you dine with me, and take a late train?"

"It will be a great pleasure," said Peter.

"Very well. Six sharp." Then after Peter had left the room, the Governor
asked, "How is he on law?"

"Very good. Clear-headed and balanced."

"He knows how to talk," said the Governor. "He brought my heart up in my
mouth as no one has done in years. Now, I must get word to some of the
people in New York to find out who he is, and if this case has any
concealed boomerang in it."

The dinner was a very quiet one with only the Governor and his wife. The
former must have told his better-half something about Peter, for she
studied him with a very kind look in her face, and prosaic and silent as
Peter was, she did not seem bored. After the dinner was eaten, and some
one called to talk politics with the Governor, she took Peter off to
another room, and made him tell her about the whole case, and how he
came to take it up, and why he had come to the Governor for help. She
cried over it, and after Peter had gone, she went upstairs and looked at
her own two sleeping boys, quite large enough to fight the world on
their own account, but still little children to the mother's heart, and
had another cry over them. She went downstairs later to the Governor's
study, and interrupting him in the work to which he had settled down,
put her arms about his neck, and kissed him. "You must help him,
William," she said. "Do everything you can to have those scoundrels
punished, and let him do it."

The Governor only laughed; but he pushed back his work, and his wife sat
down, and told of her admiration and sympathy for Peter's fight. There
was a bad time ahead for the criminal and his backers. They might have
political influence of the strongest character, fighting their battle,
but there was a bigger and more secret one at work. Say what we please,
the strongest and most subtle "pull" this world as yet contains is the
under-current of a woman's influence.

Peter went back to New York that night, feeling hopeful, yet doubtful.
It almost seemed impossible that he had succeeded, yet at twenty-three,
failure is hard to believe in. So he waited, hoping to see some move on
the part of the State, and dreaming of nothing better. But better came,
for only five days after his return his mail brought him a large
envelope, and inside that envelope was a special commission, which made
Peter a deputy of the Attorney-General, to prosecute in the Court of
Sessions, the case of "The People of the State of New York _versus_
James Goldman." If any one could have seen Peter's face, as he read the
purely formal instrument, he would not have called it dull or heavy. For
Peter knew that he had won; that in place of justice blocking and
hindering him, every barrier was crushed down; that this prosecution
rested with no officials, but was for him to push; that that little
piece of parchment bound every court to support him; that if necessary
fifty thousand troops would enforce the power which granted it. Within
three hours, the first formal steps to place the case in the courts had
been taken, and Peter was working at the evidence and law in the matter.

These steps produced a prompt call from Dummer, who showed considerably
less assurance than hitherto, even though he tried to take Peter's
success jauntily. He wanted Peter to drop the whole thing, and hinted at
large sums of money, but Peter at first did not notice his hints, and
finally told him that the case should be tried. Then Dummer pleaded for
delay. Peter was equally obdurate. Later they had a contest in the court
over this. But Peter argued in a quiet way, which nevertheless caught
the attention of the judge, who ended the dispute by refusing to
postpone. The judge hadn't intended to act in this way, and was rather
surprised at his own conduct. The defendant's lawyer was furious.

No stone was left unturned, however, to prevent the case going to trial.
Pressure of the sharpest and closest kind was brought to bear on the
Governor himself--pressure which required backbone to resist. But he
stood by his act: perhaps because he belonged to a different party than
that in control of the city government; perhaps because of Peter's
account, and the truthfulness in his face as he told it; perhaps because
the Attorney-General had found it legal; perhaps because of his wife;
perhaps it was a blending of all these. Certain it is, that all attempts
to block failed, and in the last week in August it came before the
court.

Peter had kept his clients informed as to his struggles, and they were
tremendously proud of the big battle and ultimate success, as indeed
were the residents of the whole district, who felt that it was really
their own case. Then the politicians were furious and excited over it,
while the almost unexampled act of the Governor had created a good deal
of public interest in the case. So the court was packed and the press
had reporters in attendance. Since the trial was fully reported, it is
needless to go over the testimony here. What Peter could bring out, is
already known. The defence, by "experts," endeavored to prove that the
cowsheds were not in a really unhygienic condition; that feeding cows on
"mash" did not affect their milk, nor did mere "skin sores;" that the
milk had been sold by mistake, in ignorance that it was thirty-six hours
old, and skimmed; and that the proof of this particular milk being the
cause of the deaths was extremely inadequate and doubtful. The only
dramatic incident in the testimony was the putting the two little
Dooleys (who had returned in fat and rosy condition, the day before) on
the stand.

"Did you find country milk different from what you have here?" Peter
asked the youngest.

"Oh, yes," she said. "Here it comes from a cart, but in the country it
squirts from a cow."

"Order," said the judge to the gallery.

"Does it taste differently?"

"Yes. It's sweet, as if they put sugar in it. It's lovely I like cow
milk better than cart milk."

"Damn those children!" said Dummer, to the man next him.

The event of the trial came, however, when Peter summed up. He spoke
quietly, in the simplest language, using few adjectives and no
invective. But as the girl at the Pierces' dinner had said, "he
describes things so that one sees them." He told of the fever-stricken
cows, and he told of the little fever-stricken children in such a way
that the audience sobbed; his clients almost had to be ordered out of
court; the man next Dummer mopped his eyes with his handkerchief; the
judge and jury thoughtfully covered their eyes (so as to think the
better); the reporters found difficulty (owing to the glary light), in
writing the words despite their determination not to miss one; and even
the prisoner wiped his eyes on his sleeve. Peter was unconscious that he
was making a great speech; great in its simplicity, and great in its
pathos. He afterwards said he had not given it a moment's thought and
had merely said what he felt. Perhaps his conclusion indicated why he
was able to speak with the feeling he did. For he said:

"This is not merely the case of the State _versus_ James Goldman. It is
the case of the tenement-house children, against the inhumanity of man's
greed."

Dummer whispered to the man next him, "There's no good. He's done for
us." Then he rose, and made a clever defence. He knew it was wasting his
time. The judge charged against him, and the jury gave the full verdict:
"Man-slaughter in the first degree." Except for the desire for it, the
sentence created little stir. Every one was still feeling and thinking
of Peter's speech.

And to this day that speech is talked of in "the district."




CHAPTER XVI.

THE CONSEQUENCES.


Nor was it the district alone which talked of the speech. Perhaps the
residents of it made their feelings most manifest, for they organized a
torchlight procession that night, and went round and made Peter an
address of thanks. Mr. Dennis Moriarty being the spokesman. The judge
shook hands with him after the trial, and said that he had handled his
case well. The defendant's lawyer told him he "knew his business." A
number of the reporters sought a few words with him, and blended praise
with questions.

The reporters did far more than this, however. It was the dull newspaper
season, and the case had turned out to be a thoroughly "journalistic"
one. So they questioned and interviewed every one concerned, and after
cleverly winnowing the chaff, which in this case meant the dull, from
the gleanings, most of them gave several columns the next morning to the
story. Peter's speech was printed in full, and proved to read almost as
well as it had sounded. The reporters were told, and repeated the tales
without much attempt at verification, that Peter had taken the matter up
without hope of profit; had paid the costs out of his own pocket; had
refused to settle "though offered nine thousand dollars:" had "saved the
Dooley children's lives by sending them into the country;" and "had paid
for the burials of the little victims." So all gave him a puff, and two
of the better sort wrote really fine editorials about him. At election
time, or any other than a dull season, the case would have had small
attention, but August is the month, to reverse an old adage, when "any
news is good news."

The press began, too, a crusade against the swill-milk dealers, and the
men who had allowed all this to be possible. "What is the Health Board
about, that poison for children can be sold in the public streets?"
"Where is the District Attorney, that prosecutions for the public good
have to be brought by public-spirited citizens?" they demanded.
Lynx-eyed reporters tracked the milk-supplies of the city, and though
the alarm had been given, and many cows had been hastily sent to the
country, they were able to show up certain companies, and print details
which were quite lurid enough, when sufficiently "colored" by their
skilful pens. Most residents of New York can remember the "swill-milk"
or "stump-tail milk" exposures and prosecutions of that summer, and of
the reformation brought about thereby in the Board of Health. As the
details are not pleasant reading, any one who does not remember is
referred to the daily press, and, if they want horrible pictures, to
Frank Leslie's Illustrated Weekly. Except for the papers, it is to be
questioned if Peter's case would have resulted in much more than the
punishment of the man actually convicted; but by the press taking the
matter up, the moment's indignation was deepened and intensified to a
degree which well-nigh swept every cow-stable off the island, and drove
the proper officials into an activity leading to great reforms.

No one was more surprised than Peter, at the sudden notoriety, or at the
far-reaching results. He collected the articles, and sent them to his
mother. He wrote:

    "Don't think that this means any great start. In truth, I am a
    hundred dollars the poorer for the case, and shall have to cut off
    a few expenses for the rest of the year. I tell you this, because
    I know you will not think for a moment that I grudge the money,
    and you are not to spoil my trifling self-denial by any offer of
    assistance You did quite enough in taking in those two little
    imps. Were they very bad? Did they tramp on your flowers, and
    frighten poor old Russet [Russet was the cat] out of his fast
    waning lives? It was a great pleasure to me to see them so plump
    and brown, and I thank you for it. Their testimony in court was
    really amusing, though at the same time pathetic. People tell me
    that my speech was a good one. What is more surprising, they tell
    me that I made the prisoner, and Mr. Bohlmann, the brewer, who sat
    next to Dummer, both cry. I confess I grieve over the fact that I
    was not prosecuting Bohlmann. He is the real criminal, yet goes
    scot free. But the moral effect is, I suppose, the important
    thing, and any one to whom responsibility could be traced (and
    convicted) gives us that. I find that Mr. Bohlmann goes to the
    same church I attend!"

His mother was not surprised. She had always known her Peter was a hero,
and needed no "York papers" to teach her the fact. Still she read every
line of the case, and of the subsequent crusade. She read Peter's speech
again and again, stopping to sob at intervals, and hugging the clipping
to her bosom from time to time, as the best equivalent for Peter, while
sobbing: "My boy, my darling boy." Every one in the mill-town knew of
it, and the clippings were passed round among Peter's friends, beginning
with the clergyman and ending with his school-boy companions. They all
wondered why Peter had spoken so briefly. "If I could talk like that,"
said a lawyer to the proud mother, "I'd have spoken for a couple of
hours." Mrs. Stirling herself wished it had been longer. Four columns of
evidence, and only a little over a half column of speech! It couldn't
have taken him twenty minutes at the most. "Even the other lawyer, who
had nothing to say but lies, took over a column to his speech. And his
was printed close together, while that of Peter's was spread out (_e.g._
solid and leaded) making the difference in length all the greater." Mrs.
Stirling wondered if there could be a conspiracy against her Peter, on
the part of the Metropolitan press. She had promptly subscribed for a
year to the New York paper which glorified Peter the most, supposing
that from this time on his name would appear on the front page. When she
found it did not and that it was not mentioned in the press and Health
Board crusade against the other "swill-milk" dealers, she became
convinced that there was some definite attempt to rob Peter of his due
fame. "Why, Peter began it all," she explained, "and now the papers and
Health Board pretend it's all their doings." She wrote a letter to the
editor of the paper--a letter which was passed round the office, and
laughed over not a little by the staff. She never received an answer,
nor did the paper give Peter the more attention because of it.

Two days after the trial, Peter had another call from Dummer.

"You handled that case in great style, Mr. Stirling," he told Peter.
"You know the ropes as well as far older men. You got just the right
evidence out of your witnesses, and not a bit of superfluous rubbish.
That's the mistake most young men make. They bury their testimony in
unessential details, I tell you, those two children were worth all the
rest put together. Did you send them to the country on purpose to get
that kind of evidence?"

"No," said Peter.

"Well, every man in that jury was probably a father, and that child's
talk took right hold of them. Not but that your speech would have done
the business. You were mighty clever in just telling what you saw, and
not going into the testimony. You could safely trust the judge to do
that. It was a great speech."

"Thank you," said Peter.

"He's not to be taffied," thought the lawyer. "Plain talking's the way
to deal with him." He ended his allusions to the trial, and said: "Now,
Mr. Stirling, Mr. Bohlmann doesn't want to have these civil suits go any
further. Mr. Bohlmann's a man of respectability, with a nice wife and
some daughters. The newspapers are giving him quite enough music without
your dragging him into court."

"It's the only way I can reach him," said Peter.

"But you mustn't want to reach him. He's really a well-meaning man, and
if you ask your clergyman--for I believe you go to Dr. Purple's
church?--you'll find he's very charitable and generous with his money."

Peter smiled curiously. "Distributing money made that way is not much of
a charity."

"He didn't know," said the lawyer. Then catching a look which came into
Peter's face, he instantly added, "at least, he had no idea it was that
bad. He tells me that he hadn't been inside those cow-sheds for four
years."

"Come and see me to-morrow," said Peter.

After Dummer had gone, Peter walked uptown, and saw his clergyman.

"Yes," he was told, "Mr. Bohlmann has always stood high in the church,
and has been liberal and sensible with his money. I can't tell you how
this whole thing has surprised and grieved me, Mr. Stirling. It must be
terrible for his wife. His daughters, too, are such nice sweet girls.
You've probably noticed them in church?"

"No," Peter had not noticed them. He did not add that he did not notice
young girls--that for some reason they had not interested him
since--since--

"Where does he live?" inquired Peter.

"Not ten blocks from here," replied Dr. Purple, and named the street and
number.

Peter looked at his watch and, thanking the clergyman, took his leave.
He did not go back to his office, but to the address, and asked for Mr.
Bohlmann. A respectable butler showed him into a handsome parlor and
carried his name to the brewer.

There were already two girls in the room. One was evidently a caller.
The other, a girl with a sweet, kindly, German face, was obviously one
of the "nice" daughters. His arrival checked the flow of conversation
somewhat, but they went on comparing their summer experiences. When the
butler came back and said aloud, "Mr. Bohlmann will see you in the
library, Mr. Stirling," Peter noticed that both girls turned impulsively
to look at him, and that the daughter flushed red.

He found Mr. Bohlmann standing uneasily on the rug by the fireplace, and
a stout woman gazing out of the window, with her back to the room.

"I had a call from your lawyer this morning, Mr. Bohlmann," said Peter,
"and I have taken the liberty of coming to see you about the cases."

"Sid down, sid down," said his host, nervously, though not sitting
himself.

Peter sat down. "I want to do what is best about the matter," he said.

The woman turned quickly to look at him, and Peter saw that there were
tears in her eyes.

"Vell," said the brewer, "what is dat?"

"I don't know," said Peter, "and that's why I've come to see you."

Mr. Bohlmann's face worked for a moment. Then suddenly he burst into
tears. "I give you my word, Mr. Stirling," he said, "that I didn't know
it was so. I haven't had a happy moment since you spoke that day in
court." He had heretofore spoken in English with a slight German accent.
But this he said in German. He sat down at the table and buried his face
in his arms. His wife, who was also weeping, crossed to him, and tried
to comfort him by patting him on the back.

"I think," said Peter, "we had best drop the suits."

Mr. Bohlmann looked up. "It is not the money, Mr. Stirling," he said,
still speaking in German. "See." He drew from a drawer in his desk a
check-book, and filling up a check, handed it to Peter. It was dated and
signed, but the amount was left blank. "There," he said, "I leave it to
you what is right."

"I think Mr. Dummer will feel we have not treated him fairly," said
Peter, "if we settle it in this way."

"Do not think of him. I will see that he has no cause for complaint,"
the brewer said. "Only let me know it is ended, so that my wife and my
daughters--" he choked, and ended the sentence thus.

"Very well," said Peter. "We'll drop the suits."

The husband and wife embraced each other in true German fashion.

Peter rose and came to the table. "Three of the cases were for five
thousand each, and the other two were for two thousand each," he said,
and then hesitated. He wished to be fair to both sides. "I will ask you
to fill in the check for eight thousand dollars. That will be two each
for three, and one each for two."

Mr. Bohlmann disengaged himself from his wife, and took his pen. "You do
not add your fee," he said.

"I forgot it," laughed Peter, and the couple laughed with him in their
happiness. "Make it for eight thousand, two hundred and fifty."

"Och," said the brewer once more resuming his English. "Dat is too
leedle for vive cases."

"No," said Peter. "It was what I had decided to charge in case I got any
damages."

So the check was filled in, and Peter, after a warm handshake from both,
went back to his office.

"Dat iss a fine yoong mahn," said the brewer.




CHAPTER XVII.

A NEW FRIEND.


The day after this episode, Peter had the very unusual experience of a
note by his morning's mail. Except for his mother's weekly letter, it
was the first he had received since Watts had sailed, two years before.
For the moment he thought that it must be from him, and the color came
into his face at the mere thought that he would have news of--of--Watts.
But a moment's glance at the writing showed him he was wrong, and he
tore the envelope with little interest in his face. Indeed after he had
opened it, he looked at his wall for a moment before he fixed his mind
on it.

It contained a brief note, to this effect:

    "A recent trial indicates that Mr. Stirling needs neither praise
    not reward as incentives for the doing of noble deeds.

    "But one who prefers to remain unknown cannot restrain her
    grateful thanks to Mr. Stirling for what he did; and being
    debarred from such acts herself, asks that at least she may be
    permitted to aid him in them by enclosing a counsel fee for 'the
    case of the tenement children of New York against the inhumanity
    of men's greed.'

    "September third."

Peter looked at the enclosure, and found it was a check for five hundred
dollars. He laid it on his desk, and read the note over again. It was
beyond question written by a lady. Every earmark showed that, from the
delicate scent of the paper, to the fine, even handwriting. Peter wanted
to know who she was. He looked at the check to see by whom it was
signed; to find that it was drawn by the cashier of the bank at which it
was payable.

Half an hour later, a rapid walk had brought him to the bank the name of
which was on the check. It was an uptown one, which made a specialty of
family and women's accounts. Peter asked for the cashier.

"I've called about this check," he said, when that official
materialized, handing the slip of paper to him.

"Yes," said the cashier kindly, though with a touch of the resigned
sorrow in his voice which cashiers of "family's" and women's banks
acquire. "You must sign your name on the back, on the left-hand end, and
present it to the paying-teller, over at that window. You'll have to be
identified if the paying-teller doesn't know you."

"I don't want the money," said Peter, "I want to know who sent the check
to me?"

The cashier looked at it more carefully. "Oh!" he said. Then he looked
up quickly at Peter? with considerable interest, "Are you Mr. Stirling?"

"Yes."

"Well, I filled this up by order of the president, and you'll have to
see him about it, if you want more than the money."

"Can I see him?"

"Come this way."

They went into a small office at the end of the bank.

"Mr. Dyer," said the cashier, "this is Mr. Stirling, and he's come to
see about that check."

"Glad to see you, Mr. Stirling. Sit down."

"I wish to learn who sent the check."

"Very sorry we can't oblige you. We had positive instructions from the
person for whom we drew it, that no name was to be given."

"Can you receive a letter?"

"That was forbidden too."

"A message?"

"Nothing was said about that."

"Then will you do me the favor to say to the lady that the check will
not be cashed till Mr. Stirling has been able to explain something to
her."

"Certainly. She can't object to that."

"Thank you."

"Not at all." The president rose and escorted him to the door. "That was
a splendid speech of yours, Mr. Stirling," he added. "I'm not a bit
ashamed to say that it put salt water in my old eyes."

"I think," said Peter, "it was the deaths of the poor little children,
more than anything I said, that made people feel it."

The next morning's mail brought Peter a second note, in the same
handwriting as that of the day before. It read:

    "Miss De Voe has received Mr. Stirling's message and will be
    pleased to see him in regard to the check, at half after eleven
    to-day (Wednesday) if he will call upon her.

    "Miss De Voe regrets the necessity of giving Mr. Stirling such
    brief notice, but she leaves New York on Thursday."

As Peter walked up town that morning, he was a little surprised that he
was so cool over his intended call. In a few minutes he would be in the
presence of a lady, the firmness of whose handwriting indicated that she
was not yet decrepit. Three years ago such a prospect would have been
replete with terror to him. Down to that--that week at the Pierce's, he
had never gone to a place where he expected to "encounter" (for that was
the word he formerly used) women without dread. Since that week--except
for the twenty-four hours of the wedding, he had not "encountered" a
lady. Yet here he was, going to meet an entire stranger without any
conscious embarrassment or suffering. He was even in a sense curious.
Peter was not given to self-analysis, but the change was too marked a
one for him to be unconscious of it. Was it merely the poise of added
years? Was it that he had ceased to care what women thought of him? Or
was it that his discovery that a girl was lovable had made the sex less
terrible to him? Such were the questions he asked himself as he walked,
and he had not answered them when he rang the bell of the old-fashioned,
double house on Second Avenue.

He was shown into a large drawing-room, the fittings of which were still
shrouded in summer coverings, preventing Peter from inferring much, even
if he had had time to do so. But the butler had scarcely left him when,
with a well-bred promptness from which Peter might have drawn an
inference, the rustle of a woman's draperies was heard. Rising, Peter
found himself facing a tall, rather slender woman of between thirty-five
and forty. It did not need a second glance from even Peter's untrained
eye, to realize the suggestion of breeding in the whole atmosphere about
her. The gown was of the simplest summer material, but its very
simplicity, and a certain lack of "latest fashion" rather than
"old-fashionedness" gave it a quality of respectability. Every line of
the face, the set of the head, and even more the carriage of the figure,
conveyed the "look of race."

"I must thank you, Mr. Stirling," she said, speaking deliberately, in a
low, mellow voice, by no means so common then as our women's imitation
of the English tone and inflexion has since made it, "for suiting your
time to mine on such short notice."

"You were very kind," said Peter, "to comply with my request. Any time
was convenient to me."

"I am glad it suited you."

Peter had expected to be asked to sit down, but, nothing being said,
began his explanation.

"I am very grateful, Miss De Voe, for your note, and for the check. I
thank you for both. But I think you probably sent me the latter through
a mistake, and so I did not feel justified in accepting it."

"A mistake?"

"Yes. The papers made many errors in their statements. I'm not a 'poor
young lawyer' as they said. My mother is comfortably off, and gives me
an ample allowance."

"Yes?"

"And what is more," continued Peter, "while they were right in saying
that I paid some of the expenses of the case, yet I was more than repaid
by my fees in some civil suits I brought for the relatives of the
children, which we settled very advantageously."

"Won't you sit down, Mr. Stirling?" said Miss De Voe. "I should like to
hear about the cases."

Peter began a very simple narrative of the matter. But Miss De Voe
interjected questions or suppositions here and there, which led to other
explanations, and before Peter had finished, he had told not merely the
history of the cases, but much else. His mention of the two Dooley
children had brought out the fact of their visit to his mother, and this
had explained incidentally her position in the world. The settlement of
the cases involved the story of the visit to the brewer's home, and
Peter, to justify his action, added his interview with his pastor,
Peter's connection with the case compelled him to speak of his evenings
in the "angle," and the solitary life that had sent him there.
Afterwards, Peter was rather surprised at how much he had told. He did
not realize that a woman with tact and experience can, without making it
evident, lead a man to tell nearly anything and everything he knows, if
she is so minded. If women ever really take to the bar seriously, may
Providence protect the average being in trousers, when on the witness
stand.

As Peter talked, a clock struck. Stopping short, he rose. "I must ask
your pardon," he said. "I had no idea I had taken so much of your time."
Then putting his hand in his pocket, he produced the check. "You see
that I have made a very good thing out of the whole matter and do not
need this."

"One moment, Mr. Stirling," said the lady, still sitting. "Can you spare
the time to lunch with me? We will sit down at once, and you shall be
free to go whenever you wish."

Peter hesitated. He knew that he had the time, and it did not seem easy
to refuse without giving an excuse, which he did not have. Yet he did
not feel that he had the right to accept an invitation which he had
perhaps necessitated by his long call.

"Thank you," said his hostess, before he had been able to frame an
answer. "May I trouble you to pull that bell?"

Peter pulled the bell, and coming back, tendered the check rather
awkwardly to Miss De Voe. She, however, was looking towards a doorway,
which the next moment was darkened by the butler.

"Morden," she said, "you may serve luncheon at once."

"Luncheon is served, madam," said Morden.

Miss De Voe rose. "Mr. Stirling, I do not think your explanation has
really affected the circumstances which led me to send that check. You
acknowledge yourself that you are the poorer for that prosecution, and
received no fees for trying it. As I wrote you, I merely was giving a
retaining fee in that case, and as none other has been given, I still
wish to do it. I cannot do such things myself, but I am weal--I--I can
well afford to aid others to do them, and I hope you will let me have
the happiness of feeling that I have done my little in this matter."

"Thank you," said Peter. "I was quite willing to take the money, but I
was afraid you might have sent it under a misconception."

Miss De Voe smiled at Peter with a very nice look in her face. "I am the
one to say 'thank you,' and I am most grateful. But we will consider
that as ended, and discuss luncheon in its place."

Peter, despite his usual unconsciousness could not but notice the beauty
of the table service. The meal itself was the simplest of summer
luncheons, but the silver and china and glass were such as he had never
seen before.

"What wine will you have with your luncheon, Mr. Stirling?" he was asked
by his hostess.

"I don't--none for me," replied Peter.

"You don't approve of wine?" asked his hostess.

"Personally I have no feeling about it."

"But?" And there was a very big question mark in Miss De Voe's voice.

"My mother is strongly prejudiced against it, so I do not take it. It is
really no deprivation to me, while it would mean great anxiety to her if
I drank."

This started the conversation on Peter's mother and his early years, and
before it had ended, his hostess had succeeded in learning much more
about his origin and his New York life. The clock finally cut him short
again, for they lingered at the table long after the meal was finished,
though Miss De Voe made the pretence of eating a grape occasionally.
When three o'clock struck, Peter, without the least simulating any other
cause for going, rose hastily.

"I have used up your whole afternoon," he said, apologetically.

"I think," smiled Miss De Voe, "that we are equal culprits in that. I
leave town to-morrow, Mr. Stirling, but return to the city late in
October, and if your work and inclination favor it, I hope you will come
to see me again?"

Peter looked at the silver and the china. Then he looked at Miss De Voe,
so obviously an aristocrat.

"I shall be happy to," he said, "if, when you return, you will send me
word that you wish to see me."

Miss De Voe had slightly caught her breath while Peter hesitated. "I
believe he is going to refuse!" she thought to herself, a sort of
stunned amazement seizing her. She was scarcely less surprised at his
reply.

"I never ask a man twice to call on me, Mr. Stirling," she said, with a
slight hauteur in her voice.

"I'm sorry for that," said Peter quietly.

Miss De Voe caught her breath again. "Good-afternoon," she said, holding
out her hand. "I shall hope to see you."

"Good-bye," said Peter, and the next moment was walking towards his
office.

Miss De Voe stood for a moment thinking. "That was curious," she
thought, "I wonder if he intends to come?"

The next evening she was dining with relatives in one of the fashionable
summering places, and was telling them about her call "from Mr.
Stirling, the lawyer who made that splendid speech."

"I thought," she said, "when I received the message, that I was going to
be buried under a bathos of thanks, or else have my gift declined with
the expectation that I would gush over the disinterestedness of the
refusal. Since I couldn't well avoid seeing him, I was quite prepared to
snub him, or to take back the money without a word. But he wasn't a bit
that kind of creature. He isn't self-assured nor tonguey--rather the
reverse. I liked him so, that I forced him to stay to luncheon, and made
him tell me a good deal about himself, without his knowing I was doing
so. He leads a very unusual life, without seeming conscious that he
does, and he tells about it very well. Uses just the right word every
time, so that you know exactly what he means, without taxing your own
brain to fill up blanks. He has such a nice voice too. One that makes
you certain of the absolute truth underneath. No. He isn't good looking,
though he has fine eyes, and hair. His face and figure are both too
heavy."

"Is he a gentleman, cousin Anneke?" asked one of the party.

"He is a little awkward, and over-blunt at moments, but nothing to which
one would give a second thought. I was so pleased with him that I asked
him to call on me."

"It seems to me," said another, "that you are over-paying him."

"That was the most curious part," replied Miss De Voe. "I'm not at all
sure that he means to come. It was really refreshing not to be truckled
to, but it is rather startling to meet the first man who does not want
to win his way to my visiting list. I don't think he even knows who Miss
De Voe is."

"He will find out quick enough," laughed a girl, "and then he will do
what they all do."

"No," said Miss De Voe. "I suspect it will make no difference. He isn't
that kind, I think. I really am curious to see if I have to ask him a
second time. It will be the only case I can remember. I'm afraid, my
dears, your cousin is getting to be an old woman."

Peter, had in truth, met, and spent over four hours in the company of a
woman whom every one wished to know. A woman equally famous for her
lineage, her social position, her wealth and her philanthropy. It would
not have made any difference, probably, had he known it, though it might
have increased his awkwardness a little. That he was not quite as
unconscious as Miss De Voe seemed to think, is shown by a passage in a
letter he wrote to his mother:

    "She was very much interested in the case, and asked a good many
    questions about it, and about myself. Some which I would rather
    not have answered, but since she asked them I could not bring
    myself to dodge them. She asked me to come and see her again. It
    is probably nothing but a passing interest, such as this class
    feel for the moment."--[Then Peter carefully inked out "such as
    this class feel for the moment," and reproved himself that his
    bitterness at--at--at one experience, should make him condemn a
    whole class]--"but if she asks me again I shall go, for there is
    something very sweet and noble about her. I think she is probably
    some great personage."

Later on in the letter he wrote:

    "If you do not disapprove, I will put this money in the savings
    bank, in a special or trustee account, and use it for any good
    that I can do for the people about here. I gave the case my
    service, and do not think I am entitled to take pay when the money
    can be so much better employed for the benefit of the people I
    tried to help."




CHAPTER XVIII.

ANOTHER CLIENT.


Peter had seen his clients on the morning following the settlement of
the cases, and told them of their good fortune. They each had a look at
Bohlmann's check, and then were asked how they would like their shares.

"Sure," said Dooley, "Oi shan't know what to do wid that much money."

"I think," said Peter, "that your two thousand really belongs to the
children."

"That it does," said Mrs. Dooley, quite willing to deprive her husband
of it, for the benefit of her children.

"But what shall Oi do wid it?" asked Mr. Dooley.

"I'd like Mr. Stirling to take charge of mine," said Blackett.

"That's the idea," said Dooley.

And so it was settled by all. Peter said the best thing would be to put
it in the savings bank. "Perhaps later we'll find something better."
They all went around to a well-known institution on the Bowery, and
Peter interviewed the cashier. It proved feasible to endorse over the
check to the bank, and credit the proper share to each.

"I shall have to ask you to give me the odd two hundred and fifty,"
Peter said, "as that is my legal fee."

"You had better let me put that in your name, Mr. Stirling?" said the
president, who had been called into the consultation.

"Very well," said Peter. "I shall want some of it before long, but the
rest will be very well off here." So a book was handed him, and the
president shook him by the hand with all the warmth that eight thousand
two hundred and fifty dollars of increased assets and four new
depositors implied.

Peter did not need to draw any of the two hundred and fifty dollars,
however. In November he had another knock at his door.

It proved to be Mr. Dennis Moriarty, of whom we have incidentally spoken
in connection with the half-price drinks for the Milligan wake, and as
spokesman of the torchlight procession.

"Good-mornin' to yez, sir," said the visitor.

It was a peculiarity of Peter's that he never forgot faces. He did not
know Mr. Moriarty's name, never having had it given him, but he placed
him instantly.

"Thank you," said Peter, holding out his hand. Peter did not usually
shake hands in meeting people, but he liked the man's face. It would
never take a prize for beauty. The hair verged on a fiery red, the nose
was a real sky-scraper and the upper lip was almost proboscidian in
its length. But every one liked the face.

"It's proud Oi'm bein' shakin' the hand av Misther Stirling," said the
Irishman.

"Sit down," said Peter.

"My name's Moriarty, sir, Dinnis Moriarty, an' Oi keeps a saloon near
Centre Street, beyant."

"You were round here in the procession."

"Oi was, sir. Shure, Oi'm not much at a speech, compared to the likes av
yez, but the b'ys would have me do it."

Peter said something appropriate, and then there was a pause.

"Misther Stirling," finally said Moriarty, "Oi was up before Justice
Gallagher yesterday, an' he fined me bad. Oi want yez to go to him, an'
get him to be easier wid me. It's yezself can do it."

"What were you fined for?" asked Peter.

"For bein' open on Sunday."

"Then you ought to be fined."

"Don't say that till Oi tell yez. Oi don't want to keep my place open,
but it's in my lease, an' so Oi have to."

"In your lease?" enquired Peter.

"Yes." And the paper was handed over to him.

Peter ran over the three documents. "I see," he said, "you are only the
caretaker really, the brewer having an assignment of the lease and a
chattel mortgage on your fixtures and stock."

"That's it," said Dennis. "It's mighty quick yez got at it. It's
caretaker Oi am, an' a divil of a care it is. Shure, who wants to work
seven days a week, if he can do wid six?"

"You should have declined to agree to that condition?"

"Then Oi'd have been turned out. Begobs, it's such poor beer that it's
little enough Oi sell even in seven days."

"Why don't you get your beer elsewhere then?"

"Why, it's Edelhein put me in there to sell his stuff, an' he'd never
let me sell anythin' else."

"Then Edelhein is really the principal, and you are only put in to keep
him out of sight?"

"That's it"

"And you have put no money in yourself?"

"Divil a cent."

"Then why doesn't he pay the fine?"

"He says Oi have no business to be afther bein' fined. As if any one
sellin' his beer could help bein' fined!"

"How is that?" said Peter, inferring that selling poor beer was a
finable offence, yet ignorant of the statute.

"Why yez see, sir, the b'ys don't like that beer--an' sensible they
are--so they go to other places, an' don't come to my place."

"But that doesn't explain your fines."

"Av course it does. Shure, if the boys don't come to my place, it's
little Oi can do at the primary, an' so it's no pull Oi have in
politics, to get the perlice an' the joodges to be easy wid me, like
they are to the rest."

Peter studied his blank wall a bit.

"Shure, if it's good beer Oi had," continued Moriarty, "Oi'd be afther
beatin' them all, for Oi was always popular wid the b'ys, on account of
my usin' my fists so fine."

Peter smiled. "Why don't you go into something else?" he asked.

"Well, there's mother and the three childers to be supported, an' then
Oi'd lose my influence at the primary."

"What kind of beer does Mr. Bohlmann make?" asked Peter, somewhat
irrelevantly.

"Ah," said Moriarty, "that's the fine honest beer! There's never
anythin' wrong wid his. An' he treats his keepers fair. Lets them do as
they want about keepin' open Sundays, an' never squeezes a man when he's
down on his luck."

Peter looked at his wall again. Peter was learning something.

"Supposing," he asked, "I was able to get your fine remitted, and that
clause struck out of the lease. Would you open on Sunday?"

"Divil a bit."

"When must you pay the fine?"

"Oi'm out on bail till to-morrow, sir."

"Then leave these papers with me, and come in about this time."

Peter studied his wall for a bit after his new client was gone. He did
not like either saloon-keepers or law-breakers, but this case seemed to
him to have--to have--extenuating circumstances. His cogitations
finally resulted in his going to Justice Gallagher's court. He found the
judge rather curt.

"He's been up here three times in as many months, and I intend to make
an example of him."

"But why is only he arrested, when every saloon keeper in the
neighborhood does the same thing?"

"Now, sir," said the judge, "don't waste any more of my time. What's the
next case?"

A look we have mentioned once or twice came into Peter's face. He
started to leave the court, but encountered at the door one of the
policemen whom he was "friends with," according to the children, which
meant that they had chatted sometimes in the "angle."

"What sort of a man is Dennis Moriarty?" he asked of him.

"A fine young fellow, supporting his mother and his younger brothers."

"Why is Justice Gallagher so down on him?"

The policeman looked about a moment. "It's politics, sir, and he's had
orders."

"From whom?"

"That's more than we know. There was a row last spring in the primary,
and we've had orders since then to lay for him."

Peter stood and thought for a moment. "What saloon-keeper round here has
the biggest pull?" he asked.

"It's all of them, mostly, but Blunkers is a big man."

"Thank you," said Peter. He stood in the street thinking a little. Then
he walked a couple of blocks and went into Blunkers's great gin palace.

"I want to see the proprietor," he said.

"Dat's me," said a man who was reading a paper behind the bar.

"Do you know Justice Gallagher?"

"Do I? Well, I guess," said the man.

"Will you do me the favor to go with me to his court, and get him to
remit Dennis Moriarty's fine?"

"Will I? No. I will not. Der's too many saloons, and one less will be
bully."

"In that case," said Peter quietly, "I suppose you won't mind my closing
yours up?"

"Wot der yer mean?" angrily inquired the man.

"If it comes to closing saloons, two can play at that game."

"Who is yer, anyway?" The man came out from behind the bar, squaring his
shoulders in an ugly manner.

"My name's Stirling. Peter Stirling."

The man looked at him with interest. "How'll yer close my place?"

"Get evidence against you, and prosecute you."

"Dat ain't de way."

"It will be my way."

"Wot yer got against me?"

"Nothing. But I intend to see Moriarty have fair play. You want to fight
on the square too. You're not a man to hit a fellow in the dark."

Peter was not flattering the man. He had measured him and was telling
him the result of that measure. He told it, too, in a way that made the
other man realize the opinion behind the words.

"Come on," said Blunkers, good-naturedly.

They went over to the court, and a whispered colloquy took place between
the justice and the bartender.

"That's all right, Mr. Stirling," presently said the judge. "Clerk,
strike Dennis Moriarty's fine off the list."

"Thank you," said Peter to the saloon-keeper. "If I can ever do a turn
for you, let me know it."

"Dat's hunky," said the man, and they parted.

Peter went out and walked into the region of the National Milk Company,
but this time he went to the brewery. He found Mr. Bohlmann, and told
him the story, asking his advice at the end.

"Dondt you vool von minute mit dod Edelheim. I dells you vot I do. I
harf choost a blace vacant down in Zender Streed, and your frient he
shall it haf."

So they chatted till all the details had been arranged. Dennis was to go
in as caretaker, bound to use only Bohlmann's beer, with a percentage on
that, and the profits on all else. He was to pay the rent, receiving a
sub-lease from Bohlmann, who was only a lesee himself, and to give a
chattel mortgage on the stock supplied him. Finally he was to have the
right of redemption of stock, lease, and good-will at any time within
five years, on making certain payments.

"You draw up der babers, Misder Stirling, and send der bill to me. Ve
vill give der yoonger a chance," the brewer said.

When Dennis called the next day, he was "spacheless" at the new
developments. He wrung Peter's hand.

"Arrah, what can Oi say to yez?" he exclaimed finally. Then having found
something, he quickly continued: "Now, Patsy Blunkers, lookout for
yezself. It's the divil Oi'll give yez in the primary this year."

He begged Peter to come down the opening night, and help to "celebrate
the event."

"Thank you," said Peter, "but I don't think I will."

"Shure," said Dennis, "yez needn't be afraid it won't be orderly. It's
myself can do the hittin', an' the b'ys know it."

"My mother brought me up," Peter explained, "not to go into saloons, and
when I came to New York I promised her, if I ever did anything she had
taught me not to, that I would write her about it. She would hardly
understand this visit, and it might make her very unhappy."

Peter earned fifty dollars by drawing the papers, and at the end of the
first month Dennis brought him fifty more.

"Trade's been fine, sir, an' Oi want to pay something for what yez did."

So Peter left his two hundred and fifty dollars in the bank, having
recouped the expenses of the first case out of his new client.

He wrote all about it to his mother:

    "I am afraid you won't approve of what I did entirely, for I know
    your strong feeling against men who make and sell liquor. But I
    somehow have been made to feel in the last few days that more can
    be done in the world by kindness and help than by frowns and
    prosecutions. I had no thought of getting money out of the case,
    so I am sure I was not influenced by that. It seemed to me that a
    man was being unfairly treated, and that too, by laws which are
    meant for other purposes. I really tried to think it out, and do
    what seemed right to me. My last client has a look and a way of
    speaking that makes me certain he's a fine fellow, and I shall try
    to see something of him, provided it will not worry you to think
    of me as friendly with a saloon-keeper. I know I can be of use to
    him."

Little did Peter know how useful his last client would be to him.




CHAPTER XIX.

THE PRIMARY.


After this rush of work, Peter's life became as routine as of yore. The
winter passed without an event worth noting, if we except a steadily
growing acquaintance with the dwellers of the district. But in July a
new phase was injected into it by a call from Dennis Moriarty.

"Good-mornin' to yez, sir, an' a fine day it is," said the latter, with
his usually breezy way.

"Yes," said Peter.

"Misther Stirling. An' is it engaged yez are for this night?"

"No." Peter had nothing.

"Then," said Dennis, "maybe ye'll be afther goin' wid me to the
primary?"

"What primary?"

"For the election of delegates to the convention, shure."

"No. What party?"

"What party is it?"

"Yes."

"Misther Stirling, do yez know my name?"

"Dennis Moriarty, isn't it?"

"Yes. An' what's my business?"

"You keep a saloon."

"Yes. An' what ward do Oi live in?"

"The sixth, don't you?"

"Then," said Dennis, his upper lip twisting into a smile of enormous
proportions, "Oi suppose yez afther thinkin' Oi'm a dirty black
Republican."

Peter laughed, as few could help doing, when Dennis led the way. "Look
here, Dennis," he said, "don't you run down that party. My father was a
Democrat, but he voted for Lincoln, and fought for the blacks when the
time came, and though I'm a Democrat like him, the Republicans are only
black in their sympathies, and not in their acts."

"An' what do yez say to the whisky frauds, an' black Friday, an' credit
mobilier?" asked Dennis.

"Of course I don't like them," said Peter; "but that's the politicians,
not the party."

"Shure," said Dennis, "what's the party but the men that run it?"

"You've seen something of Mr. Bohlmann lately, Dennis?"

"Yes."

"Well, he was the man who put Goldman in charge of that cow stable. Yet
he's an honest man."

Dennis scratched his head. "It's a convincin' way yez have wid yez," he
said; "but it's scoundrels the Republicans are, all the same. Look at
them in the district; there's not one a decent man would invite to drink
wid him."

"I think, Dennis," said Peter, "that when all the decent men get into
one party, there'll be only one worth talking about."

"Av course," replied Dennis. "That's the reason there's only the
Democratic party in New York City."

"Tell me about this primary," said Peter, concluding that abstract
political philosophy was not the way to liberalize Dennis.

"It's most important, it is," he was told, "it's on top Patsy Blunkers
an' his gang av dirty spalpeens (Dennis seemed to forget that he had
just expressed the opinion that all the "decent" men were Democrats)
have been this two years, but we've got orders for a new enrollment at
last, an' if we don't knock them this time, my name isn't Dinnis
Moriarty."

"What is the question before the meeting?"

"Afther the enrollment, it's to vote for delegates."

"Oh! Then it's just a struggle over who shall be elected?"

"That's it. But a fine, big fight it will be. The whole district's so
excited, sir, that it's twice Oi've had to pound the b'ys a bit in my
saloon to keep the peace."

"What do you want of me?"

"Shure, every vote counts on a night like this. An' ye'd be afther
helpin' us big, for the district likes yez."

"But, Dennis, I can't vote without knowing something about the way
things are. I shouldn't know whether I was voting rightly."

"Why, a man votes right when he votes for his friends!"

"No; a man votes right when he votes for his convictions."

"Convictions, is it?"

"Yes. That is, he votes as he thinks is best for the country."

"That, maybe, is the way yez do it where yez come from," said Dennis,
"but it's no good it would be here. Convictions, whatever they be, are
never nominated here. It's real things we're afther votin' for in New
York."

Peter laughed. "I've got to take you in hand, Dennis, and you've got to
take me in hand. I think we both need each other's help. Yes, I'll come
to the primary. Will they let me vote?"

"The dirty spalpeens will never dare to stop yez! Thank yez, sir. Oi'll
be along for yez about eight."

"Remember, though, Dennis--I don't say how I'll vote."

"Yez just listen, an I'm not afraid av what ye'll do."

That evening, Peter was ushered into a large hot room, pretty well
packed with men, and the interstices already filled in with dense
tobacco smoke. He looked about him curiously, and was surprised to find
how many of the faces he knew. Blackett, Dooley, and Milligan were
there, and shook hands with him warmly. Judge Gallagher and Blunkers
were in evidence. In plain clothes were two policemen, and three of the
"fire-laddies," who formed part of the "crew" of the nearest engine,
with all of whom he had often chatted. Mr. Dummer, his rival lawyer in
the case, and one of the jurymen in it, likewise were visible. Also many
faces which were familiar to Peter by a former occasional friendly word
or nod exchanged in passing. Intense excitement evidently reigned, and
every one was whispering in a sort of breathless way, which showed how
deeply interested they were.

At Dennis's suggestion, made in walking to the room, Peter presented
himself without guidance, at the desk. Some one behind him asked if he
lived in the ward, and for how long, but this was the only apparent
opposition made to the prompt entering of his name. Then Peter strolled
round and talked to those whom he knew, and tried to find out, without
much success, just what was the division. Every one knew that a fight
was on, but in just what it consisted they seemed neither to know nor
care.

He noticed that hot words were constantly exchanged at the enrolling
desk, over would-be members, but not understanding the exact nature of
the qualifications needed, he could not follow the disputes. Finally
these ceased, for want of applicants.

"Misther Stirling," said Dennis, coming up to him hurriedly. "Will yez
be afther bein' chairman for us?"

"No. I don't know anything about the proceedings."

"It don't take any," said Dennis. "It's only fair play we're afther."

He was gone again before Peter could say anything. The next instant, the
enrolling officer rose and spoke.

"Are there any more to be enrolled?" he called. No one came forward, so
after a moment he said: "Will the meeting choose a presiding officer?"

"Mr. Chairman," rang two voices so quickly that they in truth cut the
presiding officer off in his suggestion.

"Mr. Muldoon," said that officer.

"Oi spoke first," shouted Dennis, and Peter felt that he had, and that
he was not having fair play.

Instantly a wave of protest, denials, charges, and counter-charges swept
through the room, Peter thought there was going to be a fight, but the
position was too critical to waste a moment on what Dennis styled "a
diversion." It was business, not pleasure, just then.

"Mr. Muldoon," said the officer again, not heeding the tempest in the
least.

"Mr. Chairman," shouted Muldoon, "I am proud to nominate Justice
Gallagher, the pride of the bar, for chairman of this distinguished
meeting, and I move to make his election unanimous."

"Misther Chairman," shouted Dennis.

"Mr. Moriarty," said the officer.

"Misther Chairman, Oi have the honor to nominate for chairman av this
meetin' the people's an' the children's friend, Misther Peter Stirling,
an' Oi don't have to move to make it unanimous, for such is the
intelligince an' manhood av this meetin' that it will be that way for
shure."

Peter saw a hurried consultation going on between Gallagher, Muldoon,
and two others, during the latter part of this speech, and barely had
Dennis finished his remarks, when Justice Gallagher spoke up.

"Mr. Chairman."

"The Honorable Justice Gallagher," said that gentleman.

"I take pride in withdrawing in favor of Mr. Stirling, who so justly
merits the honor of presiding on this important occasion. From recent
events too well known to need mention, I am sure we can all look to him
for justice and fairness."

"Bad cess to him!" groaned Dennis. "Oi hoped they'd be just fools enough
to oppose yez, an' then we'd have won the first blood."

Peter was chosen without dissent, and was escorted to the seat behind
the desk.

"What is the first business before the meeting?" he asked of Gallagher,
aside, as he was taking his seat.

"Election of delegates to the State convention. That's all to-night," he
was told.

Peter had presided at college in debates, and was not flurried. "Will
you stay here so as to give me the names of those I don't know?" he said
to the enrolling officer. "The meeting will please come to order," he
continued aloud. "The nomination of delegates to the State convention is
the business to be acted upon."

"Misther Chairman," yelled Dennis, evidently expecting to find another
rival as before. But no one spoke.

"Mr. Moriarty," said Peter.

"Misther Chairman. It's my delight to nominate as delegates to the State
convention, the Honorable Misther Schlurger, our distinguished
representative in the Assembly, the Honorable Misther Kennedy, our noble
Police-commissioner, an' Misther Caggs, whom it would be insult for me
to praise in this company."

"Second the motion," said some one.

"Mr. Chairman," shouted a man.

"That's Caggs," said the enrolling officer.

"Mr. Caggs," said Peter.

"Mr. Chairman," said Caggs. "I must decline the honor offered me from
such a source."

"What?" shrieked Dennis, amazement and rage contesting for first place
in voice and expression.

"Mr. Chairman," said Dummer.

"Mr. Dummer," said Peter.

"I have the honor to nominate the Honorable Justice Gallagher, Mr. Peter
Sweeney, and Mr. Caggs, to whom Mr. Moriarty has just paid so glowing a
tribute, as delegates to the State convention."

"Second the--" shouted some one, but the rest was drowned by another
storm which swept through the room. Even above the tumult, Peter could
hear Dennis challenging and beseeching Mr. Caggs to come "outside an'
settle it like gentlemen." Caggs, from a secure retreat behind
Blunkers's right arm, declined to let the siren's song tempt him forth.
Finally Peter's pounding brought a degree of quiet again.

"Misther Chairman," said Dennis.

"Mr. Moriarty," said Peter.

"Misther Chairman. Oi'll not take the valuable time av this meetin' to
speak av dirty, cowardly, black-hearted, treacherous snakes, wid souls
blacker than the divil's own--"

"Order!" said Peter to the crowd.

"No," continued Dennis, in answer to the audible remarks of the
opposition. "It's no names Oi'm callin'. If yez know such a beast, such
a snake, fit it to him. Oi'm mentionin' no names. As Oi was sayin',
Misther Chairman, Oi'll not waste the time av this meetin' wid
discribin' the conduct av a beast so vile that he must be the contempt
av every honest man. Who would have been driven out by St. Patrick, wid
the rest av the reptiles, if he'd lived at that time. Oi only rise to
widdraw the name av Caggs from the list Oi nominated for delegates to
the state convention, an' to put in place av it that av a man who is as
noble an' true, as some are false an' divilish. That of Misther Peter
Stirling, God bless him!"

Once more chaos came. Peter pounded in vain. Both sides were at fever
heat. Finally Peter rose.

"Gentlemen," he shouted, in a voice that rang through the hall above
even the tumult, "if this meeting does not come to order, I shall
declare it adjourned."

Instant quiet fell, for all had paused a moment to hear his words, and
they concluded that he was in earnest.

"Was the last motion seconded?" asked the chairman calmly.

"I seconded it," shouted Blackett and Milligan together.

"You have heard the nominations, gentlemen. Has any one any remarks to
make?"

A man next Justice Gallagher said, "Mr. Chairman," and being duly
recognized, proceeded to talk for ten minutes in a very useless way. But
during this time, Peter noticed first a good deal of whispering among
Blunkers's friends, and then an interview between Gallagher and Dennis.
The latter was apparently not reconcilable, and shook his head in a way
that meant war. Then there was more consultation between the opposition,
and another confab with Dennis, with more headshakes on his part.
Finally a compromise having been evidently made impossible, the orator
was "called down" and it was voted to proceed to an election. Peter
named one of the firemen, Dooley, and Blunkers, tellers, who, after a
ballot, announced that Dennis had carried his nominations, Peter heading
the list with two hundred and twelve votes, and the others getting one
hundred and seventy-two, and one hundred and fifty-eight respectively.
The "snake" got but fifty-seven votes.

"Shure," said Dennis, later, "maybe we don't vote for convictions here,
but we don't vote for the likes av him!"

"Then you are voting for convictions," said Peter.

"It's yezself is the convictions then," said Dennis.

Perhaps he was right.




CHAPTER XX.

A POLITICAL DEBUT.


Peter declared the meeting adjourned as soon as the results of the
election had been read, and slipped away in the turmoil that immediately
followed, without a word to any one. He was in truth not
bewildered--because he had too much natural poise and phlegm--but he was
surprised by the suddenness of it all, and wanted to think before
talking with others. So he took advantage of the mutual bickerings and
recriminations which seemed the order of the day, to get back to his
office, and there he sat, studying his wall for a time. Then he went to
bed, and slept as quickly and as calmly as if he had spent his evening
in reading the "Modern Cottage Architecture" or "Questions de
Sociologie," which were on his table instead of presiding at a red-hot
primary, and being elected a delegate.

The next morning Dennis came to see him as early as well could be.

"Misther Stirling," he said, his face expanding into the broadest of
grins, "let me salute the delegate to the State convention."

"Look here, Dennis," said Peter, "you know you had no business to spring
that on me."

"Ah, sir! Shure, when that dirty little spalpeen av a Caggs went back on
us so, what could Oi do? Oi know it's speak to yez Oi ought, but wid de
room yellin' like that it's divilish tryin' to do the right thing quick,
barrin' it's not hittin' some one's head, which always comes natural."

"Well," said Peter, "of course I'm very much pleased to have been
chosen, but I wish it could have been done with less hard feeling."

"Hard feelin,' is it?"

"Yes."

"Shure, the b'ys are as pleased and kindly this mornin' as can be. It's
a fight like that makes them yieldin' an' friendly. Nothin' but a little
head-punchin' could make them in a sweeter mood, an' we'd a given them
that if little Caggs had had any sense in him."

"You mean Gallagher and Blunkers and the rest of them?"

"Av course. That little time last night didn't mean much. No one feels
bad over that. Shure, it's Gallagher was in my place later last night,
an' we had a most friendly time, he treatin' the whole crowd twice.
We've got to fight in the primary to keep the b'ys interested, but it's
seldom that they're not just as friendly the next day."

Peter looked at his wall. He had not liked Gallagher at either time he
had met him. "Still," he thought to himself, "I have no right to prevent
him and Dennis being friends, from the little I've seen."

"Now, sir, about the convention?" said Dennis.

"I suppose Porter is the best man talked of for the nomination,"
remarked Peter.

"Begobs, sir, that he's not," said Dennis. "It's Justice Gallagher was
tellin' me himself that he was a poor kind av creature, wid a strong
objection to saloons."

Peter's eye lost its last suggestion of doubt. "Oh, Justice Gallagher
told you that?" he asked. "When?"

"Last night."

"After the primary?"

"Av course."

"Whom does he favor?"

"Catlin."

"Well, Dennis, you've made me a delegate, but I've got to vote my own
way."

"Shure, sir, Oi'd not have yez do any thin' else. It's yezself knows
better than me. Oi was only tellin' yez what the Justice--"

A knock at the door interrupted him. It proved to be Gallagher, who
greeted them both in a hearty, friendly way. Peter brought another chair
from his bedroom.

"Well, Mr. Stirling, that was a fine contest we had last night," said
his honor.

"It seemed to be earnest," said Peter.

"It's just as well our friend here sprang your nomination on us as a
surprise, for if we had known, we should not have put up an opposition
candidate. You are just the sort of a man we want to represent us in the
convention."

"I have never met my colleagues," said Peter. "What kind of men are
they?"

So he got Gallagher's opinion, and Dennis's opinion. Then he wanted to
know about the candidates, asking questions about them at considerable
length. The intentions of the other city delegates were next introduced.
Finally the probable planks of the platform were brought up. While they
were still under discussion Gallagher said the sitting of his court
compelled him to leave.

"I'll come in some time when I have more to spare."

Gallagher went to his court, and found a man waiting for him there.

"He's either very simple or very deep," said Gallagher. "He did nothing
but ask questions; and try my best I could not get him to show his hand,
nor commit himself. It will be bad if there's a split in a solid
delegation!"

"I hope it will be a lesson to you to have things better arranged."

"Blunkers would have it that way, and he's not the kind of man to
offend. We all thought he would win."

"Oh, let them have their fights," said the man crossly; "but it's your
business to see that the right men are put up, so that it doesn't make
any difference which side wins."

"Well," said Gallagher, "I've done all I could to put things straight.
I've made peace, and got Moriarty on our side, and I've talked to this
Stirling, and made out a strong case for Catlin, without seeming to care
which man gets the nomination."

"Is there any way of putting pressure on him?"

"Not that I can find out. He's a young lawyer, who has no business."

"Then he's a man we don't need to conciliate, if he won't behave?"

"No. I can't say that. He's made himself very popular round here by that
case and by being friendly to people. I don't think, if he's going into
politics, that it will do to fight him."

"He's such a green hand that we ought to be able to down him."

"He's new, but he's a pretty cool, knowing chap, I think. I had one
experience with him, which showed me that any man who picked him up for
a fool would drop him quick." Then he told how Dennis's fine had been
remitted.

In the next few weeks Peter met a good many men who wanted to talk
politics with him. Gallagher brought some; Dennis others; his
fellow-ward delegates, more. But Peter could not be induced to commit
himself. He would talk candidates and principles endlessly, but without
expressing his own mind. Twice he was asked point blank, "Who's your
man?" but he promptly answered that he had not yet decided. He had
always read a Democratic paper, but now he read two, and a Republican
organ as well. His other reading lessened markedly, and the time gained
was spent in talking with men in the "district." He even went into the
saloons and listened to the discussions.

"I don't drink," he had to explain several times, "because my mother
doesn't like it." For some reason this explanation seemed to be
perfectly satisfactory. One man alone sneered at him. "Does she feed yer
still on milk, sonny?" he asked. "No," said Peter, "but everything I
have comes from her, and that's the kind of a mother a fellow wants to
please; don't you think so?" The sneerer hesitated, and finally said he
"guessed it was." So Peter was made one of them, and smoked and
listened. He said very little, but that little was sound, good sense,
and, if he did not talk, he made others do so; and, after the men had
argued over something, they often looked at Peter, rather than at their
opponents, to see if he seemed to approve of their opinions.

"It's a fine way he has wid the b'ys," Dennis told his mother. "He makes
them feel that he's just the likes av them, an' that he wants their
minds an' opinions to help him. Shure, they'd rather smoke one pipe av
his tobaccy than drink ten times at Gallagher's expense."

After Peter had listened carefully and lengthily, he wrote to "The
Honorable Lemuel Porter, Hudson, N.Y.," asking him if he could give him
an hour's talk some day. The reply was prompt, and told Peter that
Porter would be glad to see him any time that should suit his
convenience. So Peter took a day off and ran up to Hudson.

"I am trying to find out for whom I should vote," he explained to
Porter. "I'm a new man at this sort of thing, and, not having met any of
the men talked of, I preferred to see them before going to the
convention."

Porter found that Peter had taken the trouble to go over a back file of
papers, and read some of his speeches.

"Of course," Peter explained, "I want, as far as possible, to know what
you think of questions likely to be matters for legislation."

"The difficulty in doing that, Mr. Stirling," he was told, "is that
every nominee is bound to surrender his opinions in a certain degree to
the party platform, while other opinions have to be modified to new
conditions."

"I can see that," said Peter. "I do not for a moment expect that what
you say to-day is in any sense a pledge. If a man's honest, the poorest
thing we can do to him is to tie him fast to one course of action, when
the conditions are constantly changing. But, of course, you have
opinions for the present state of things?"

Something in Peter's explanation or face pleased Mr. Porter. He demurred
no more, and, for an hour before lunch, and during that meal, he talked
with the utmost freedom.

"I'm not easily fooled on men," he told his secretary afterwards, "and
you can say what you wish to that Stirling without danger of its being
used unfairly or to injure one. And he's the kind of man to be won by
square dealing."

Peter had spoken of his own district "I think," he said, "that some good
can be done in the way of non-partisan legislation. I've been studying
the food supplies of the city, and, if I can, I shall try to get a bill
introduced this winter to have official inspections systematized."

"That will receive my approval if it is properly drawn. But you'll
probably find the Health Board fighting you. It's a nest of
politicians."

"If they won't yield, I shall have to antagonize them, but I have had
some talks with the men there, in connection with the 'swill-milk'
investigations, and I think I can frame a bill that will do what I want,
yet which they will not oppose. I shall try to make them help me in the
drafting, for they can make it much better through their practical
experience."

"If you do that, the opposition ought not to be troublesome. What else
do you want?"

"I've been thinking of a general Tenement-house bill, but I don't think
I shall try for that this winter. It's a big subject, which needs very
careful study, in which a lot of harm may be done by ignorance. There's
no doubt that anything which hurts the landlord, hurts the tenant, and
if you make the former spend money, the tenant pays for it in the long
run. Yet health must be protected. I shall try to find out what can be
done."

"I wish you would get into the legislature yourself, Mr. Stirling."

"I shall not try for office. I want to go on with my profession. But I
shall hope to work in politics in the future."

Peter took another day off, and spent a few minutes of it with the other
most promising candidate. He did not see very much of him, for they were
interrupted by another caller, and Peter had to leave before he could
have a chance to continue the interview.

"I had a call to-day from that fellow Stirling, who's a delegate from
the sixth ward," the candidate told a "visiting statesman" later. "I'm
afraid he'll give us trouble. He asks too many questions. Fortunately
Dewilliger came to see me, and though I shouldn't have seen him
ordinarily, I found his call very opportune as a means of putting an end
to Stirling's cross-examination."

"He's the one doubtful man on the city's delegation," said the
statesman. "It happened through a mistake. It will be very unfortunate
if we can't cast a solid city vote."

Peter talked more in the next few days. He gave the "b'ys" his
impressions of the two candidates, in a way which made them trust his
conclusions. He saw his two fellow delegates, and argued long and
earnestly with them. He went to every saloon-keeper in the district, and
discussed the change in the liquor law which was likely to be a
prominent issue in the campaign, telling them what he had been able to
draw from both candidates about the subject.

"Catlin seems to promise you the most," he told them, "and I don't want
to say he isn't trying to help you. But if you get the law passed which
he promises to sign, you won't be much better off. In the first place,
it will cost you a lot of money, as you know, to pass it; and then it
will tempt people to go into the business, so that it will cut your
profits that way. Then, you may stir up a big public sentiment against
you in the next election, and so lay yourselves open to unfriendly
legislation. It is success, or trying to get too much, which has beaten
every party, sooner or later, in this country. Look at slavery. If the
Southerners had left things as they were under the Missouri Compromise,
they never would have stirred up the popular outbreak that destroyed
slavery. Now, Porter is said to be unfriendly to you, because he wants a
bill to limit the number of licenses, and to increase the fee to new
saloons. Don't you see that is all in your favor, though apparently
against you? In the first place, you are established, and the law will
be drawn so as to give the old dealer precedence over a new one in
granting fresh licenses. This limit will really give the established
saloon more trade in the future, by reducing competition. While the
increase in fee to new saloons will do the same."

"By ----, yer right," said Blunkers.

"That's too good a name to use that way," said Peter, but more as if he
were stating a fact than reproving.

Blunkers laughed good-naturedly. "Yer'll be gittin' usen to close up
yet, Mister Stirling. Yer too good for us."

Peter looked at him. "Blunkers," he said warmly, "no man is too good not
to tell the truth to any one whom he thinks it will help."

"Shake," said Blunkers. Then he turned to the men at the tables. "Step
up, boys," he called. "I sets it up dis time to drink der health of der
feller dat don't drink."

The boys drank




CHAPTER XXI.

A POLITICAL DINNER.


Peter had only a month for work after reaching his own conclusions,
before the meeting of the convention, but in that month he worked hard.
As the result, a rumor, carrying dismay to the party leaders, became
current.

"What's this I hear?" said Gallagher's former interviewer to that
gentleman. "They say Schlurger says he intends to vote for Porter, and
Kennedy's getting cold?"

"If you'll go through the sixth you'll hear more than that."

"What do you mean?"

"There was a torchlight last night, of nearly every voter in the ward,
and nothing but Stirling prevented them from making the three delegates
pledge themselves to vote for Porter. He said they must go unbound."

The interviewer's next remark is best represented by several "blank
its," no allusion however being intended to bed-coverings. Then he cited
the lower regions to know what it all meant.

"It means that that chap Stirling has got to be fixed, and fixed big. I
thought I knew how to wire pull, and manage men, but he's taken hold and
just runs it as he wants. It's he makes all the trouble."

The interviewer left the court, and five minutes later was in Stirling's
office.

"My name's Green," he said. "I'm a delegate to the convention, and one
of the committee who has the arranging of the special train and
accommodations at Saratoga."

"I'm glad you came in," said Peter. "I bought my ticket yesterday, and
the man at headquarters said he'd see that I was assigned a room at the
United States."

"There'll be no trouble about the arrangements. What I want to see you
for, is to ask if you won't dine with me this evening? There's to be
several of the delegates and some big men there, to talk over the
situation."

"I should like to," said Peter.

The man pulled out a card, and handed it to Peter. "Six o'clock sharp,"
he said. Then he went to headquarters, and told the result of his two
interviews. "Now who had better be there?" he asked. After consultation,
a dinner of six was arranged.

The meal proved to be an interesting one to Peter. First, he found that
all the guests were well-known party men, whose names and opinions were
matters of daily notice in the papers. What was more, they talked
convention affairs, and Peter learned in the two hours' general
conversation more of true "interests" and "influences" and "pulls" and
"advantages" than all his reading and talking had hitherto gained him.
He learned that in New York the great division of interest was between
the city and country members, and that this divided interest played a
part in nearly every measure. "Now," said one of the best known men at
the table, "the men who represent the city, must look out for the city.
Porter's a fine man, but he has no great backing, and no matter how well
he intends by us, he can't do more than agree to such bills as we can
get passed. But Catlin has the Monroe members of the legislature under
his thumb, and his brother-in-law runs Onandaga. He promises they shall
vote for all we want. With that aid, we can carry what New York City
needs, in spite of the country members."

"Would the country members refuse to vote for really good and needed
city legislation?" asked Peter.

"Every time, unless we agree to dicker with them on some country job.
The country members hold the interest of the biggest city in this
country in their hands, and threaten or throttle those interests every
time anything is wanted."

"And when it comes to taxation," added another, "the country members are
always giving the cities the big end to carry."

"I had a talk with Catlin," said Peter. "It seemed to me that he wasn't
the right kind of man."

"Catlin's a timid man, who never likes to commit himself. That's because
he always wants to do what his backers tell him. Of course when a man
does that, he hasn't decided views of his own, and naturally doesn't
wish to express what he may want to take back an hour later."

"I don't like straw men," said Peter.

"A man who takes other people's opinions is not a bad governor, Mr.
Stirling. It all depends on whose opinion he takes. If we could find a
man who was able to do what the majority wants every time, we could
re-elect him for the next fifty years. You must remember that in this
country we elect a man to do what we want--not to do what he wants
himself."

"Yes," said Peter. "But who is to say what the majority wants?"

"Aren't we--the party leaders--who are meeting daily the ward leaders,
and the big men in the different districts, better able to know what the
people want than the man who sits in the governor's room, with a
doorkeeper to prevent the people from seeing him?"

"You may not choose to do what the people want."

"Of course. I've helped push things that I knew were unpopular. But this
is very unusual, because it's risky. Remember, we can only do things
when our party is in power, so it is our interest to do what will please
the people, if we are to command majorities and remain in office.
Individually we have got to do what the majority of our party wants
done, or we are thrown out, and new men take our places. And it's just
the same way with the parties."

"Well," said Peter, "I understand the condition better, and can see what
I could not fathom before, why the city delegates want Catlin. But my
own ward has come out strong for Porter. We've come to the conclusion
that his views on the license question are those which are best for us,
and besides, he's said that he will stand by us in some food and
tenement legislation we want."

"I know about that change, and want to say, Mr. Stirling, that few men
of your years and experience, were ever able to do as much so quickly.
But there are other sides, even to these questions, which you may not
have yet considered. Any proposed restriction on the license will not
merely scare a lot of saloon-keepers, who will only understand that it
sounds unfriendly, but it will alienate every brewer and distiller, for
their interest is to see saloons multiplied. Then food and tenement
legislation always stirs up bad feeling in the dealers and owners. If
the opposite party would play fair, we could afford to laugh at it, but
you see the party out of power can oppose about anything, knowing that a
minority is never held responsible, and so by winning over the
malcontents which every piece of legislation is sure to make, before
long it goes to the polls with a majority, though it has really been
opposing the best interests of the whole state. We can't sit still, and
do nothing, yet everything we do will alienate some interest."

"It's as bad as the doctrine of fore-ordination," laughed another of the
party:

    "You can't if you will,
    You can if you won't,
    You'll be damned if you do,
    You'll be damned if you don't."

"You just said," stated Peter, "that the man who could do what the
majority wants done every time, would be re-elected. Doesn't it hold
true as to a party?"

"No. A party is seldom retained in power for such reasons. If it has a
long tenure of office it is generally due to popular distrust of the
other party. The natural tendency otherwise is to make office-holding a
sort of see-saw. Let alone change of opinion in older men, there are
enough new voters every four years to reverse majorities in almost every
state. Of course these young men care little for what either party has
done in the past, and being young and ardent, they want to change
things. The minority's ready to please them, naturally. Reform they
call it, but it's quite as often 'Deform' when they've done it."

Peter smiled and said, "Then you think my views on license, and
food-inspection, and tenement-house regulation are 'Deformities'?"

"We won't say that, but a good many older and shrewder heads have worked
over those questions, and while I don't know what you hope to do, you'll
not be the first to want to try a change, Mr. Stirling."

"I hope to do good. I may fail, but it's not right as it is, and I must
try to better it." Peter spoke seriously, and his voice was very clear.
"I'm glad to have had this talk, before the convention meets. You are
all experienced men, and I value your opinions."

"But don't intend to act on them," said his host good-naturedly.

"No. I'm not ready to say that. I've got to think them over."

"If you do that, Mr. Stirling, you'll find we are right. We have not
been twenty and thirty years in this business for nothing."

"I think you know how to run a party--but poisoned milk was peddled in
my ward. I went to law to punish the men who sold it. Now I'm going into
politics to try and get laws and administration which will prevent such
evils. I've told my district what I want. I think it will support me. I
know you can help me, and I hope you will. We may disagree on methods,
but if we both wish the good of New York, we can't disagree on results."
Peter stopped, rather amazed himself at the length of his speech.

"What do you want us to do?"

"You say that you want to remain in control. You say you can only do so
by majorities. I want you to give this city such a government that
you'll poll every honest vote on our side," said Peter warmly.

"That's only the generalization of a very young man," said the leader.

Peter liked him all the better for the snub. "I generalized, because it
would make clear the object of my particular endeavors. I want to have
the Health Board help me to draft a food-inspection bill, and I want the
legislature to pass it, without letting it be torn to pieces for the
benefit of special interests. I don't mind fair amendments, but they
must be honest ones."

"And if the Health Board helps you, and the bill is made a law?"

Peter looked Mr. Costell in the face, and spoke quietly: "I shall tell
my ward that you have done them a great service."

Two of the men moved uneasily in their seats, as if not comfortable, and
a third scowled.

"And if we can give you some tenement-house legislation?"

"I shall tell my ward that you have done them a great service." Peter
spoke in the same tone of voice, and still looked Mr. Costell in the
face.

"And if we don't do either?"

"What I shall do then will depend on whether you refuse for a good
reason or for none. In either case I shall tell them the facts."

"This is damned----" began one of the dinner-party, but the lifting of
Mr. Costell's hand stopped the speech there.

"Mr. Stirling," said Mr. Costell, rising as he spoke, "I hope when you
come to think it over, that you will vote with us for Catlin. But
whether you do or not, we want you to work with us. We can help you, and
you can help us. When you are ready to begin on your bills, come and see
me."

"Thank you," said Peter. "That is just what I want." He said good-night
to the company, and left the house.

"That fellow is going to be troublesome," said Green.

"There's no good trying to get anything out of him. Better split with
him at once," said the guest who had used the expletive.

"He can't have any very big hold," said a third. "It's only that trial
which has given him a temporary popularity."

"Wait and see if he goes back on Catlin, and if he does, lay for him,"
remarked Green.

A pause came, and they all looked at Costell, who was smiling a certain
deep smile that was almost habitual with him, and which no one had ever
yet been able to read. "No," he said slowly. "You might beat him, but he
isn't the kind that stays beat. I'll agree to outwit any man in
politics, except the man who knows how to fight and to tell the people
the truth. I've never yet seen a man beaten in the long run who can do
both those, unless he chose to think himself beaten. Gentlemen, that
Stirling is a fighter and a truth-teller, and you can't beat him in his
ward. There's no use having him against us, so it's our business to see
that we have him with us. We may not be able to get him into line this
time, but we must do it in the long run. For he's not the kind that lets
go. He's beaten Nelson, and he's beaten Gallagher, both of whom are old
hands. Mark my words, in five years he'll run the sixth ward. Drop all
talk of fighting him. He is in politics to stay, and we must make it
worth his while to stay with us."




CHAPTER XXII.

POLITICS.


Peter sat up later than was prudent that night, studying his blank wall.
Yet when he rose to go to bed, he gave his head a puzzled shake. When he
had gone through his papers, and drunk his coffee the next morning, he
went back to wall-gazing again. He was working over two conundrums not
very easy to answer, which were somewhat to this effect:

Does the best man always make the best official?

Is the honest judgment of a fellow verging on twenty-four better than
the experienced opinion of many far older men?

Peter began to think life had not such clear and direct "right" and
"wrong" roads as he had thought. He had said to himself long ago that it
was easy to take the right one, but he had not then discovered that it
is often difficult to know which is the right, in order to follow it. He
had started in to punish Bohlmann, and had compromised. He had
disapproved of Dennis breaking the law, and had compromised his
disapproval. He had said he should not go into saloons, and had ended by
going. Now he was confronted with the problem whether the interests of
his ward would be better served by the nomination of a man of good
record, whom Peter personally liked, or by that of a colorless man, who
would be ruled by the city's leaders. In the one case Peter feared no
support for his measures from his own party. In the other case he saw
aid that was tantamount to success. Finally he shook himself.

"I believe Dennis is right," he said aloud. "There are more 'real'
things than 'convictions' in New York politics, and a 'real' thing is
much harder to decide about in voting than a 'conviction.'"

He went to his bedroom, packed his bag, and took his way to the station.
There he found a dense crowd of delegates and "well-wishers," both
surrounding and filling the special train which was to carry New York's
contribution to the collected party wisdom, about to concentrate at
Saratoga.

Peter felt like a stranger in the crowd, but on mingling in it he
quickly found himself a marked man. He was seized upon by one of the
diners of the evening before, and soon found himself forming part of a
group, which constantly changed its components, but continued to talk
convention affairs steadily. Nor did the starting of the train, with
cheers, brass bands, flags, and other enthusing elements, make more than
a temporary break. From the time the special started, till it rolled
into Saratoga, six hours later, there was one long series of political
debates and confabs. Peter listened much, and learned much, for the talk
was very straight and plain. He had chats with Costell and Green. His
two fellow-delegates from "de sixt" sought him and discussed intentions.
He liked Schlurger, a simple, guileless German, who wanted only to do
what his constituents wished him to do, both in convention and Assembly.
Of Kennedy he was not so sure. Kennedy had sneered a little at Peter's
talk about the "best man," and about "helping the ward," and had only
found that Peter's ideas had value after he had been visited by various
of the saloon-keepers, seen the vast torchlight meeting, and heard the
cheers at Peter's arguments. Still, Peter was by no means sure that
Kennedy was not a square man, and concluded he was right in not
condemning him, when, passing through one of the cars, he overheard the
following:

"What kind of man is that Stirling, who's raised such ---- in the
sixth?"

"I don't know him, but Kennedy told me, before he'd swung round, that he
was a darned good sort of a cuss."

This was flattery, Peter understood, however questionable the form might
seem, and he was pleased. Very few of us do not enjoy a real compliment.
What makes a compliment uncomfortable is either a suspicion that the
maker doesn't mean it, or a knowledge that it is not merited.

Peter went at once to his room on reaching the hotel in Saratoga,
intending to make up the sleep of which his long "think" the night
before had robbed him. But scarcely had the colored gentleman bowed
himself out, after the usual "can I git de gentleman a pitcher of ice
water" (which translated means: "has de gentleman any superfluous
change?") when a knock came at the door. Peter opened it, to find a man
outside.

"Is this Mr. Stirling's room?" inquired the individual.

"Yes."

"Can I see him?"

"Come in." Peter moved his bag off one of his chairs, and his hat and
overcoat off the other.

"Mr. Stirling," said the stranger as he sat down, "I am Senator Maguire,
and am, as perhaps you know, one of Porter's managers."

"Yes."

"We understand that you are friendly to us. Now, I needn't say that New
York is otherwise a unit in opposing us."

"No," said Peter. "My fellow-delegates from the sixth, Schlurger and
Kennedy, stand as I do!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"The change must have been very sudden. They were elected as Catlin men,
we were told."

"Yes. But there's quite a different feeling in the ward now, and they
have yielded to it."

"That's good news."

"We all three come here prepared to do what seems best."

The Senator's expression lost some of the satisfaction Peter's news had
put into it. He gave a quick look at Peter's face, as if to try and find
from it what lay behind the words. He hesitated, as if divided in mind
over two courses of action. Finally he said:

"I needn't tell you that this opposition of practically the whole of the
New York City delegation, is the most serious set-back to Porter's
chance. Now, we have talked it over, and it seemed to us that it would
be a great card for him if he could be nominated by a city delegate.
Will you do it?"

"I don't know him well enough, do I? Doesn't the nominating delegate
have to make a speech in his favor?"

"Yes. But I can give you the material to-night. Or if you prefer, we'll
give it to you all written for delivery?"

"I don't make other men's speeches, Mr. Maguire."

"Suit yourself about that. It shall be just as you please."

"The difficulty is that I have not decided myself, yet, how I shall
vote, and of course such an act is binding."

Mr. Maguire's countenance changed again. "I'm sorry to hear that. I
hoped you were for Porter. He's far away the best man."

"So I think."

The Senator leaned back in his chair, and tucked his thumbs into the
armholes of his waistcoat. He thought he had fathomed Peter, and felt
that the rest was plain sailing. "This is not a chap to be tolled. I'll
give him the gaff at once," was his mental conclusion. Then he asked
aloud:

"What do you want?"

It was a question susceptible of many different constructions, but as
Mr. Maguire asked it, it seemed to him to have but one, and that not
very honest. Peter hesitated. The temptation was strong to lead the
Senator on, but he did not like to do it. It seemed to savor of traps,
and Peter had never liked traps. Still--he did want to know if the
managers on Porter's side would stoop to buy his support by some
bargain. As Peter hesitated, weighing the pros and cons, Maguire spoke
again.

"What does the other side offer you?"

Peter spoke quickly. "They haven't offered me anything, but advice. That
is, Costell said he'd try and help me on some legislation I want--"

"Special?" interrupted Maguire.

"No, General. I've talked about it with Porter as well"

"Oh! Indeed?"

"I'm really anxious to get that. Otherwise I want nothing."

"Whew," said the Senator to himself. "That was a narrow squeak. If he
hadn't spoken so quickly, I should have shown my hand before the call. I
wonder if he got any inkling?" He never dreamed that Peter had spoken
quickly to save that very disclosure.

"I needn't say, Mr. Stirling, that if you can see your way to nominate
Porter, we shall not forget it. Nor will he. He isn't the kind of man
who forgets his friends. Many a man in to-morrow's convention would give
anything for the privilege we offer you."

"Well," said Peter, "I realize the honor offered me, but I don't see my
way to take it. It will please me better to see him nominated by some
one who has really stood close to him, than to gain his favor by doing
it myself."

"Think twice, Mr. Stirling."

"If you would rather, I will not give you my answer till to-morrow
morning?"

"I would," said Maguire rising, "Try and make it favorable. It's a great
chance to do good for yourself and for your side. Good-night."

Peter closed his door, and looked about for a bit of blank wall. But on
second thought he sat down on his window-sill, and, filling his pipe,
tried to draw conclusions as well as smoke from it.

"I wonder," he pondered to himself, "how much of that was Maguire, and
how much Porter? Ought I, for the sake of doing my best for my ward, to
have let him go on? Has an agent any right to refuse what will help is
client, even if it comes by setting pitfalls?"

Rap, rap, rap.

"Come in," called Peter, forgetting he had turned down his light.

The door opened and Mr. Costell came in. "Having a quiet smoke?" he
asked.

"Yes. I haven't a cigar to offer you. Can you join me in a pipe?"

"I haven't come to that yet. Suppose you try one of my cigars." Costell
sat down on the window-ledge by Peter.

"Thank you," said Peter. "I like a cigar, but it must be a good one, and
that kind I can't afford." He lit the cigar, and leaned back to
luxuriate in it.

"You'll like that, I'm sure. Pretty sight, isn't it?" Costell pointed to
the broad veranda, three stories below them, gay with brilliant dresses.

"Yes. It's my first visit here, so it's new to me."

"It won't be your last. You'll be attending other conventions than
this."

"I hope so."

"One of my scouts tells me you've had a call from Maguire?"

"Yes." Peter hesitated a moment. "He wants me to nominate Porter," he
continued, as soon as he had decided that plain speaking was fair to
Maguire.

"We shall be very sorry to see you do it."

"I don't think I shall. They only want me because it would give the
impression that Porter has a city backing, and to try to give that
amounts to a deception."

"Can they get Schlurger or Kennedy?"

"Schlurger is safe. I don't know about Kennedy."

"Can you find out for us?"

"Yes. When would you like to know?"

"Can you see him now? I'll wait here."

Peter rose, looking at his cigar with a suggestion of regret. But he
rubbed out the light, and left the room. At the office, he learned the
number of Kennedy's room, and went to it. On knocking, the door was
opened only a narrow crack.

"Oh! it's you," said Kennedy. "Come in."

Peter entered, and found Maguire seated in an easy attitude on a lounge.
He noticed that his thumbs were once more tucked into his waistcoat.

"Mr. Kennedy," said Peter without seating himself, "there is an attempt
being made to get a city delegate to nominate Porter. It seems to me
that is his particular friends' business."

Maguire spoke so quickly that Kennedy had no chance to reply: "Kennedy's
promised to nominate him, Mr. Stirling, if you won't."

"Do you feel that you are bound to do it?" asked Peter.

Kennedy moved uneasily in his chair. "Yes, I suppose I have promised."

"Will you release Mr. Kennedy from his promise if he asks it?" Peter
queried to Maguire.

"Why, Mr. Stirling, I don't think either he or you ought to ask it."

"That was not my question."

It was the Senator's turn to squirm. He did not want to say no, for fear
of angering Peter, yet he did not like to surrender the advantage.
Finally he said: "Yes, I'll release him, but Mr. Kennedy isn't the kind
of a man that cries off from a promise. That's women's work."

"No," said Kennedy stiffening suddenly in backbone, as he saw the outlet
opened by Maguire, between antagonizing Peter, and retracting his
consent. "I don't play baby. Not me."

Peter stood thinking for a longer time than the others found
comfortable. Maguire whistled to prove that he was quite at ease, but he
would not have whistled if he had been.

"I think, Mr. Kennedy, that I'll save you from the difficulty by
nominating Mr. Porter myself," said Peter finally.

"Good!" said Maguire; and Kennedy, reaching down into his hip pocket,
produced a version of the holy text not yet included in any
bibliography. Evidently the atmosphere was easier. "About your speech,
Mr. Stirling?" continued the Senator.

"I shall say what I think right."

Something in Peter's voice made Maguire say: "It will be of the usual
kind, of course?"

"I don't know," said Peter, "I shall tell the facts."

"What sort of facts?"

"I shall tell how it is that a delegate of the sixth ward nominates
Porter."

"And that is?"

"I don't see," said Peter, "why I need say it. You know it as well as I
do."

"I know of many reasons why you should do it."

"No," said Peter. "There's only one, and that has been created in the
last ten minutes. Mr. Maguire, if you insist on the sixth ward
nominating Mr. Porter, the sixth ward is going to tell why it does so.
I'm sorry, for I like Porter, but the sixth ward shan't lend itself to a
fraud, if I can help it."

Kennedy had been combining things spiritual and aqueous at his
wash-stand. But his interest in the blending seemed suddenly to cease.
Maguire, too, took his thumbs from their havens of rest, and looked
dissatisfied.

"Look here, Mr. Stirling," he said, "it's much simpler to leave it to
Kennedy. You think you're doing what's right, but you'll only do harm to
us, and to yourself. If you nominate Porter, the city gang won't forgive
you, and unless you can say what we want said, we shall be down on you.
So you'll break with both sides."

"I think that is so. That is why I want some real friend of Porter's to
do it."

Maguire laughed rather a forced laugh. "I suppose we've got to satisfy
you. We'll have Porter nominated by one of our own crowd."

"I think that's best. Good-evening." Peter went to the door.

"Mr. Stirling," called Kennedy. "Won't you stay and take some whisky and
water with us?"

"Thank you," said Peter. "Mr. Costell's in my room and he must be tired
of waiting." He closed the door, and walked away.

The couple looked at each other blankly for a moment.

"The ---- cuss is playing a double game," Maguire gasped.

"I don't know what it means!" said Kennedy.

"Mean?" cried Maguire. "It can mean only one thing. He's acting under
Costell's orders."

"But why should he give it away to us?"

"How the ---- should I know? Look here, Kennedy, you must do it, after
all."

"I don't want to."

"Tut, tut, man, you must."

"But my ward?"

"Come. We'll make it quarantine, as you want. That's six years, and you
can ---- your ward."

"I'll do it."

"That's the talk."

They sat and discussed plans and whisky for nearly an hour. Then Maguire
said good-night.

"You shall have the speech the first thing in the morning," he said at
parting. Then as he walked down the long corridor, he muttered, "Now
then, Stirling, look out for the hind heel of the mule."

Peter found Costell still waiting for him.

"It took me longer than I thought, for Maguire was there."

"Indeed!" said Costell, making room for Peter on the window-ledge.

Peter re-lit his cigar, "Maguire promises me that Porter shall be
nominated by one of his friends."

"He had been trying Kennedy?"

"I didn't ask."

Costell smiled. "I had no business to ask you that?"

"No," Peter said frankly.

Both puffed their cigars for a time in silence.

Then Costell began talking about Saratoga. He told Peter where the
"Congress" spring was, and what was worth seeing. Finally he rose to go.
He held out his hand, and said:

"Mr. Stirling, you've been as true as steel with us, and with the other
men. I don't want you to suppose we are not conscious of it. I think
you've done us a great service to-night, although it might have been
very profitable to you if you had done otherwise. I don't think that
you'll lose by it in the long run, but I'm going to thank you now, for
myself. Good-night."

Peter had a good night. Perhaps it was only because he was sleepy, but a
pleasant speech is not a bad night-cap. At least it is better than a
mental question-mark as to whether one has done wrong. Peter did not
know how it was coming out, but he thought he had done right, and need
not spend time on a blank wall that evening.




CHAPTER XXIII

THE CONVENTION.


Though Peter had not gone to bed so early as he hoped, he was up the
next morning, and had tramped his eight miles through and around
Saratoga, before the place gave many evidences of life. He ended his
tramp at the Congress spring, and tasted the famous water, with
exceeding disgust at the result. As he set down his half-finished
tumbler, and turned to leave, he found Miss De Voe at his elbow, about
to take her morning glass.

"This is a very pleasant surprise," she said, holding out her hand.
"When did you arrive?"

"I only came last night."

"And how long shall you be here?"

"I cannot say. I am attending the convention, and my stay will depend on
that."

"Surely you are not a Democrat?" said Miss De Voe, a shade of horror
showing itself in her face, in spite of her good breeding. In those days
it was not, to put it mildly, a guarantee of respectability to belong to
that party, and Miss De Voe had the strong prejudices of her social
station, all the more because she was absolutely ignorant of political
events.

Peter said he was.

"How can you be? When a man can ally himself with the best, why should
he choose the worst?"

"I think," said Peter quietly, "that a Pharisee said the same thing, in
different words, many hundred years ago."

Miss De Voe caught her breath and flushed. She also became suddenly
conscious of the two girls who had come to the spring with her. They had
been forgotten in the surprise over Peter, but now Miss De Voe wondered
if they had heard his reply, and if they had enough Bible lore to enable
them to understand the reproof.

"I am sure you don't mean that," she said, in the sting of the moment.

"I am very sorry," said Peter, "if I made an unkind speech. What I
meant was that no one has a right to pick out the best for himself. I am
sure, from your letter to me, that you think a man should help those not
as well off as himself."

"Oh, but that is very different. Of course we should be charitable to
those who need our help, but we need not mix in their low politics."

"If good laws, and good administration can give the poor good food, and
good lodgings, don't you think the best charity is to 'mix' in politics,
and try to obtain such results?"

"I want you to know my two cousins," Miss De Voe replied. "Dorothy, I
wish to present Mr. Stirling. My cousin, Miss Ogden, and Miss Minna
Ogden."

Peter saw two very pretty girls, and made a bow to them.

"Which way are you walking?" asked Miss De Voe.

"I have been tramping merely for exercise," said Peter, "and stopped
here to try the spring, on my way to the United States."

"It is hardly worth while, but if you will get into our carriage, we
will drop you there. Or if you can spare the time, we will drive to our
cottage, and then send you back to the hotel."

"Thank you," said Peter, "but I shall only crowd you, I fear."

"No. There is plenty of room."

"Will the convention be interesting to watch, Mr. Stirling?" asked one
of the girls, as soon as they were seated.

"I don't know," Peter told her. "It is my first experience at it. There
is pretty strong feeling, and that of course makes it interesting to the
delegates, but I am not sure that it would be so to others."

"Will there be speeches, and cheers, and all that sort of thing?"

"Yes."

"Cousin Anneke, won't you take us? It will be such fun!"

"Are spectators admitted, Mr. Stirling?"

"I believe so. I heard something about tickets last night. If you care
to go, I'll see if I can get you some?"

"Oh, please," cried both girls.

"If you can do so, Mr. Stirling, we should like to see the interesting
part," said Miss De Voe.

"I'll try."

"Send word back by Oliver." The carriage had drawn up at the cottage,
and farewells were made.

As soon as Peter reached the hotel, he went to the New York City
delegation room, and saw Costell. He easily secured admissions, and
pencilling on a card, "At headquarters they tell me that the nominations
will begin at the afternoon session, about two o'clock," he sent them
back by the carriage. Then bearding the terrors of the colored "monarch
of all he surveys," who guards the dining-room of every well-ordered
Saratoga hotel, he satisfied as large an appetite as he remembered in a
long time.

The morning proceedings in the convention were purely formal. The
election of the chairman, the roll-call, the naming of the committees,
and other routine matter was gotten through with, but the real interest
centred in the undertone of political talk, going on with little regard
to the business in hand. After the committees were named, an unknown man
came up to Peter, and introduced himself by a name which Peter at once
recognized as that of one of the committee on the platform.

"Mr. Costell thinks you might like to see this, and can perhaps suggest
a change," explained Mr. Talcott, laying several sheets of manuscript on
Peter's desk and indicating with his finger a certain paragraph.

Peter read it twice before saying anything. "I think I can better it,"
he said. "If you can give me time I'm very slow about such things."

"All right. Get it in shape as quickly as possible, and send it to the
committee-room."

Left alone Peter looked round for a blank wall. Failing in his search,
he put his head into his hands, and tried to shut out the seething,
excited mass of men about him. After a time he took a sheet of paper and
wrote a paragraph for the platform. It pledged the party to investigate
the food and tenement questions, and to pass such remedial legislation
as should seem best. It pledged the party to do this, with as little
disturbance and interference with present conditions as possible, "but
fully recognizing the danger of State interference, we place human life
above money profits, and human health above annual incomes, and shall
use the law to its utmost to protect both." When it appeared in the
platform, there was an addition that charged the failure to obtain
legislation "which should have rendered impossible the recent terrible
lesson in New York City" to "the obstruction in the last legislature in
the interest of the moneyed classes and landlords, by the Republican
party." That had not been in Peter's draft and he was sorry to see it.
Still, the paragraph had a real ring of honesty and feeling in it. That
was what others thought too. "Gad, that Stirling knows how to sling
English," said one of the committee, when the paragraph was read aloud.
"He makes it take right hold." Many an orator in that fall's campaign
read the nineteenth section of the Democratic platform aloud, feeling
that it was ammunition of the right kind. It is in all the New York
papers of September 24th, of that year.

Immediately after the morning adjournment, Green came up to Peter.

"We've had a count, and can't carry Catlin. So we shan't even put him
up. What do you think of Milton?"

"I don't know him personally, but he has a very good record, I believe."

"He isn't what we want, but that's not the question. We must take what
we can get."

"I suppose you think Porter has a chance."

"Not if we take Milton."

"Between the two I have no choice."

An hour later, the convention was called to order by the chairman. A few
moments sufficed to complete the unfinished business, and then the
chairman's gavel fell, and every one knew without his announcement that
the crucial moment had been reached.

Much to Peter's surprise, Kennedy was one of the members who was
instantly on his feet, and was the one selected for recognition by the
chairman. He was still more surprised when Kennedy launched at once into
a glowing eulogium of Porter. Peter was sitting next Kennedy, and though
he sat quietly, a sad look came into the face usually so expressionless.
He felt wronged. He felt that he had been an instrument in the deceiving
of others. Most of all he grieved to think that a delegate of his ward,
largely through his own interference, was acting discreditably. Peter
wanted others to do right, and he felt that that was not what Kennedy
was doing.

The moment Kennedy finished, Peter rose, as did Maguire. The convention
was cheering for Porter, and it took some time to quiet it to a
condition when it was worth while recognizing any one. During this time
the chairman leaned forward and talked with Green, who sat right below
him, for a moment. Green in turn spoke to Costell, and a little slip of
paper was presently handed up to the chairman, who from that moment
became absolutely oblivious of the fact that Maguire was on his feet.
When silence finally came, in spite of Maguire's, "Mr. Chairman," that
individual said, "Mr. Stirling."

Peter began in a low voice, "In rising, Mr. Chairman, to second the
nomination of Mr. Porter, I feel that it would be idle in me to praise
one so well known to all of us, even if he had not just been the subject
of so appreciative a speech from my colleague--"

Here cries of "louder" interrupted Peter, during which interruption
Green said to Costell, "We've been tricked."

"I'm not so sure," replied Costell, "Maguire's on his feet yet, and
doesn't look happy. Something's happening which has not been slated."

When Peter resumed, there were no more cries of "louder." His
introduction had been a matter of trouble and doubt to him, for he liked
Porter, and feared he might not show it. But now he merely had something
to tell his audience, and that was easy work. So, his voice ringing very
clear and distinct, he told them of the original election of the
delegates; of the feeling of his ward; of the attempts to obtain a city
nomination of Porter; of Maguire's promise. "Gad, he hits from the
shoulder," said Green. As soon as the trend of his remarks was realized,
Porter's supporters began to hiss and hoot. Peter at once stopped, but
the moment silence came he began again, and after a repetition of this a
few times, they saw they could neither embarrass nor anger him, so they
let him have his say. He brought his speech to an end by saying:

"I have already expressed my admiration of Mr. Porter, and as soon as I
had made up my mind to vote for him, I made no secret of that
intention. But he should not have been nominated by a city delegate, for
he is not the choice of New York City, and any attempt to show that he
is, or that he has any true backing there, is only an attempt to
deceive. In seconding his nomination therefore, I wish it to be
distinctly understood that both his nomination and seconding are
personal acts, and in no sense the act of the delegates of the city of
New York."

There was a mingling of hoots and cheers as Peter sat down, though
neither was very strong. In truth, the larger part of the delegates were
very much in the dark as to the tendency of Peter's speech. "Was it
friendly or unfriendly to Porter?" they wondered.

"Mr. Maguire," said the chairman.

"Mr. Chairman, the gentleman who has just sat down is to be complimented
on his speech. In my whole life I have never heard so deceptive and
blinding a narration. We know of Brutus stabbing his friend. But what
shall we say of a pretended Brutus who caresses while he stabs?"

Here the Porter adherents became absolutely sure of the character of
Peter's speech, and hissed.

"Nor is it Imperial Caesar alone," continued Maguire, "against whom he
turns his poniard. Not content with one foul murder, he turns against
Caesar's friends. By devilish innuendo, he charges the honorable Mr.
Kennedy and myself with bargaining to deceive the American people. I
call on him for proof or retraction."

The convention laughed. Peter rose and said: "Mr. Chairman, I gave a
truthful account of what actually took place last evening in the United
States hotel. I made no charges."

"But you left the impression that Mr. Kennedy and I had made a deal,"
shrieked Maguire.

"If the gentleman draws that conclusion from what passed, it is not my
fault."

The convention laughed. "Do you mean to charge such a bargain?" angrily
shouted Maguire.

"Will you deny it?" asked Peter calmly.

"Then you do charge it?"

Here the convention laughed for the third time. Green shouted "deny it,"
and the cry was taken up by many of the delegates.

"Yes," screamed Maguire. "I do deny it"

Peter turned to Kennedy. "Do you too, deny it?"

"Yes," shouted Kennedy, loudly.

Again the convention laughed.

"Then," said Peter, "if I had charged you with a bargain, I should now
find it necessary to apologize."

The convention roared. Maguire screamed something, but it could not be
heard. The tenor of his remarks was indicated by his red face and
clinched fist.

Costell smiled his deep smile. "I'm very glad," he said to the man next
him, "that we didn't pick Stirling up."

Then Milton was nominated and seconded, as were also Catlin, and four
minor stars. That done, a ballot was taken and the vote stood:

    Porter           206
    Milton           197
    Catlin            52
    Scattering        29

A second ballot showed:

    Porter           206
    Milton           202
    Catlin            54
    Scattering        22

A third ballot gave:

    Porter           206
    Milton           210
    Catlin            52
    Scattering        16

"Porter's done for on the next," was whispered round the hall, though
where it started, no one knew. Evidently his adherents thought so, for
one made a motion to adjourn. It was voted down, and once more the roll
call started.

"I shall vote for Milton," Peter told Schlurger, and the changes in the
delegations as the call proceeded, proved that many changes were being
made the same way. Yet the fourth ballot showed:

    Porter           125
    Milton           128
    Catlin           208
    Scattering        14

The wildest excitement broke out in the Porter delegates. "They've
beaten us," screamed Kennedy, as much to himself as to those about.
"They've used Milton to break our ranks, meaning Catlin all the time."
So in truth, it was. Milton had been put up to draw off Porter's
delegates, but the moment they had begun to turn to Milton, enough New
York City delegates had been transferred to Catlin to prevent Milton
being chosen. Amid protests and angry words on all sides another ballot
was taken:

    Catlin           256
    Porter           118
    Milton           110

Before the result was announced. Green was at Peter's elbow.

"Will you move to make it unanimous?" he asked.

"Yes." And Peter made the formal motion, which was carried by
acclamation. Half an hour served to choose the Lieutenant-Governor and
the rest of the ticket, for the bulk of it had already been slated. The
platform was adopted, and the convention dissolved.

"Well," said Kennedy angrily to Peter, "I guess you've messed it this
time. A man can't please both sides, but he needn't get cussed by both."

Peter went out and walked to his hotel. "I'm afraid I did mess it," he
thought, "yet I don't see what else I could have done."




CHAPTER XXIV.

MISUNDERSTANDINGS AND UNDERSTANDINGS.


"Did you understand what it all meant, Cousin Anneke?" asked Dorothy, as
they were coming downstairs.

"No. The man who got so angry seemed to think Mr. Stirling had--"

She stopped short. A group of men on the sidewalk were talking, and she
paused to hear one say:

"To see that young chap Stirling handling Maguire was an eye-opener."

Another man laughed, rather a deep, quiet laugh. "Maguire understands
everything but honesty," he said. "You can always beat him with that."

Miss De Voe would have like to stay and listen, but there were too many
men. So the ladies entered the carriage.

"At least we know that he said he was trying to tell the truth," she
went on, "and you just heard what that man said. I don't know why they
all laughed."

"He didn't seem to mind a bit."

"No. Hasn't he a funny half-embarrassed, half-cool manner?"

"He wasn't embarrassed after he was fairly speaking. You know he was
really fine-looking, when he spoke."

"Yes," said Dorothy. "You said he had a dull, heavy face."

"That was the first time I saw him, Dorothy. It's a face which varies
very much. Oliver, drive to the United States. We will take him home to
dinner."

"Oh, good," cried the youngest. "Then he will tell us why they laughed."

As they drove up to the hotel, Peter had just reached the steps. He
turned to the carriage, the moment he saw that they wanted him.

"We wish to carry you off to a simple country dinner," Miss De Voe told
him.

"I am going to take the special to New York, and that leaves in half an
hour."

"Take a later train."

"My ticket wouldn't be good on it."

Most men Miss De Voe would have snubbed on the spot, but to Peter she
said: "Then get another ticket."

"I don't care to do that," said Peter.

"Oh, please, Mr. Stirling," said Minna. "I want to ask you a lot of
questions about the convention."

"Hush, Minna," said Miss De Voe. She was nettled that Peter should
refuse, and that her niece could stoop to beg of "a criminal lawyer and
ward politician," as she put it mentally. But she was determined not to
show it "We are sorry. Good-evening. Home, Oliver."

So they did not learn from Peter why the convention laughed. The subject
was brought up at dinner, and Dorothy asked the opinion of the voters of
the family.

"Probably he had made a fluke of some kind," one said.

"More probably he had out-sharped the other side," suggested a second.

"It will be in the papers to-morrow," said the first suggestor.

The three women looked in the next day's papers, but the reporters were
as much at sea in regard to the Stirling-sixth-ward incident, as had
been the rank-and-file in the convention. Three took their views from
Maguire, and called it "shameful treason," and the like. Two called it
"unprincipled and contradictory conduct." One alone said that "Mr.
Stirling seemed to be acting conscientiously, if erratically." Just what
effect it had had on the candidates none of the papers agreed in. One
said it had killed Porter. Another, that "it was a purely personal
matter without influence on the main question." The other papers shaded
between these, though two called it "a laughable incident." The
opposition press naturally saw in it an entire discrediting of both
factions of the Democratic party, and absolute proof that the nominee
finally selected was unfit for office.

Unable to sift out the truth, the ladies again appealed to the voters of
the family.

"Oh," said one, "Stirling did something tricky and was caught in it."

"I don't believe that," said Miss De Voe.

"Nor I," said Dorothy.

"Well, if you want to make your political heeler an angel, I have no
objection," laughed the enfranchised being.

"I don't think a man who made that speech about the children can be a
scoundrel," said Dorothy.

"I don't either," said Minna.

"That's the way you women reason," responded he of the masculine
intellect. "Because a man looks out for some sick kittens, ergo, he is a
political saint. If you must take up with politicians, do take
Republicans, for then, at least, you have a small percentage of chance
in your favor that they are gentlemen."

"Don't be a Pharisee, Lispenard," said Miss De Voe, utilizing Peter's
rebuke.

"Then don't trouble me with political questions. Politics are so vulgar
in this country that no gentleman keeps up with them."

Miss De Voe and the two girls dropped the "vulgar" subject, but Miss De
Voe said later:

"I should like to know what they laughed at?"

"Do ask him--if he comes to call on you, this winter, Cousin Anneke."

"No. I asked him once and he did not come." Miss De Voe paused a moment.
"I shall not ask him again," she added.

"I don't think he intends to be rude," said Dorothy.

"No," responded Miss De Voe. "I don't think he knows what he is doing.
He is absolutely without our standards, and it is just as well for both
that he shouldn't call." Woman-like, Miss De Voe forgot that she had
said Peter was a gentleman.

If Peter had found himself a marked man in the trip up, he was doubly so
on the return train. He sat most of the time by himself, pondering on
what had happened, but he could not be unconscious of the number of
people to whom he was pointed out. He was conscious too, that his course
had not been understood, and that many of those who looked at him with
interest, did so without approbation. He was not buoyed up either, by a
sense that he had succeeded in doing the best. He had certainly hurt
Porter, and had made enemies of Maguire and Kennedy. Except for the fact
that he had tried to do right, he could see no compensating balance.

Naturally the newspapers the next morning did not cheer him, though
perhaps he cared less for what they said than he ought. He sent them,
good, bad, and indifferent, to his mother, writing her at the same time
a long letter, telling her how and why he had taken this course. He
wrote also a long letter to Porter, explaining his conduct. Porter had
already been told that Peter was largely responsible for his defeat, but
after reading Peter's letter, he wrote him a very kind reply, thanking
him for his support and for his letter. "It is not always easy to do
what one wants in politics," he wrote, "but if one tries with high
motives, for high things, even defeat loses its bitterness. I shall not
be able to help you, in your wished-for reforms as greatly as I hoped,
but I am not quite a nonentity in politics even now, and if at any time
you think my aid worth the asking, do not hesitate to call on me for
it. I shall always be glad to see you at my house for a meal or a night,
whether you come on political matters or merely for a chat."

Peter found his constituents torn with dissensions over his and
Kennedy's course in the convention. He did not answer in kind the blame
and criticism industriously sowed by Kennedy; but he dropped into a
half-a-dozen saloons in the next few days, and told "the b'ys" a pretty
full history of the "behind-the-scenes" part.

"I'm afraid I made mistakes," he frankly acknowledged, "yet even now I
don't see how I could have done differently. I certainly thought I was
doing right."

"An' so yez were," shouted Dennis. "An' if that dirty beast Kennedy
shows his dirty face inside these doors, it's a washin' it will get wid
the drainin' av the beer-glasses. We wants none av his dirty bargains
here."

"I don't know that he had made any bargain," said Peter.

"But we do," shouted one of the men. "It's a bargain he's always
makin'."

"Yes," said Dennis. "It's Kennedy looks out for himself, an' we'll let
him do it next time all by himself." It could not be traced to its
origin, but in less than a week the consensus of opinion in the ward was
that: "Kennedy voted for himself, but Stirling for us."

The ward, too, was rather proud of the celebrity it had achieved. The
papers had not merely paragraphed Peter, and the peculiar position of
the "district" in the convention, but they had begun now asking
questions as to how the ward would behave. "Would it support Catlin?"
"Was it true that the ward machine had split, and intended to nominate
rival tickets?" "Had one faction made a deal with the Republicans?"

"Begobs," said Dennis, "it's the leaders an' the papers are just afther
discoverin' there is a sixth ward, an' it's Misther Stirling's made them
do it."

The chief party leaders had stayed over at Saratoga, but Peter had a
call from Costell before the week was out.

"The papers gave it to you rather rough," Costell said kindly, "but they
didn't understand it. We thought you behaved very square."

"They tell me I did Porter harm."

"No. It was Maguire did the harm. You simply told about it. Of course
you get the blame."

"My constituents stand by me."

"How do they like Catlin?"

"I think they are entirely satisfied. I'm afraid they never cared much
who got it."

"I'm told Kennedy is growling, and running amuck?"

"He's down on Catlin and me."

"Well, if you think best, we'll placate him? But Gallagher seemed to
think he couldn't do much?"

"I don't think he has much of a following. Even Moriarty, who was his
strong card, has gone back on him."

"Will you make a couple of speeches for us in this ward?"

"If you'll let me say what I want?"

"You can support us?"

"Yes."

"Then we'll leave it to you. Only beware of making too many statements.
You'll get dates and places from the committee as soon as they are
settled. We pay twenty-five dollars a night. If you hit the right key,
we may want you in some of the other wards, too."

"I shall be glad to talk. It's what I've been doing to small crowds in
the saloons."

"So I'm told. You'll never get a better place. Men listen there, as they
never will at a mass-meeting." Costell rose. "If you are free next
Sunday, come up into Westchester and take a two o'clock dinner with me.
We won't talk politics, but you shall see a nice little woman, who's
good enough to make my life happier, and after we've looked over my
stables, I'll bring you back to the city behind a gray mare that will
pass about anything there is on the road."

So Peter had a half day in the country and enjoyed it very much. He
looked over Mrs. Costell's flower-garden, in which she spent almost her
whole time, and chatted with her about it. He saw the beautiful stables,
and their still more beautiful occupants. He liked the couple very much.
Both were simple and silent people, of little culture, but it seemed to
Peter that the atmosphere had a gentle, homely tone that was very
pleasing. As he got into the light buggy, he said to Mrs. Costell:

"I'll get the seed of that mottled gillyflower from my mother as soon as
possible. Perhaps you'll let me bring it up myself?"

"Do," she said. "Come again, whether you get the seed or not."

After they had started, Mr. Costell said: "I'm glad you asked that. Mrs.
Costell doesn't take kindly to many of the men who are in politics with
me, but she liked you, I could see."

Peter spoke twice in the next week in small halls in his ward. He had
good audiences, and he spoke well, if simply.

"There ain't no fireworks in his stuff," said the ward satirist. "He
don't unfurl the American flag, nor talk about liberty and the
constitution. He don't even speak of us as noble freemen. He talks just
as if he thought we was in a saloon. A feller that made that speech
about the babies ought to treat us to something moving."

That was what many of the ward thought. Still they went because they
wanted to see if he wouldn't burst out suddenly. They felt that Peter
had unlimited potentialities in the way of eloquence (for eloquence to
them meant the ability to move the emotions) and merely saved his
powers. Without quite knowing it they found what he had to say
interesting. He brought the questions at issue straight back to
elementary forms. He showed just how each paragraph in the platform
would directly affect, not the state, but the "district."

"He's thoroughly good," the party leaders were told. "If he would abuse
the other side a little more, and stick in a little tinsel and calcium
light he would be great."

So he was called upon to speak elsewhere in the city. He worked at one
of the polls on election day, and was pleased to find that he was able
to prevent a little of the "trading" for which Kennedy had arranged. His
ward went Democratic, as was a foregone conclusion, but by an unusually
large majority, and Peter found that he and Dennis were given the credit
for it, both in the ward, and at headquarters. Catlin was elected, and
the Assembly had been won. So Peter felt that his three months' work had
not been an entire failure. The proceeds of his speeches had added also
two hundred and fifty dollars to his savings bank account, and one
hundred more to the account of "Peter Stirling, Trustee."




CHAPTER XXV.

VARIOUS KINDS OF SOCIETY.


Peter spent Christmas with his mother, and found her very much worried
over his "salooning."

"It's first steps, Peter, that do the mischief," she told him.

"But, mother, I only go to talk with the men. Not to drink."

"You'll come to that later. The devil's paths always start straight, my
boy, but they end in wickedness. Promise me you won't go any more."

"I can't do that, mother. I am trying to help the men, and you ought not
ask me to stop doing what may aid others."

"Oh, my boy, my boy!" sobbed the mother.

"If you could only understand it, mother, as I have come to, you
wouldn't mind. Here, the saloon is chiefly a loafing place for the lazy
and shiftless, but in New York, it's very different. It's the poor man's
club. If you could see the dark, cold, foul-aired tenements where they
live, and then the bright, warm, cheerful saloons, that are open to all,
you would see that it isn't the drink that draws the men. I even wish
the women could come. The bulk of the men are temperate, and only take a
glass or two of beer or whisky, to pay for their welcome. They really go
for the social part, and sit and talk, or read the papers. Of course a
man gets drunk, sometimes, but usually it is not a regular customer, and
even such cases would be fewer, it we didn't tax whisky so outrageously
that the dishonest barkeepers are tempted to doctor their whisky with
drugs which drive men frantic if they drink. But most of the men are too
sensible, and too poor, to drink so as really to harm themselves."

"Peter, Peter! To think that three years in New York should bring you to
talk so! I knew New York was a sink-hole of iniquity, but I thought you
were too good a boy to be misled."

"Mother, New York has less evil in it than most places. Here, after the
mills shut down, there's no recreation for the men, and so they amuse
themselves with viciousness. But in a great place like New York, there
are a thousand amusements specially planned for the evening hours.
Exhibitions, theatres, concerts, libraries, lectures--everything to
tempt one away from wrong-doing to fine things. And there wickedness is
kept out of sight as it never is here. In New York you must go to it,
but in these small places it hunts one out and tempts one."

"Oh, Peter! Here, where there's room in church of a Sabbath for all the
folks, while they say that in New York there isn't enough seats in
churches for mor'n a quarter of the people. A missionary was saying only
last week that we ought to help raise money to build churches in New
York. Just think of there being mor'n ten saloons for every church! And
that my son should speak for them and spend nights in them!"

"I'm sorry it troubles you so. If I felt I had any right to stop, I'd do
it."

"You haven't drunk in them yet, Peter?"

"No."

"And you'll promise to write me if you do."

"I'll promise you I won't drink in them, mother."

"Thank you, Peter." Still his mother was terrified at the mere thought,
and at her request, her clergyman spoke also to Peter. He was easier to
deal with, and after a chat with Peter, he told Mrs. Stirling:

"I think he is doing no harm, and may do much good. Let him do what he
thinks best."

"It's dreadful though, to have your son's first refusal be about going
to saloons," sighed the mother.

"From the way he spoke I think his refusal was as hard to him as to you.
He's a good boy, and you had better let him judge of what's right."

On Peter's return to the city, he found an invitation from Mrs. Bohlmann
to come to a holiday festivity of which the Germans are so fond. He was
too late to go, but he called promptly, to explain why he had not
responded. He was very much surprised, on getting out his dress-suit,
now donned for the first time in three years, to find how badly it
fitted him.

"Mother is right," he had to acknowledge. "I have grown much thinner."

However, the ill-fit did not spoil his evening. He was taken into the
family room, and passed a very pleasant hour with the jolly brewer, his
friendly wife, and the two "nice girls." They were all delighted with
Catlin's election, and Peter had to tell them about his part in it. They
did not let him go when he rose, but took him into the dining-room,
where a supper was served at ten. In leaving a box of candy, saved for
him from the Christmas tree, was given him.

"You will come again, Mr. Stirling?" said Mrs. Bohlmann, warmly.

"Thank you," said Peter. "I shall be very glad to."

"Yah," said Mr. Bohlmann. "You coom choost as ofden as you blease."

Peter took his dress-suit to a tailor the next day, and ordered it to be
taken in. That individual protested loudly on the ground that the coat
was so old-fashioned that it would be better to make a new suit. Peter
told him that he wore evening dress too rarely to make a new suit worth
the having, and the tailor yielded rather than lose the job. Scarcely
had it been put in order, when Peter was asked to dine at his
clergyman's, and the next day came another invitation, to dine with
Justice Gallagher. Peter began to wonder if he had decided wisely in
vamping the old suit.

He had one of the pleasantest evenings of his life at Dr. Purple's. It
was a dinner of ten, and Peter was conscious that a real compliment had
been paid him in being included, for the rest of the men were not merely
older than himself, but they were the "strong" men of the church. Two
were trustees. All were prominent in the business world. And it pleased
Peter to find that he was not treated as the youngster of the party, but
had his opinions asked. At one point of the meal the talk drifted to a
Bethel church then under consideration, and this in turn brought up the
tenement-house question. Peter had been studying this, both practically
and in books, for the last three months. Before long, the whole table
was listening to what he had to say. When the ladies had withdrawn,
there was political talk, in which Peter was much more a listener, but
it was from preference rather than ignorance. One of the men, a
wholesale dealer in provisions, spoke of the new governor's
recommendation for food legislation.

"The leaders tell me that the legislature will do something about it,"
Peter said.

"They'll probably make it worse," said Mr. Avery.

"Don't you think it can be bettered?" asked Peter.

"Not by politicians."

"I'm studying the subject," Peter said. "Will you let me come down some
day, and talk with you about it?"

"Yes, by all means. You'd better call about lunch hour, when I'm free,
and we can talk without interruption."

Peter would much have preferred to go on discussing with the men, when
they all joined the ladies, but Mrs. Purple took him off, and placed him
between two women. They wanted to hear about "the case," so Peter
patiently went over that well-worn subject. Perhaps he had his pay by
being asked to call upon both. More probably the requests were due to
what Mrs. Purple had said of him during the smoking time:

"He seems such a nice, solid, sensible fellow. I wish some of you would
ask him to call on you. He has no friends, apparently."

The dinner at Justice Gallagher's was a horse of a very different color.
The men did not impress him very highly, and the women not at all. There
was more to eat and drink, and the talk was fast and lively. Peter was
very silent. So quiet, that Mrs. Gallagher told her "take in" that she
"guessed that young Stirling wasn't used to real fashionable dinners,"
and Peter's partner quite disregarded him for the rattling, breezy
talker on her other side. After the dinner Peter had a pleasant chat
with the Justice's seventeen-year-old daughter, who was just from a
Catholic convent, and the two tried to talk in French. It is wonderful
what rubbish is tolerable if only talked in a foreign tongue.

"I don't see what you wanted to have that Stirling for?" said Honorable
Mrs. Justice Gallagher, to him who conferred that proud title upon her,
after the guests had departed.

"You are clever, arn't you?" said Gallagher, bitingly.

"That's living with you," retorted the H.M.J., who was not easily put
down.

"Then you see that you treat Stirling as if he was somebody. He's
getting to be a power in the ward, and if you want to remain Mrs.
Justice Gallagher and spend eight thousand--and pickings--a year, you
see that you keep him friendly."

"Oh, I'll be friendly, but he's awful dull."

"Oh, no, mamma," said Monica. "He really isn't. He's read a great many
more French books than I have."

Peter lunched with the wholesale provision-dealer as planned. The lunch
hour proving insufficient for the discussion, a family dinner, a few
days later, served to continue it. The dealer's family were not very
enthusiastic about Peter.

"He knows nothing but grub talk," grumbled the heir apparent, who from
the proud altitude of a broker's office, had come to scorn the family
trade.

"He doesn't know any fashionable people," said one of the girls, who
having unfulfilled ambitions concerning that class, was doubly
interested and influenced by its standards and idols.

"He certainly is not brilliant," remarked the mother.

"Humph," growled the pater-familias, "that's the way all you women go
on. Brilliant! Fashionable! I don't wonder marriage is a failure when I
see what you like in men. That Stirling is worth all your dancing men,
but just because he holds his tongue when he hasn't a sensible thing to
say, you think he's no good."

"Still he is 'a nobody.'"

"He's the fellow who made that big speech in the stump-tail milk case."

"Not that man?"

"Exactly. But of course he isn't 'brilliant.'"

"I never should have dreamed it."

"Still," said the heir, "he keeps his eloquence for cows, and not for
dinners."

"He talked very well at Dr. Purple's," said the mamma, whose opinion of
Peter had undergone a change.

"And he was invited to call by Mrs. Dupont and Mrs. Sizer, which is more
than you've ever been," said Avery senior to Avery junior.

"That's because of the prog," growled the son, seeing his opportunity to
square accounts quickly.

Coming out of church the next Sunday, Peter was laid hold of by the
Bohlmanns and carried off to a mid-day dinner, at which were a lot of
pleasant Germans, who made it very jolly with their kindly humor. He did
not contribute much to the laughter, but every one seemed to think him
an addition to the big table.

Thus it came to pass that late in January Peter dedicated a week of
evenings to "Society," and nightly donning his dress suit, called
dutifully on Mrs. Dupont, Mrs. Sizer, Mrs. Purple, Mrs. Avery, Mrs.
Costell, Mrs. Gallagher and Mrs. Bohlmann. Peter was becoming very
frivolous.




CHAPTER XXVI.

AN EVENING CALL.


But Peter's social gadding did not end with these bread-and-butter
calls. One afternoon in March, he went into the shop of a famous
picture-dealer, to look over an exhibition then advertised, and had
nearly finished his patient examination of each picture, which always
involved quite as much mental gymnastics as aesthetic pleasure to Peter,
when he heard a pleasant:

"How do you do, Mr. Stirling?"

Turning, he found Miss De Voe and a well-dressed man at his elbow.
Peter's face lighted up in a way which made the lady say to herself: "I
wonder why he wouldn't buy another ticket?" Aloud she said, "I want you
to know another of my cousins. Mr. Ogden, Mr. Stirling."

"Charmed," said Mr. Ogden genially. Any expression which Peter had
thought of using seemed so absolutely lame, beside this passive
participle, that he merely bowed.

"I did not know you cared for pictures," said Miss De Voe.

"I see most of the public exhibitions," Peter told her. "I try to like
them."

Miss De Voe looked puzzled.

"Don't," said Mr. Ogden. "I tried once, when I first began. But it's
much easier to notice what women say, and answer 'yes' and 'no' at the
right points."

Peter looked puzzled.

"Nonsense, Lispenard," said Miss De Voe. "He's really one of the best
connoisseurs I know, Mr. Stirling."

"There," said Lispenard. "You see. Only agree with people, and they
think you know everything."

"I suppose you have seen the pictures, and so won't care to go round
with us?" inquired Miss De Voe.

"I've looked at them, but I should like to go over again with you," said
Peter. Then he added, "if I shan't be in the way."

"Not a bit," said Lispenard heartily. "My cousin always wants a
listener. It will be a charity to her tongue and my ears." Miss De Voe
merely gave him a very pleasant smile. "I wonder why he wouldn't buy a
ticket?" she thought.

Peter was rather astonished at the way they looked at the pictures. They
would pass by a dozen without giving them a second glance, and then stop
at one, and chat about it for ten minutes. He found that Miss De Voe had
not exaggerated her cousin's art knowledge. He talked familiarly and
brilliantly, though making constant fun of his own opinions, and often
jeering at the faults of the picture. Miss De Voe also talked well, so
Peter really did supply the ears for the party. He was very much pleased
when they both praised a certain picture.

"I liked that," he told them, making the first remark (not a question)
which he had yet made. "It seemed to me the best here."

"Unquestionably," said Lispenard. "There is poetry and feeling in it."

Miss De Voe said: "That is not the one I should have thought of your
liking."

"That's womanly," said Lispenard, "they are always deciding what a man
should like."

"No," denied Miss De Voe. "But I should think with your liking for
children, that you would have preferred that piece of Brown's, rather
than this sad, desolate sand-dune."

"I cannot say why I like it, except, that I feel as if it had something
to do with my own mood at times."

"Are you very lonely?" asked Miss De Voe, in a voice too low for
Lispenard to hear.

"Sometimes," said Peter, simply.

"I wish," said Miss De Voe, still speaking low, "that the next time you
feel so you would come and see me."

"I will," said Peter.

When they parted at the door, Peter thanked Lispenard: "I've really
learned a good deal, thanks to Miss De Voe and you. I've seen the
pictures with eyes that know much more about them than mine do."

"Well, we'll have to have another turn some day. We're always in search
of listeners."

"If you come and see me, Mr. Stirling," said Miss De Voe, "you shall see
my pictures. Good-bye."

"So that is your Democratic heeler?" said Lispenard, eyeing Peter's
retreating figure through the carriage window.

"Don't call him that, Lispenard," said Miss De Voe, wincing.

Lispenard laughed, and leaned back into a comfortable attitude. "Then
that's your protector of sick kittens?"

Miss De Voe made no reply. She was thinking of that dreary wintry
stretch of sand and dune.

Thus it came to pass that a week later, when a north-easter had met a
south-wester overhead and both in combination had turned New York
streets into a series of funnels, in and through which wind, sleet and
snow fought for possession, to the almost absolute dispossession of
humanity and horses, that Peter ended a long stare at his blank wall by
putting on his dress-suit, and plunging into the streets. He had, very
foolishly, decided to omit dinner, a couple of hours before, rather than
face the storm, and a north-east wind and an empty stomach are enough to
set any man staring at nothing, if that dangerous inclination is at all
habitual. Peter realized this, for the opium eater is always keenly
alive to the dangers of the drug. Usually he fought the tendency
bravely, but this night he felt too tired to fight himself, and
preferred to battle with a little thing like a New York storm. So he
struggled through the deserted streets until he had reached his
objective point in the broad Second Avenue house. Miss De Voe was at
home, but was "still at dinner."

Peter vacillated, wondering what the correct thing was under the
circumstances. The footman, remembering him of old, and servants in
those simple days being still open to impressions, suggested that he
wait. Peter gladly accepted the idea. But he did not wait, for hardly
had the footman left him than that functionary returned, to tell Peter
that Miss De Voe would see him in the dining-room.

"I asked you to come in here, because I'm sure, after venturing out such
a night, you would like an extra cup of coffee," Miss De Voe explained.
"You need not sit at the table. Morden, put a chair by the fire."

So Peter found himself sitting in front of a big wood-fire, drinking a
cup of coffee decidedly better in quality than his home-brew. Blank
walls ceased to have any particular value for the time.

In a moment Miss De Voe joined him at the fire. A small table was moved
up, and a plate of fruit, and a cup of coffee placed upon it.

"That is all, Morden," she said. "It is so nice of you to have come this
evening. I was promising myself a very solitary time, and was dawdling
over my dinner to kill some of it. Isn't it a dreadful night?"

"It's blowing hard. Two or three times I thought I should have to give
it up."

"You didn't walk?"

"Yes. I could have taken a solitary-car that passed, but the horses were
so done up that I thought I was better able to walk."

Miss De Voe touched the bell. "Another cup of coffee, Morden, and bring
the cognac," she said. "I am not going to let you please your mother
to-night," she told Peter. "I am going to make you do what I wish." So
she poured a liberal portion of the eau-de-vie into Peter's second cup,
and he most dutifully drank it. "How funny that he should be so
obstinate sometimes, and so obedient at others," thought Miss De Voe. "I
don't generally let men smoke, but I'm going to make an exception
to-night in your case," she continued.

It was a sore temptation to Peter, but he answered quickly, "Thank you
for the thought, but I won't this evening."

"You have smoked after dinner already?"

"No. I tried to keep my pipe lighted in the street, but it blew and
sleeted too hard."

"Then you had better."

"Thank you, no."

Miss De Voe thought her former thought again.

"Where do you generally dine?" she asked.

"I have no regular place. Just where I happen to be."

"And to-night?"

Peter was not good at dodging. He was silent for a moment. Then he said,
"I saw rather a curious thing, as I was walking up. Would you like to
hear about it?"

Miss De Voe looked at him curiously, but she did not seem particularly
interested in what Peter had to tell her, in response to her "yes." It
concerned an arrest on the streets for drunkenness.

"I didn't think the fellow was half as drunk as frozen," Peter
concluded, "and I told the policeman it was a case for an ambulance
rather than a station-house. He didn't agree, so I had to go with them
both to the precinct and speak to the superintendent."

"That was before your dinner?" asked Miss De Voe, calmly.

It was a very easily answered question, apparently, but Peter was silent
again.

"It was coming up here," he said finally.

"What is he trying to keep back?" asked Miss De Voe mentally. "I suppose
some of the down-town places are not quite--but he wouldn't--" then she
said out loud: "I wonder if you men do as women do, when they dine
alone? Just live on slops. Now, what did you order to-night? Were you an
ascetic or a sybarite?"

"Usually," said Peter, "I eat a very simple dinner."

"And to-night?"

"Why do you want to know about to-day?"

"Because I wish to learn where you dined, and thought I could form some
conclusion from your menu." Miss De Voe laughed, so as to make it appear
a joke, but she knew very well that she was misbehaving.

"I didn't reply to your question," said Peter, "because I would have
preferred not. But if you really wish to know, I'll answer it."

"Yes. I should like to know." Miss De Voe still smiled.

"I haven't dined."

"Mr. Stirling! You are joking?" Miss De Voe's smile had ended, and she
was sitting up very straight in her chair. Women will do without eating
for an indefinite period, and think nothing of it, but the thought of a
hungry man fills them with horror--unless they have the wherewithal to
mitigate the consequent appetite. Hunger with woman, as regards herself,
is "a theory." As regards a man it is "a condition."

"No," said Peter.

Miss De Voe touched the bell again, but quickly as Morden answered it,
Peter was already speaking.

"You are not to trouble yourself on my account, Miss De Voe. I wish for
nothing."

"You must have--"

Peter was rude enough to interrupt with the word "Nothing."

"But I shall not have a moment's pleasure in your call if I think of you
as--"

Peter interrupted again. "If that is so," he said, rising, "I had better
go."

"No," cried Miss De Voe. "Oh, won't you please? It's no trouble. I'll
not order much."

"Nothing, thank you," said Peter.

"Just a chop or--"

Peter held out his hand.

"No, no. Sit down. Of course you are to do as you please. But I should
be so happy if--?" and Miss De Voe looked at Peter appealingly.

"No. Thank you."

"Nothing, Morden." They sat down again. "Why didn't you dine?" asked
Miss De Voe.

"I didn't care to face the storm."

"Yet you came out?"

"Yes. I got blue, and thought it foolish to stay indoors by myself."

"I'm very glad you came here. It's a great compliment to find an evening
with me put above dinner. You know I had the feeling that you didn't
like me."

"I'm sorry for that. It's not so."

"If not, why did you insist on my twice asking you to call on me?"

"I did not want to call on you without being sure that you really wished
to have me."

"Then why wouldn't you stay and dine at Saratoga?"

"Because my ticket wouldn't have been good."

"But a new ticket would only cost seven dollars."

"In my neighborhood, we don't say 'only seven dollars.'"

"But you don't need to think of seven dollars."

"I do. I never have spent seven dollars on a dinner in my life."

"But you should have, this time, after making seven hundred and fifty
dollars in one month. I know men who would give that amount to dine with
me." It was a foolish brag, but Miss De Voe felt that her usual means of
inspiring respect were not working,--not even realized.

"Very likely. But I can't afford such luxuries. I had spent more than
usual and had to be careful."

"Then it was economy?"

"Yes."

"I had no idea my dinner invitations would ever be held in so little
respect that a man would decline one to save seven dollars." Miss De Voe
was hurt. "I had given him five hundred dollars," she told herself, "and
he ought to have been willing to spend such a small amount of it to
please me." Then she said; "A great many people economize in foolish
ways."

"I suppose so," said Peter. "I'm sorry if I disappointed you. I really
didn't think I ought to spend the money."

"Never mind," said Miss De Voe. "Were you pleased with the nomination
and election of Catlin?"

"I was pleased at the election, but I should have preferred Porter."

"I thought you tried to prevent Porter's nomination?"

"That's what the papers said, but they didn't understand."

"I wasn't thinking of the papers. You know I heard your speech in the
convention."

"A great many people seem to have misunderstood me. I tried to make it
clear."

"Did you intend that the convention should laugh?"

"No. That surprised and grieved me very much!"

Miss De Voe gathered from this and from what the papers had said that it
must be a mortifying subject to Peter, and knew that she ought to
discontinue it. But she could not help saying, "Why?"

"It's difficult to explain, I'm afraid. I had a feeling that a man was
trying to do wrong, but I hoped that I was mistaken. It seemed to me
that circumstances compelled me to tell the convention all about it, but
I was very careful not to hint at my suspicion. Yet the moment I told
them they laughed."

"Why?"

"Because they felt sure that the man had done wrong."

"Oh!" It was a small exclamation, but the expression Miss De Voe put
into it gave it a big meaning. "Then they were laughing at Maguire?"

"At the time they were. Really, though, they were laughing at human
weakness. Most people seem to find that amusing."

"And that is why you were grieved?"

"Yes."

"But why did the papers treat you so badly?"

"Mr. Costell tells me that I told too much truth for people to
understand. I ought to have said nothing, or charged a bargain right
out, for then they would have understood. A friend of--a fellow I used
to know, said I was the best chap for bungling he ever knew, and I'm
afraid it's true."

"Do you know Costell? I thought he was such a dishonest politician?"

"I know Mr. Costell. I haven't met the dishonest politician yet."

"You mean?"

"He hasn't shown me the side the papers talk about."

"And when he does?"

"I shall be very sorry, for I like him, and I like his wife." Then Peter
told about the little woman who hated politics and loved flowers, and
about the cool, able manager of men, who could not restrain himself from
putting his arms about the necks of his favorite horses, and who had
told about the death of one of his mares with tears in his eyes. "He had
his cheek cut open by a kick from one of his horses once, and he speaks
of it just as we would speak of some unintentional fault of a child."

"Has he a great scar on his cheek?"

"Yes. Have you seen him?"

"Once. Just as we were coming out of the convention. He said something
about you to a group of men which called my attention to him." Miss De
Voe thought Peter would ask her what it was. "Would you like to know
what he said?" she asked, when Peter failed to do so.

"I think he would have said it to me, if he wished me to hear it."

Miss De Voe's mind reverted to her criticism of Peter. "He is so
absolutely without our standards." Her chair suddenly ceased to be
comfortable. She rose, saying, "Let us go to the library. I shall not
show you my pictures now. The gallery is too big to be pleasant such a
night. You must come again for that. Won't you tell me about some of the
other men you are meeting in politics?" she asked when they had sat down
before another open fire. "It seems as if all the people I know are just
alike--I suppose it's because we are all so conventional--and I am very
much interested in hearing about other kinds."

So Peter told about Dennis and Blunkers, and the "b'ys" in the saloons;
about Green and his fellow delegates; about the Honorable Mr., Mrs., and
Miss Gallagher, and their dinner companions. He did not satirize in the
least. He merely told various incidents and conversations, in a sober,
serious way; but Miss De Voe was quietly amused by much of the narrative
and said to herself, "I think he has humor, but is too serious-minded to
yield to it." She must have enjoyed his talk for she would not let Peter
go early, and he was still too ignorant of social usages to know how to
get away, whether a woman wished or no. Finally he insisted that he must
leave when the clock pointed dangerously near eleven.

"Mr. Stirling," said Miss De Voe, in a doubtful, "won't-you-please"
voice, such as few men had ever heard from her, "I want you to let me
send you home? It will only take a moment to have the carriage here."

"I wouldn't take a horse out in such weather," said Peter, in a very
settling kind of voice.

"He's obstinate," thought Miss De Voe. "And he makes his obstinacy so
dreadfully--dreadfully pronounced!" Aloud she said: "You will come
again?"

"If you will let me."

"Do. I am very much alone too, as perhaps you know?" Miss De Voe did not
choose to say that her rooms could be filled nightly and that
everywhere she was welcome.

"No. I really know nothing about you, except what you have told me, and
what I have seen."

Miss De Voe laughed merrily at Peter's frankness. "I feel as if I knew
all about you," she said.

"But you have asked questions," replied Peter.

Miss De Voe caught her breath again. Try as she would, she could not get
accustomed to Peter. All her social experience failed to bridge the
chasm opened by his speech. "What did he mean by that plain statement,
spoken in such a matter-of-fact voice?" she asked herself. Of course the
pause could not continue indefinitely, and she finally said: "I have
lived alone ever since my father's death. I have relatives, but prefer
to stay here. I am so much more independent. I suppose I shall have to
move some day. This part of the city is beginning to change so." Miss De
Voe was merely talking against time, and was not sorry when Peter shook
hands, and left her alone.

"He's very different from most men," she said to the blazing logs. "He
is so uncomplimentary and outspoken! How can he succeed in politics?
Still, after the conventional society man he is--he is--very refreshing.
I think I must help him a little socially."




CHAPTER XXVII.

A DINNER.


The last remark made by Miss De Voe to her fire resulted, after a few
days, in Peter's receiving a formal dinner invitation, which he accepted
with a promptness not to be surpassed by the best-bred diner-out. He
regretted now his vamping of the old suit. Peter understood that he was
in for quite another affair than the Avery, the Gallagher, or even the
Purple dinner. He did not worry, however, and if in the dressing-room he
looked furtively at the coats of the other men, he entirely forgot the
subject the moment he started downstairs, and thought no further of it
till he came to take off the suit in his own room.

When Peter entered the drawing-room, he found it well filled with young
people, and for a moment a little of the bewildered feeling of four
years before came over him. But he found himself chatting with Miss De
Voe, and the feeling left him as quickly as it had come. In a moment he
was introduced to a "Miss Lenox," who began talking in an easy way which
gave Peter just as much or as little to say as he chose. Peter wondered
if many girls were as easy to talk to as--as--Miss Lenox.

He took Miss De Voe in, and found Dorothy Ogden sitting on his other
side. He had barely exchanged greetings with her, when he heard his name
spoken from across the table, and looking up, he found Miss Leroy
sitting opposite.

"I hope you haven't entirely forgotten me," that girl said, the moment
his attention was caught.

"Not at all," said Peter.

"Nor my dress," laughed Miss Leroy.

"I remember the style, material, and train."

"Especially the train I am sure."

"Do explain these mysterious remarks," said Dorothy.

"Mr. Stirling and I officiated at a wedding, and I was in such mortal
terror lest some usher should step on my gown, that it became a joke."

"Whose wedding was that?" asked Miss De Voe.

"Miss Pierce's and Watts D'Alloi's," said the bridesmaid.

"Do you know Watts D'Alloi?" exclaimed Miss De Voe to Peter.

"Yes."

"Indeed! When?"

"At college."

"Are you a Harvard man?"

"Yes."

"You were Mr. D'Alloi's chum, weren't you?" said Miss Leroy.

"Yes."

"Watts D'Alloi?" again exclaimed Miss De Voe.

"Yes."

"But he's a mere boy."

"He's two years my senior."

"You don't mean it?"

"Yes."

"I thought you were over thirty."

"Most people do."

Miss De Voe said to herself, "I don't know as much about him as I
thought I did. He may be very frank, but he doesn't tell all one thinks.
Now I know where he gets his nice manner. I ought to have recognized the
Harvard finish."

"When did you last hear from the D'Allois?" asked Miss Leroy.

"Not since they sailed," said Peter, wincing internally.

"Not really?" said the bridesmaid. "Surely you've heard of the baby?"

"No." Lines were coming into Peter's face which Miss De Voe had never
before seen.

"How strange. The letters must have gone astray. But you have written
him?"

"I did not know his address."

"Then you really haven't heard of the little baby--why, it was born
two--no, three years ago--and of Helen's long ill-health, and of their
taking a villa on the Riviera, and of how they hope to come home this
spring?"

"No."

"Yes. They will sail in June if Helen is well enough. I'm to be
god-mother."

"If you were Mr. D'Alloi's chum, you must have known Ray Rivington,"
said Dorothy.

"Yes. But I've not seen him since we graduated. He went out West."

"He has just returned. Ranching is not to his taste."

"Will you, if you see him, say that I'm in New York and should like to
run across him?"

"I will. He and Laurence--my second brother--are old cronies, and he
often drops in on us. I want you to know my brothers. They are both here
this evening."

"I have met the elder one, I suppose."

"No. That was a cousin, Lispenard Ogden. He spoke of meeting you. You
would be amused to hear his comment about you."

"Mr. Stirling doesn't like to have speeches repeated to him, Dorothy,"
said Miss De Voe.

"What do you mean?" asked Dorothy, looking from one to the other.

"He snubbed me the other evening when I tried to tell him what we heard,
coming out of the convention last autumn," explained Miss De Voe,
smiling slightly at the thought of treating Peter with a dose of his own
medicine.

Peter looked at Miss De Voe. "I hope you don't mean that?"

"How else could I take it?"

"You asked me if I wished something, and I merely declined, I think."

"Oh, no. You reproved me."

"I'm very sorry if I did. I'm always blundering."

"Tell us what Lispenard said, Dorothy. I'm curious myself."

"May I, Mr. Stirling?

"I would rather not," said Peter.

And Dorothy did not tell him, but in the drawing-room she told Miss De
Voe:

"He said that except his professor of archaeology at Heidelberg, Mr.
Stirling was the nicest old dullard he'd ever met, and that he must be a
very good chap to smoke with."

"He said that, Dorothy?" exclaimed Miss De Voe, contemptuously.

"Yes."

"How ridiculous," said Miss De Voe. "Lispenard's always trying to hit
things off in epigrams, and sometimes he's very foolish." Then she
turned to Miss Leroy. "It was very nice, your knowing Mr. Stirling."

"I only met him that once. But he's the kind of man somehow that you
remember. It's curious I've never heard of him since then."

"You know he's the man who made that splendid speech when the poor
children were poisoned summer before last."

"I can't believe it!"

"It's so. That is the way I came to know him."

Miss Leroy laughed. "And Helen said he was a man who needed help in
talking!"

"Was Mrs. D'Alloi a great friend of his?"

"No. She told me that Watts had brought him to see them only once. I
don't think Mr. Pierce liked him."

"He evidently was very much hurt at Watts's not writing him."

"Yes. I was really sorry I spoke, when I saw how he took it."

"Watts is a nice boy, but he always was thoughtless."

In passing out of the dining-room, Dorothy had spoken to a man for a
moment, and he at once joined Peter.

"You know my sister, Miss Ogden, who's the best representative of us,"
he said. "Now I'll show you the worst. I don't know whether she
exploited her brother Ogden to you?"

"Yes. She talked about you and your brother this evening."

"Trust her to stand by her family. There's more loyalty in her than
there was in the army of the Potomac. My cousin Lispenard says it's
wrecking his nervous system to live up to the reputation she makes for
him."

"I never had a sister, but it must be rather a good thing to live up
to."

"Yes. And to live with. Especially other fellows' sisters."

"Are you ready to part with yours for that purpose?"

"No. That's asking too much. By the way, I think we are in the same
work. I'm in the office of Jarvis, Redburn and Saltus."

"I'm trying it by myself."

"You've been very lucky."

"Yes. I've succeeded much better than I hoped for. But I've had very few
clients."

"Fortunately it doesn't take many. Two or three rich steady clients will
keep a fellow running. I know a man who's only got one, but he runs him
for all he's worth, and gets a pretty good living out of him."

"My clients haven't been of that sort." Peter smiled a little at the
thought of making a steady living out of the Blacketts, Dooleys or
Milligans.

"It's all a matter of friends."

Peter had a different theory, but he did not say so. Just at that point
they were joined by Laurence Ogden, who was duly introduced, and in a
moment the conversation at their end of the table became general. Peter
listened, enjoying his Havana.

When they joined the ladies, they found Lispenard Ogden there, and he
intercepted Peter.

"Look here," he said. "A friend of mine has just come back from Europe,
with a lot of prints. He's a fellow who thinks he has discrimination,
and he wants me to come up and look them over to-morrow evening. He
hopes to have his own taste approved and flattered. I'm not a bit good
at that, with men. Won't you go with me, and help me lie?"

"Of course I should like to."

"All right. Dine with me at six at the Union Club."

"I'm not going to let you talk to each other," said Miss De Voe.
"Lispenard, go and talk with Miss McDougal."

"See how quickly lying brings its own punishment," laughed Lispenard,
walking away.

"What does he mean?" asked Miss De Voe.

"The opposite of what he says, I think," said Peter.

"That is a very good description of Lispenard. Almost good enough to
have been said by himself. If you don't mind, I'll tell him."

"No."

"Do tell me, Mr. Stirling, how you and Watts D'Alloi came to room
together?"

"He asked me."

"Yes. But what ever made him do that?"

"I've often wondered myself."

"I can easily understand his asking you, but what first threw you
together?"

"A college scrape."

"Were you in a college scrape?"

"Yes. I was up before the faculty twice."

"Do tell me what you had done?"

"I was charged with stealing the chapel Bible, and with painting a front
door of one of the professors."

"And had you done these things?"

"No."

The guests began to say good-night, so the dialogue was interrupted.
When it came Peter's turn to go, Miss De Voe said:

"I hope you will not again refuse my dinner invitations."

"I have had a very pleasant evening," said Peter. "But I had a
pleasanter one, the other night."

"Good-evening," said Miss De Voe mechanically. She was really thinking
"What a very nice speech. He couldn't have meant anything by his remark
about the questions."

Peter dined the next evening with Lispenard, who in the course of the
meal turned the conversation to Miss De Voe. Lispenard was curious to
learn just what Peter knew of her.

"She's a great swell, of course," he said incidentally.

"I suppose so. I really know nothing about her, but the moment I saw her
I felt that she was different from any other woman I had ever met."

"But you've found out about her since?"

"No. I was tempted to question Dr. Purple, but I didn't like to ask
about a friend."

Lispenard laughed. "You've got a pretty bad case of conscience, I'm
afraid. It's a poor thing to have in New York, too. Well, my cousin is
one of the richest, best born women in this country, though I say it.
You can't do better than cultivate her."

"Is that what you do?"

"No. You have me there. She doesn't approve of me at all. You see, women
in this country expect a man to be serious and work. I can't do either.
I suppose its my foreign education. She likes my company, and finds my
escortage very convenient. But while she thinks I'm a pretty good
companion, she is sure I'm a poor sort of a man. If she takes a shine to
you, make the most of it. She can give you anything she pleases
socially."

"I suppose you have anything you please socially?"

"Pretty much."

"And would you advise me to spend time to get it?"

"Um. I wouldn't give the toss of a copper for it--but I can have it.
It's not being able to have it that's the bad thing."

"So I have found," said Peter gravely.

Lispenard laughed heartily, as he sipped his "Court France." "I wish,"
he said, "that a lot of people, whose lives are given to nothing else,
could have heard you say that, in that tone of voice. You don't spell
Society with a capital, do you?"

"Possibly," said Peter, "if I had more capital, I should use some on
society."

"Good," said Lispenard. "Heavens," he said to himself, "he's made a
joke! Cousin Anneke will never believe it."

He told her the next day, and his statement proved correct.

"I know you made the joke," she said. "He didn't."

"And why shouldn't he joke as well as I?"

"It doesn't suit him."

"Why not?"

"Parlor tricks are all right in a lap-dog, but they only belittle a
mastiff."

Lispenard laughed good-naturedly. He was used to his cousin's hits at
his do-nothingness, and rather enjoyed them. "He is a big beast, isn't
he? But he's a nice fellow. We had such a good time over Le Grand's
etchings last night. Didn't get away till after one. It's really a
pleasure to find a man who can smoke and keep quiet, and yet enjoy
things strongly. Le Grand was taken with him too. We just fitted each
other."

"I'm glad you took him. I'm going to give him some society."

"Did you ever hear the story of Dr. Brown?"

"No. What is it?"

"A certain widow announced to her son that she was to marry Dr. Brown.
'Bully for you, Ma,' said the son, 'Does Dr. Brown know it?'"

"What do you mean?"

Lispenard laughed. "Does Stirling know it? Because I advise you to tell
him before you decide to do anything with him. He's not easy to drive."

"Of course he'll be glad to meet nice people."

"Try him."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that Peter Stirling won't give a raparee for all the society you
can give him."

"You don't know what you are talking about."

But Lispenard was right. Peter had enjoyed the dinner at Miss De Voe's
and the evening at Mr. Le Grand's. Yet each night on reaching his rooms,
he had sat long hours in his straight office chair, in the dark. He was
thinking of what Miss Leroy had told him of--of--He was not thinking of
"Society."




CHAPTER XXVIII.

COMMISSIONS.


Peter made his dinner call at Miss De Voe's, but did not find her at
home. He received a very pleasant letter expressing her regret at
missing him, and a request to lunch with her two days later, and to go
with some friends to an afternoon piano recital, "if you care for music.
If not, merely lunch with us." Peter replied that he was very sorry, but
business called him to Albany on that day.

"I really regret it," said Miss De Voe to Dorothy. "It is getting so
late in the season, that unless he makes his call quickly, I shall
hardly be able to give him more than one other chance."

Peter's business in Albany had been sprung on him suddenly. It was
neither more nor less than a request sent verbally through Costell from
Governor Catlin, to come up and see him.

"It's about the food and tenement commission bills," Costell told him.
"They'll be passed by the Senate to-day or to-morrow, and be in Catlin's
hands."

"I hope he'll make good appointments," said Peter, anxiously.

"I think he will," said Costell, smiling quietly. "But I don't believe
they will be able to do much. Commissions are commonly a way of staving
off legislation."

Peter went up to Albany and saw Catlin. Much to his surprise he found
the Governor asking his advice about the bills and the personnel of the
commissions. But after a few minutes he found that this seeking for aid
and support in all matters was chronic, and meant nothing special in his
own case.

"Mr. Schlurger tells me, though he introduced the bills, that you
drafted both. Do you think I had better sign them?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Costell told me to take your advice. You really think I had
better?"

"Yes."

The Governor evidently found something solacing in the firm voice in
which Peter spoke his "yes." He drew two papers towards him.

"You really think I had better?"

"Yes."

The Governor dipped his pen in the ink, but hesitated.

"The amendments haven't hurt them?" he queried.

"Not much."

"But they have been hurt?"

"They have been made better in some ways."

"Really?"

"Yes."

Still the Governor hesitated, but finally began a big G. Having
committed himself, he wrote the rest rapidly. He paused for a moment
over the second bill, and fingered it nervously. Then he signed it
quickly. "That's done." He shoved them both away much as if they were
dangerous.

"I wonder," thought Peter, "if he enjoys politics?"

"There's been a great deal of trouble about the commissioners," said the
Governor.

"I suppose so," said Peter.

"Even now, I can't decide. The leaders all want different men."

"The decision rests with you."

"That's the trouble," sighed the Governor. "If only they'd agree."

"You should make your own choice. You will be held responsible if the
appointments are bad."

"I know I shall. Just look over those lists, and see if you think
they'll do?"

Peter took the slips of paper and read them.

"I needn't say I'm pleased to see my name," he said. "I had no idea you
would think of me."

"That was done by Costell," said the Governor, hastening to shift the
responsibility.

"I really don't know any of the rest well enough to express an opinion.
Personally, I should like to see some scientific men on each
commission."

"Scientific! But we have none in politics."

"No? But this isn't politics."

"I hoped you'd think these lists right."

"I think they are good. And the bills give us the power to take
evidence; perhaps we can get the scientific part that way."

Peter did his best to brace Catlin up; and his talk or other pressure
seemed to have partially galvanized the backbone of that limp
individual, for a week later the papers announced the naming of the two
commissions. The lists had been changed, however. That on food consisted
of Green, a wholesale grocer, and a member of the Health Board. Peter's
name had been dropped. That on tenements, of five members, was made up
of Peter; a very large property-owner in New York, who was a member as
well of the Assembly; a professional labor agitator; a well-known
politician of the better type, and a public contractor. Peter, who had
been studying some reports of a British Royal Commission on the same
subject, looked grave, thinking that what the trained men in England had
failed in doing, he could hardly hope to accomplish with such
ill-assorted instruments. The papers were rather down on the lists. "The
appointments have destroyed any chance of possible benefit," was their
general conclusion, and Peter feared they were right.

Costell laughed when Peter spoke of the commissions. "If you want Catlin
to do anything well, you've got to stand over him till it's done. I
wanted you on both commissions, so that you could see how useless they
all are, and not blame us politicians for failing in our duty. Green
promises to get you appointed Secretary of the Food Commission, which is
the next best thing, and will give you a good salary for a time."

The Tenement Commission met with little delay, and Peter had a chance to
examine its motley members. The big landlord was a great swell, who had
political ambitions, but was too exclusive, and too much of a dilettante
to be a real force. Peter took a prejudice against him before meeting
him, for he knew just how his election to the Assembly had been
obtained--even the size of the check--and Peter thought buying an
election was not a very creditable business. He did not like what he
knew of the labor agitator, for such of the latter's utterances and
opinions as he had read seemed to be the cheapest kind of demagogism.
The politician he had met and liked. Of the contractor he knew nothing.

The Commission organized by electing the politician as chairman. Then
the naming of a secretary was discussed, each member but Peter having a
candidate. Much to Peter's surprise, the landlord, Mr. Pell, named Ray
Rivington.

"I thought he was studying law?" Peter said.

"He is," said Pell. "But he can easily arrange to get off for the few
hours we shall meet a week, and the five dollars a day will be a very
nice addition to his income. Do you know him?"

"We were in college together. I thought he was rich."

"No. He's of good family, but the Rivingtons are growing poorer every
year. They try to live on their traditions, and traditions don't pay
grocers. I hope you'll help him. He's a very decent fellow."

"I shall vote for him," replied Peter, marvelling that he should be able
to give a lift to the man who, in the Harvard days, had seemed so
thoroughly the mate of Watts and the other rich fellows of the "gang."
Rivington being the only candidate who had two votes, he was promptly
selected.

Thirty arduous minutes were spent in waiting for the arrival of the
fifth member of the Commission, and in the election of chairman and
secretary. A motion was then made to adjourn, on the ground that the
Commission could not proceed without the secretary.

Peter promptly objected. He had been named secretary for this particular
meeting, and offered to act until Rivington could be notified. "I
think," he said, "that we ought to lay out our programme."

The labor agitator agreed with him, and, rising, delivered an extempore
speech, declaring that "we must not delay. The leeches (here he looked
at Mr. Pell) are sucking the life-blood of the people," etc.

The chairman started to call him to order, but Peter put his hand on the
chairman's arm. "If you stop him," he said in a low voice, "he'll think
we are against him, and he'll say so outside."

"But it's such foolishness."

"And so harmless! While he's talking, look over this." Peter produced an
outline of action which he had drawn up, and having written it in
duplicate, he passed one draft over to Mr. Pell.

They all let the speech go on, Peter, Mr. Pell and the chairman chatting
over the plan, while the contractor went to sleep. The agitator tried to
continue, but as the inattention became more and more evident, his
speech became tamer and tamer. Finally he said, "That is my opinion,"
and sat down.

The cessation of the oration waked up the contractor, and Peter's
outline was read aloud.

"I don't move its adoption," said Peter. "I merely submit it as a
basis."

Not one of the members had come prepared with knowledge of how to go to
work, except the chairman, who had served on other commissions. He said:

"I think Mr. Stirling's scheme shows very careful thought and is
admirable. We cannot do better than adopt it."

"It is chiefly copied from the German committee of three years ago,"
Peter told them. "But I have tried to modify it to suit the different
conditions."

Mr. Pell objected to the proposed frequent sittings. Thereupon the
agitator praised that feature. The hour of meeting caused discussion.
But finally the scheme was adopted, and the date of the first session
fixed.

Peter went downstairs with Mr. Pell, and the latter offered to drop him
at his office. So they drove off together, and talked about the
Commission.

"That Kurfeldt is going to be a nuisance," said Pell

"I can't say yet. He evidently has no idea of what our aim is. Perhaps,
though, when we really get to work, he'll prove useful."

Peter had a call the next day from Rivington. It was made up of thanks,
of college chat, and of inquiry as to duties. Peter outlined the
preliminary work, drafted the "Inquiries" and other printed papers
necessary to be sent out before the first meeting, and told him about
the procedure at the meetings.

"I know I shall get into all kinds of pickles," said Ray. "I write such
a bad hand that often I can't read it myself. How the deuce am I to take
down evidence?"

"I shall make notes for my own use, and you will be welcome to them, if
they will help you."

"Thanks, Peter. That's like you."

The Commission began its inquiry, on the date fixed, and met three times
a week from that time on. Peter did not try to push himself forward, but
he was by far the best prepared on the subject, and was able to suggest
the best sources of information. He asked good questions, too, of the
various witnesses summoned. Finally he was the one regular attendant,
and therefore was the one appealed to for information elicited at
previous meetings. He found the politician his best helper. Pell was
useful when he attended, which was not very often, and even this
intermittent attendance ceased in June. "I'm going to Newport," he
explained, and did not appear again till late in the fall. The
contractor really took no part in the proceedings beyond a fairly
frequent attendance, and an occasional fit of attention whenever the
inquiry related to building. The labor-agitator proved quite a good man.
He had, it is true, no memory, and caused them to waste much time in
reading over the minutes of previous meetings. But he was in earnest,
and proved to be perfectly reasonable as soon as he found that the
commissioners' duties were to inquire and not to make speeches. Peter
walked home with him several times, and they spent evenings together in
Peter's rooms, talking over the evidence, and the possibilities.

Peter met a great many different men in the course of the inquiry;
landlords, real-estate agents, architects, engineers, builders,
plumbers, health officials, doctors and tenants. In many cases he went
to see these persons after they had been before the Commission, and
talked with them, finding that they were quite willing to give facts in
private which they did not care to have put on record.

He had been appointed the Secretary of the Food Commission, and spent
much time on that work. He was glad to find that he had considerable
influence, and that Green not merely acted on his suggestions, but
encouraged him to make them. The two inquiries were so germane that they
helped him reciprocally. No reports were needed till the next meeting of
the Legislature, in the following January, and so the two commissions
took enough evidence to swamp them. Poor Ray was reduced almost to
despair over the mass of "rubbish" as he called it, which he would
subsequently have to put in order.

Between the two tasks, Peter's time was well-nigh used up. It was
especially drawn upon when the taking of evidence ceased and the
drafting of the reports began. Ray's notes proved hopeless, so Peter
copied out his neatly, and let Ray have them, rather glad that
irrelevant and useless evidence was thus omitted. It was left to Peter
to draw the report, and when his draft was submitted, it was accompanied
by a proposed General Tenement-house Bill. Both report and bill were
slightly amended, but not in a way that Peter minded.

Peter drew the Food-Commission report as well, although it went before
the Commission as Green's. To this, too, a proposed bill was attached,
which had undergone the scrutiny of the Health Board, and had been
conformed to their suggestions.

In November Peter carried both reports to Albany, and had a long talk
with Catlin over them. That official would have preferred no reports,
but since they were made, there was nothing to do but to submit them to
the Legislature. Peter did not get much encouragement from him about the
chances for the bills. But Costell told him that they could be "whipped
through. The only danger is of their being amended, so as to spoil
them."

"Well," said Peter, "I hope they will be passed. I've done my best,
whatever happens."

A very satisfactory thing to be able to say of yourself, if you believe
in your own truthfulness.




CHAPTER XXIX.

IN THE MEANTIME.


In spite of nine months' hard work on the two Commissions, it is not to
be supposed that Peter's time was thus entirely monopolized. If one
spends but seven hours of the twenty-four in sleep, and but two more on
meals, there is considerable remaining time, and even so slow a worker
as Peter found spare hours not merely for society and saloons, but for
what else he chose to undertake.

Socially he had an evening with Miss De Voe, just before she left the
city for the summer; a dinner with Mr. Pell, who seemed to have taken a
liking to Peter; a call on Lispenard; another on Le Grand; and a family
meal at the Rivingtons, where he was made much of in return for his aid
to Ray.

In the saloons he worked hard over the coming primary, and spent
evenings as well on doorsteps in the district, talking over objects and
candidates. In the same cause, he saw much of Costell, Green, Gallagher,
Schlurger and many other party men of greater or less note in the city's
politics. He had become a recognized quantity in the control of the
district, and the various ward factions tried hard to gain his support.
When the primary met, the proceedings, if exciting, were never for a
moment doubtful, for Gallagher, Peter, Moriarty and Blunkers had been
able to agree on both programme and candidates. An attempt had been made
to "turn down" Schlurger, but Peter had opposed it, and had carried his
point, to the great gratitude of the silent, honest German. What was
more important to him, this had all been done without exciting hard
feelings.

"Stirling's a reasonable fellow," Gallagher told Costell, not knowing
how much Peter was seeing of the big leader, "and he isn't dead set on
carrying his own schemes. We've never had so little talk of mutiny and
sulking as we have had this paring. Moriarty and Blunkers swear by him.
It's queer. They've always been on opposite sides till now."

When the weather became pleasant, Peter took up his "angle"' visitings
again, though not with quite the former regularity. Yet he rarely let a
week pass without having spent a couple of evenings there. The
spontaneous welcome accorded him was payment enough for the time, let
alone the pleasure and enjoyment he derived from the imps. There was
little that could raise Peter in their estimation, but they understood
very well that he had become a man of vast importance, as it seemed to
them. They had sharp little minds and ears, and had caught what the
"district" said and thought of Peter.

"Cheese it, the cop, Tim," cried an urchin one evening to another, who
was about to "play ball."

"Cheese it yerself. He won't dare tech me," shouted Tim, "so long as
Mister Peter's here."

That speech alone showed the magnitude of his position in their eyes.
He was now not merely, "friends wid de perlice;" he was held in fear by
that awesome body!

"If I was as big as him," said one, "I'd fire all the peelers."

"Wouldn't that be dandy!" cried another.

He won their hearts still further by something he did in midsummer.
Blunkers had asked him to attend what brilliant posters throughout that
part of the city announced as:

    HO FOR THE SEA-SHORE!

    SIXTH ANNUAL

    CLAM BAKE

    OF THE

    PATRICK N. BLUNKERS'S ASSOCIATION.

When Peter asked, he found that it was to consist of a barge party
(tickets fifty cents) to a bit of sand not far away from the city, with
music, clams, bathing and dancing included in the price of the ticket,
and unlimited beer for those who could afford that beverage.

"The beer just pays for it," Blunkers explained. "I don't give um whisky
cause some ---- cusses don't drink like as dey orter." Then catching a
look in Peter's face, he laughed rather shamefacedly. "I forgits," he
explained. "Yer see I'm so da--" he checked himself--"I swears widout
knowin' it."

"I shall be very glad to go," said Peter.

"Dat's bully," said Blunkers. Then he added anxiously: "Dere's somethin'
else, too, since yer goin'. Ginerally some feller makes a speech. Yer
wouldn't want to do it dis time, would yer?"

"What do they talk about?"

"Just what dey--" Blunkers swallowed a word, nearly choking in so doing,
and ended "please."

"Yes. I shall be glad to talk, if you don't mind my taking a dull
subject?"

"Yer just talk what yer want. We'll listen."

After Peter had thought it over for a day, he went to Blunkers's gin
palace.

"Look here," he said. "Would it be possible to hire one more barge, and
take the children free? I'll pay for the boat, and for the extra food,
if they won't be in the way."

"I'm damned if yer do," shouted Blunkers. "Yer don't pay for nothinks,
but der childers shall go, or my name ain't Blunkers."

And go they did, Blunkers making no secret of the fact that it was
Peter's idea. So every child who went, nearly wild with delight, felt
that the sail, the sand, the sea, and the big feed, was all owed to
Peter.

It was rather an amusing experience to Peter. He found many of his party
friends in the district, not excluding such men as Gallagher, Kennedy
and others of the more prominent rank. He made himself very pleasant to
those whom he knew, chatting with them on the trip down. He went into
the water with the men and boys, and though there were many good
swimmers, Peter's country and river training made it possible for him to
give even the "wharf rats," a point or two in the way of water feats.
Then came the regulation clam-bake, after which Peter talked about the
tenement-house question for twenty minutes. The speech was very
different from what they expected, and rather disappointed them all.
However, he won back their good opinions in closing, for he ended with a
very pleasant "thank you," to Blunkers, so neatly worded, and containing
such a thoroughly apt local joke, that it put all in a good humor, and
gave them something to tell their neighbors, on their return home. The
advantage of seldom joking is that people remember the joke, and it gets
repeated. Peter almost got the reputation of a wit on that one joke,
merely because it came after a serious harangue, and happened to be
quotable. Blunkers was so pleased with the end of the speech that he got
Peter to write it out, and to this day the "thank you" part of the
address, in Peter's neat handwriting, handsomely framed, is to be seen
in Blunkers's saloon.

Peter also did a little writing this summer. He had gone to see three or
four of the reporters, whom he had met in "the case," to get them to
write up the Food and Tenement subjects, wishing thereby to stir up
public feeling. He was successful to a certain degree, and they not
merely wrote articles themselves, but printed three or four which Peter
wrote. In two cases, he was introduced to "staff" writers, and even
wrote an editorial, for which he was paid fifteen dollars. This money
was all he received for the time spent, but he was not working for
shekels. All the men told him to let them know when he had more
"stories" for them, and promised him assistance when the reports should
go in to the legislature.

Peter visited his mother as usual during August. Before going, he called
on Dr. Plumb, and after an evening with him, went to two tenements in
the district. As the result of these calls, he carried three children
with him when he went home. Rather pale, thin little waifs. It is a
serious matter to charge any one with so grave a crime as changling, but
Peter laid himself open to it, for when he came back, after two weeks,
he returned very different children to the parents. The fact that they
did not prosecute for the substitution only proves how little the really
poor care for their offspring.

But this was not his only summering. He spent four days with the
Costells, as well as two afternoons later, thoroughly enjoying, not
merely the long, silent drives over the country behind the fast horses,
but the pottering round the flower-garden with Mrs. Costell. He had been
reading up a little on flowers and gardening, and he was glad to swap
his theoretical for her practical knowledge. Candor compels the
statement that he enjoyed the long hours stretched on the turf, or
sitting idly on the veranda, puffing Mr. Costell's good Havanas.

Twice Mr. Bohlmann stopped at Peter's office of a Saturday and took him
out to stay over Sunday at his villa in one of the Oranges. The family
all liked Peter and did not hesitate to show it. Mr. Bohlmann told him:

"I sbend about dree dousand a year on law und law-babers. Misder Dummer
id does for me, but ven he does nod any longer it do, I gifts id you."

On the second visit Mrs. Bohlmann said:

"I tell my good man that with all the law-business he has, he must get a
lawyer for a son-in-law."

Peter had not heard Mrs. Bohlmann say to her husband the evening before,
as they were prinking for dinner:

"Have you told Mr. Stirling about your law business?"

Nor Mr. Bohlmann's prompt:

"Yah. I dells him der last dime."

Yet Peter wondered if there were any connection between the two
statements. He liked the two girls. They were nice-looking, sweet,
sincere women. He knew that Mr. Bohlmann was ranked as a millionaire
already, and was growing richer fast. Yet--Peter needed no blank walls.

During this summer, Peter had a little more law practice. A small grocer
in one of the tenements came to him about a row with his landlord. Peter
heard him through, and then said: "I don't see that you have any case;
but if you will leave it to me to do as I think best, I'll try if I can
do something," and the man agreeing, Peter went to see the landlord, a
retail tobacconist up-town.

"I don't think my client has any legal grounds," he told the landlord,
"but he thinks that he has, and the case does seem a little hard. Such
material repairs could not have been foreseen when the lease was made."

The tobacconist was rather obstinate at first. Finally he said, "I'll
tell you what I'll do. I'll contribute one hundred dollars towards the
repairs, if you'll make a tenant named Podds in the same building pay
his rent; or dispossess him if he doesn't, so that it shan't cost me
anything."

Peter agreed, and went to see the tenant in arrears. He found that the
man had a bad rheumatism and consequently was unable to work. The wife
was doing what she could, and even the children had been sent on the
streets to sell papers, or by other means, to earn what they could. They
also owed a doctor and the above-mentioned grocer. Peter went back to
the landlord and told him the story.

"Yes," he said, "it's a hard case, I know, but, Mr. Stirling, I owe a
mortgage on the place, and the interest falls due in September. I'm out
four months' rent, and really can't afford any more." So Peter took
thirty-two dollars from his "Trustee" fund, and sent it to the
tobacconist. "I have deducted eight dollars for collection," he wrote.
Then he saw his first client, and told him of his landlord's concession.

"How much do I owe you?" inquired the grocer.

"The Podds tell me they owe you sixteen dollars."

"Yes. I shan't get it."

"My fee is twenty-five. Mark off their bill and give me the balance."

The grocer smiled cheerfully. He had charged the Podds roundly for
their credit, taking his chance of pay, and now got it paid in an
equivalent of cash. He gave the nine dollars with alacrity.

Peter took it upstairs and gave it to Mrs. Podds. "If things look up
with you later," he said, "you can pay it back. If not, don't trouble
about it. Ill look in in a couple of weeks to see how things are going."

When this somewhat complicated matter was ended, he wrote about it to
his mother:

    "Many such cases would bankrupt me. As it is, my fund is dwindling
    faster than I like to see, though every lessening of it means a
    lessening of real trouble to some one. I should like to tell Miss
    De Voe what good her money has done already, but fear she would
    not understand why I told her. It has enabled me to do so much
    that otherwise I could not have afforded. There is only one
    hundred and seventy-six dollars left. Most of it though, is merely
    loaned and perhaps will be repaid. Anyway, I shall have nearly six
    hundred dollars for my work as secretary of the Food Commission,
    and I shall give half of it to this fund."




CHAPTER XXX.

A "COMEDY."


When the season began again, Miss De Voe seriously undertook her
self-imposed work of introducing Peter. He was twice invited to dinner
and was twice taken with opera parties to sit in her box, besides
receiving a number of less important attentions. Peter accepted
dutifully all that she offered him. Even ordered a new dress-suit of a
tailor recommended by Lispenard. He was asked by some of the people he
met to call, probably on Miss De Voe's suggestion, and he dutifully
called. Yet at the end of three months Miss De Voe shook her head.

"He is absolutely a gentleman, and people seem to like him. Yet
somehow--I don't understand it."

"Exactly," laughed Lispenard. "You can't make a silk purse out of a
sow's ear."

"Lispenard," angrily said Miss De Voe, "Mr. Stirling is as much better
than--"

"That's it," said Lispenard. "Don't think I'm depreciating Peter. The
trouble is that he is much too good a chap to make into a society or a
lady's man."

"I believe you are right. I don't think he cares for it at all."

"No," said Lispenard. "Barkis is not willin'. I think he likes you, and
simply goes to please you."

"Do you really think that's it?"

Lispenard laughed at the earnestness with which the question was asked.
"No," he replied. "I was joking. Peter cultivates you, because he wants
to know your swell friends."

Either this conversation or Miss De Voe's own thoughts, led to a change
in her course. Invitations to formal dinners and to the opera suddenly
ceased, and instead, little family dinners, afternoons in galleries, and
evenings at concerts took their place. Sometimes Lispenard went with
them, sometimes one of the Ogden girls, sometimes they went alone. It
was an unusual week when Peter's mail did not now bring at least one
little note giving him a chance to see Miss De Voe if he chose.

In February came a request for him to call. "I want to talk with you
about something," it said. That same evening he was shown into her
drawing-rooms. She thanked him with warmth for coming so quickly, and
Peter saw that only the other visitors prevented her from showing some
strong feeling. He had stumbled in on her evening--for at that time
people still had evenings--but knowing her wishes, he stayed till they
were left alone together.

"Come into the library," she said. As they passed across the hall she
told Morden, "I shall not receive any more to-night."

The moment they were in the smaller and cosier room, without waiting to
sit even, she began: "Mr. Stirling, I dined at the Manfreys yesterday."
She spoke in a voice evidently endeavoring not to break. Peter looked
puzzled.

"Mr. Lapham, the bank president, was there."

Peter still looked puzzled.

"And he told the table about a young lawyer who had very little money,
yet who put five hundred dollars--his first fee--into his bank, and had
used it to help--" Miss De Voe broke down, and, leaning against the
mantel, buried her face in her handkerchief.

"It's curious you should have heard of it," said Peter.

"He--he didn't mention names, b-bu-but I knew, of course."

"I didn't like to speak of it because--well--I've wanted to tell you the
good it's done. Suppose you sit down." Peter brought a chair, and Miss
De Voe took it.

"You must think I'm very foolish," she said, wiping her eyes.

"It's nothing to cry about." And Peter began telling her of some of the
things which he had been able to do:--of the surgical brace it had
bought; of the lessons in wood-engraving it had given; of the
sewing-machine it had helped to pay for; of the arrears in rent it had
settled. "You see," he explained, "these people are too self-respecting
to go to the big charities, or to rich people. But their troubles are
talked over in the saloons and on the doorsteps, so I hear of them, and
can learn whether they really deserve help. They'll take it from me,
because they feel that I'm one of them."

Miss De Voe was too much shaken by her tears to talk that evening. Miss
De Voe's life and surroundings were not exactly weepy ones, and when
tears came they meant much. She said little, till Peter rose to go, and
then only:

"I shall want to talk with you, to see what I can do to help you in your
work. Please come again soon. I ought not to have brought you here this
evening, only to see me cry like a baby. But--I had done you such
injustice in my mind about that seven dollars, and then to find
that--Oh!" Miss De Voe showed signs of a recurring break-down, but
mastered herself. "Good-evening."

Peter gone, Miss De Voe had another "good" cry--which is a feminine
phrase, quite incomprehensible to men--and, going to her room, bathed
her eyes. Then she sat before her boudoir fire, thinking. Finally she
rose. In leaving the fire, she remarked aloud to it:

"Yes. He shall have Dorothy, if I can do it."

So Dorothy became a pretty regular addition to the informal meals,
exhibitions and concerts. Peter was once more taken to the opera, but
Dorothy and Miss De Voe formed with him the party in the box on such
nights. Miss De Voe took him to call on Mrs. Odgen, and sang his praises
to both parents. She even went so far as to say frankly to them what was
in her mind.

Mr. Ogden said, "Those who know him speak very well of him. I heard
'Van' Pell praise him highly at Newport last summer. Said all the
politicians thought of him as a rising man."

"He seems a nice steady fellow," said the mamma. "I don't suppose he has
much practice?"

"Oh, don't think of the money," said Miss De Voe. "What is that compared
to getting a really fine man whom one can truly love?"

"Still, money is an essential," said the papa.

"Yes. But you both know what I intend to do for Dorothy and Minna. They
need not think of money. If he and Dorothy only will care for each
other!"

Peter and Dorothy did like each other. Dorothy was very pretty, and had
all the qualities which make a girl a strong magnet to men. Peter could
not help liking her. As for Dorothy, she was like other women. She
enjoyed the talking, joking, "good-time" men in society, and chatted and
danced with them with relish. But like other women, when she thought of
marriage, she did not find these gingerbread ornamentations so
attractive. The average woman loves a man, aside from his love for her,
for his physical strength, and his stiff truth-telling. The first is
attractive to her because she has it not. Far be it from man to say why
the second attracts. So Dorothy liked Peter. She admired many qualities
in him which she would not have tolerated in other men. It is true that
she laughed at him, too, for many things, but it was the laughter of
that peculiar nature which implies admiration and approval, rather than
the lower feelings. When the spring separation came, Miss De Voe was
really quite hopeful.

"I think things have gone very well. Now, Mr. Stirling has promised to
spend a week with me at Newport. I shall have Dorothy there at the same
time," she told Mrs. Ogden.

Lispenard, who was present, laughed as usual. "So you are tired of your
new plaything already?"

"What do you mean?"

"Arn't you marrying him so as to get rid of his calls and his
escortage?"

"Of course not. We shall go on just the same."

"Bully for you, Ma. Does Dr. Brown know it?"

Miss De Voe flushed angrily, and put an end to her call.

"What a foolish fellow Lispenard is!" she remarked unconsciously to
Wellington at the carriage door.

"Beg pardon, mum?" said Wellington, blank wonderment filling his face.

"Home, Wellington," said Miss De Voe crossly.

Peter took his week at Newport on his way back from his regular August
visit to his mother. Miss De Voe had told him casually that Dorothy
would be there, and Dorothy was there. Yet he saw wonderfully little of
her. It is true that he could have seen more if he had tried, but Peter
was not used to practice finesse to win minutes and hours with a girl,
and did not feel called upon, bluntly, to take such opportunities. His
stay was not so pleasant as he had expected. He had thought a week in
the same house with Miss De Voe, Dorothy and Lispenard, without much
regard to other possible guests, could not but be a continual pleasure.
But he was conscious that something was amiss with his three friends.
Nor was Peter the only one who felt it. Dorothy said to her family when
she went home:

"I can't imagine what is the matter with Cousin Anneke. All last spring
she was nicer to me than she has ever been before, but from the moment I
arrived at Newport, and before I could possibly have said or done
anything to offend her, she treated me in the snippiest way. After two
days I asked her what the matter was, but she insisted there was
nothing, and really lost her temper at my suggesting the idea. There was
something, I know, for when I said I was coming home sooner than I had
at first intended, she didn't try to make me stay."

"Perhaps," said Mrs. Ogden, "she was disappointed in something, and so
vented her feeling on you."

"But she wasn't cross--except when I asked her what the matter was. She
was just--just snippy."

"Was Mr. Stirling there?"

"Yes. And a lot of other people. I don't think anybody had a good time,
unless it was Cousin Lispenard. And he wasn't a bit nice. He had some
joke to himself, and kept making remarks that nobody could understand,
and chuckling over them. I told him once that he was rude, but he said
that 'when people went to a play they should laugh at the right points.'
That's the nice thing about Mr. Stirling. You know that what he says is
the real truth."

"Lispenard's always trying to be clever."

"Yes. What do you suppose he said to me as I came away!"

"What?"

"He shook my hand, laughing, and said, 'Exit villain. It is to be a
comedy, not a tragedy.' What could he mean?"

Lispenard stayed on to see the "comedy," and seemed to enjoy it, if the
amused expression on his face when he occasionally gave himself up to
meditation was any criterion. Peter had been pressed to stay beyond the
original week, and had so far yielded as to add three days to his visit.
These last three days were much pleasanter than those which had gone
before, although Dorothy had departed and Peter liked Dorothy. But he
saw much more of Miss De Voe, and Miss De Voe was in a much pleasanter
mood. They took long drives and walks together, and had long hours of
talk in and about the pleasant house and grounds. Miss De Voe had cut
down her social duties for the ten days Peter was there, giving far more
time for them to kill than usually fell to Newporters even in those
comparitively simple days.

In one of these talks, Miss De Voe spoke of Dorothy.

"She is such a nice, sweet girl," she said. "We all hope she'll marry
Lispenard."

"Do you think cousins ought to marry?"

Miss De Voe had looked at Peter when she made her remark. Peter had
replied quietly, but his question, as Miss De Voe understood it, was
purely scientific, not personal. Miss De Voe replied:

"I suppose it is not right, but it is so much better than what may
happen, that it really seems best. It is so hard for a girl in Dorothy's
position to marry as we should altogether wish."

"Why?" asked Peter, who did not see that a girl with prospective wealth,
fine social position, and personal charm, was not necessarily well
situated to get the right kind of a husband.

"It is hard to make it clear--but--I'll tell you my own story, so that
you can understand. Since you don't ask questions, I will take the
initiative. That is, unless your not asking them means you are not
interested?" Miss De Voe laughed in the last part of this speech.

"I should like to hear it."

People, no matter what Peter stated, never said "Really?" "You are in
earnest?" or "You really mean it?" So Miss De Voe took him at his word.

"Both my father and mother were rich before they married, and the rise
in New York real estate made them in time, much richer. They both
belonged to old families. I was the only child--Lispenard says old
families are so proud of themselves that they don't dare to have large
families for fear of making the name common. Of course they lavished all
their thought, devotion and anxiety on me. I was not spoiled; but I was
watched and tended as if I were the most precious thing the world
contained. When I grew up, and went into society, I question if I ever
was a half-hour out of the sight of one or the other of my parents. I
had plenty of society, of course, but it was restricted entirely to our
set. None other was good enough for me! My father never had any
business, so brought no new element into our household. It was old
families, year in and year out! From the moment I entered society I was
sought for. I had many suitors. I had been brought up to fear
fortune-hunting, and suspected the motives of many men. Others did not
seem my equals--for I had been taught pride in my birth. Those who were
fit as regarded family were, many of them, unfit in brains or
morals--qualities not conspicuous in old families. Perhaps I might have
found one to love--if it had not been for the others. I was surrounded
wherever I went and if by chance I found a pleasant man to talk to,
_tete-a-tete,_ we were interrupted by other men coming up. Only a few
even of the men whom I met could gain an _entree_ to our house.--They
weren't thought good enough. If a working, serious man had ever been
able to see enough of me to love me, he probably would have had very
little opportunity to press his suit. But the few men I might have cared
for were frightened off by my money, or discouraged by my popularity and
exclusiveness. They did not even try. Of course I did not understand it
then. I gloried in my success and did not see the wrong it was doing me.
I was absolutely happy at home, and really had not the slightest
inducement to marry--especially among the men I saw the most. I led
this life for six years. Then my mother's death put me in mourning. When
I went back into society, an almost entirely new set of men had
appeared. Those whom I had known were many of them married--others were
gone. Society had lost its first charm to me. So my father and I
travelled three years. We had barely returned when he died. I did not
take up my social duties again till I was thirty-two. Then it was as the
spinster aunt, as you have known me. Now do you understand how hard it
is for such a girl as Dorothy to marry rightly?"

"Yes. Unless the man is in love. Let a man care enough for a woman, and
money or position will not frighten him off."

"Such men are rare. Or perhaps it is because I did not attract them. I
did not understand men as well then as I do now. Of some whom I thought
unlovable or dull at that time, I have learned to think better. A woman
does not marry to be entertained--or should not."

"I think," said Peter, "that one marries for love and sympathy."

"Yes. And if they are given, it does not matter about the rest. Even
now, thirty-seven though I am, if I could find a true man who could love
me as I wish to be loved, I could love him with my whole heart. It would
be my happiness not merely to give him social position and wealth, but
to make his every hope and wish mine also."

All this had been said in the same natural manner in which they both
usually spoke. Miss De Voe had talked without apparent emotion. But when
she began the last remark, she had stopped looking at Peter, and had
gazed off through the window at the green lawn, merely showing him her
profile. As a consequence she did not see how pale he suddenly became,
nor the look of great suffering that came into his face. She did not see
this look pass and his face, and especially his mouth, settle into a
rigid determination, even while the eyes remained sad.

Miss De Voe ended the pause by beginning, "Don't you"--but Peter
interrupted her there, by saying:

"It is a very sad story to me--because I--I once craved love and
sympathy."

Miss De Voe turned and looked at him quickly. She saw the look of
suffering on his face, but read it amiss. "You mean?" she questioned.

"There was a girl I loved," said Peter softly, "who did not love me."

"And you love her still?"

"I have no right to."

"She is married?"

"Yes."

"Will you tell me about it?"

"I--I would rather not."

Miss De Voe sat quietly for a moment, and then rose. "Dear friend," she
said, laying her hand on Peter's shoulder, "we have both missed the
great prize in life. Your lot is harder than the one I have told you
about. It is very,"--Miss De Voe paused a moment,--"it is very sad to
love--without being loved."

And so ended Lispenard's comedy.




CHAPTER XXXI.

CONFLICTS.


Lispenard went back with Peter to the city. He gave his reason on the
train:

"You see I go back to the city occasionally in the summer, so as to make
the country bearable, and then I go back to the country, so as to make
the city endurable. I shall be in Newport again in a week. When will you
come back?"

"My summering's over."

"Indeed. I thought my cousin would want you again!"

"She did not say so."

"The deuce she didn't. It must be the only thing she didn't say, then,
in your long confabs?"

Peter made no reply, though Lispenard looked as well as asked a
question.

"Perhaps," continued Lispenard, "she talked too much, and so did not
remember to ask you?"

Still Peter said nothing.

"Are you sure she didn't give you a chance to have more of her society?"
Lispenard was smiling.

"Ogden," said Peter gently, "you are behaving contemptibly and you know
it."

The color blazed up into Lispenard's face and he rose, saying:

"Did I understand you aright?" The manner and attitude were both
threatening though repressed.

"If you tell me that I misunderstood you, I will apologize. If you think
the statement insulting, I will withdraw it. I did not speak to insult
you; but because I wished you to know how your questions impressed me."

"When a man tells another he is contemptible, he cannot expect to escape
results. This is no place to have a scene. You may send me your apology
when we reach New York--"

Peter interrupted. "I shall, if you will tell me I wronged you in
supposing your questions to be malicious."

Lispenard paid no attention to the interjection. "Otherwise," he
finished, "we will consider our relations ended." He walked away.

Peter wrote Lispenard that evening a long letter. He did not apologize
in it, but it ended:

    "There should be no quarrel between us, for we ought to be
    friends. If alienation has come, it is due to what has occurred
    to-day, and that shall not cause unkind feelings, if I can help
    it. An apology is due somewhere. You either asked questions you
    had no right to ask, or else I misjudged you. I have written you
    my point of view. You have your own. I leave the matter to your
    fairness. Think it over, and if you still find me in the wrong,
    and will tell me so, I will apologize."

He did not receive a reply. Meeting Ogden Ogden a few days later, he was
told that Lispenard had gone west for a hunting trip, quite
unexpectedly. "He said not to expect him back till he came. He seemed
out of sorts at something." In September Peter had a letter from Miss De
Voe. Merely a few lines saying that she had decided to spend the winter
abroad, and was on the point of sailing. "I am too hurried to see my
friends, but did not like to go without some good-byes, so I write
them." On the whole, as in the case of most comedies, there was little
amusement for the actual performers. A great essayist has defined
laughter as a "feeling of superiority in the laugher over the object
laughed at." If this is correct, it makes all humor despicable.
Certainly much coarseness, meanness and cruelty are every day
tolerated, because of the comic covering with which it is draped.

It is not to be supposed that this comedy nor its winter prologue had
diverted Peter from other things. In spite of Miss De Voe's demands on
his time he had enough left to spend many days in Albany when the
legislature took up the reports of the Commissions. He found strong
lobbies against both bills, and had a long struggle with them. He had
the help of the newspapers, and he had the help of Costell, yet even
with this powerful backing, the bills were first badly mangled, and
finally were side-tracked. In the actual fight, Pell helped him most,
and Peter began to think that a man might buy an election and yet not be
entirely bad. Second only to Pell, was his whilom enemy, the former
District-Attorney, now a state senator, who battled himself into Peter's
reluctant admiration and friendship by his devotion and loyalty to the
bills. Peter concluded that he had not entirely done the man justice in
the past. Curiously enough, his chief antagonist was Maguire.

Peter did not give up the fight with this defeat. His work for the bills
had revealed to him the real under-currents in the legislative body, and
when it adjourned, making further work in Albany only a waste of time,
he availed himself of the secret knowledge that had come to him, to
single out the real forces which stood behind and paid the lobby, and to
interview them. He saw the actual principals in the opposition, and
spoke with utmost frankness. He told them that the fight would be
renewed, on his part, at every session of the legislature till the bills
were passed; that he was willing to consider proposed amendments, and
would accept any that were honest. He made the fact very clear to them
that they would have to pay yearly to keep the bills off the statute
book. Some laughed at him, others quarrelled. But a few, after listening
to him, stated their true objections to the bills, and Peter tried to
meet them.

When the fall elections came, Peter endeavored to further his cause in
another way. Three of the city's assemblymen and one of her senators had
voted against the bills. Peter now invaded their districts, and talked
against them in saloons and elsewhere. It very quickly stirred up hard
feeling, which resulted in attempts to down him. But Peter's blood
warmed up as the fight thickened, and hisses, eggs, or actual attempts
to injure him physically did not deter him. The big leaders were
appealed to to call him off, but Costell declined to interfere.

"He wouldn't stop anyway," he told Green, "so we should do no good. Let
them fight it out by themselves." Both of which sentences showed that
Mr. Costell understood his business.

Peter had challenged his opponents to a joint debate, and when that was
declined by them, he hired halls for evenings and spoke on the subject.
He argued well, with much more feeling than he had shown since his
speech in "the case." After the first attempt of this kind, he had no
difficulty in filling his halls. The rumor came back to his own district
that he was "talkin' foin," and many of his friends there turned out to
hear him. The same news went through other wards of the city and drew
men from them. People were actually excluded, for want of room, and
therefore every one became anxious to hear his speeches. Finally, by
subscription of a number of people who had become interested, headed by
Mr. Pell, the Cooper Union was hired, and Peter made a really great
speech to nearly three thousand people.

The papers came to his help too, and stood by him manfully. By their
aid, it was made very clear that this was a fight against a selfish
lobby. By their aid, it became one of the real questions of the local
campaign, and was carried beyond the borders of the city, so as to play
a part in the county elections. Peter met many of the editors, and
between his expert knowledge, acquired on the Commissions, and his
practical knowledge, learned at Albany, proved a valuable man to them.
They repaid his help by kind words and praise in their columns, and
brought him forward as the chief man in the movement. Mrs. Stirling
concluded that the conspiracy to keep Peter in the background had been
abandoned.

"Those York papers couldn't help my Peter's getting on," was the way she
put it.

The results of this fight were even better than he had hoped. One
Assemblyman gave in and agreed no longer to oppose the bills. Another
was defeated. The Senator had his majority so cut down that he retired
from the opposition. The questions too had become so much more
discussed and watched, and the blame so fastened upon the lobby that
many members from the country no longer dared to oppose legislation on
the subject. Hence it was that the bills, newly drawn by Peter, to
reduce opposition as far as possible, when introduced by Schlurger soon
after the opening of the legislature, went through with a rush, not even
ayes and nays being taken. Aided by Mr. Costell, Peter secured their
prompt signing by Catlin, his long fight had ended in victory.

The "sixt" was wild with joy over the triumph. Whether it was because it
was a tenement ward, or because Peter had talked there so much about it,
or because his success was felt to redound to their credit, the voters
got up a display of fireworks on the night when the news of the signing
of the bills reached New York. When Peter returned to the city, he was
called down to a hall one evening, to witness a torchlight procession
and receive resolutions "engrossed and framed" from his admiring
friends. Blunkers was chairman and made a plain speech which set the
boys cheering by its combination of strong feeling and lack of grammar.
Then Justice Gallagher made a fine-sounding, big-worded presentation. In
the enthusiasm of the moment, Dennis broke the programme by rising and
giving vent to a wild burst of feeling, telling his audience all that
they owed to Peter, and though they knew already what he told them, they
cheered and cheered the strong, natural eloquence.

"Yer was out a order," said Blunkers, at the end of the speech.

"Yez loi!" said Dennis, jumping on his feet again. "It's never out av
order to praise Misther Stirling."

The crowd applauded his sentiment.




CHAPTER XXXII.

THE END OF THE CONFLICT.


Peter had had some rough experiences two or three times in his fall
campaign, and Dennis, who had insisted on escorting him, took him to
task about his "physical culture."

"It's thirty pounds yez are too heavy, sir," he told Peter. "An' it's
too little intirely yez afther knowin' av hittin'."

Peter asked his advice, bought Indian clubs, dumb-bells, and
boxing-gloves, and under Dennis's tutelage began to learn the art of
self-defence. He was rather surprised, at the end of two months, to find
how much flesh he had taken off, how much more easily he moved, how much
more he was eating, and how much more he was able to do, both mentally
and physically.

"It seems as if somebody had oiled my body and brain," he told Dennis.

Dennis let him into another thing, by persuading him to join the militia
regiment most patronized by the "sixth," and in which Dennis was already
a sergeant. Peter received a warm welcome from the regiment, for Dennis,
who was extremely popular, had heralded his fame, and Peter's physical
strength and friendly way did the rest. Ogden Ogden laughed at him for
joining a "Mick" regiment, and wanted to put Peter into the Seventh.
Peter only said that he thought his place was where he was.

Society did not see much of Peter this winter. He called on his friends
dutifully, but his long visits to Albany, his evenings with Dennis, and
his drill nights, interfered badly with his acceptance of the
invitations sent him. He had, too, made many friends in his commission
work and politics, so that he had relatively less time to give to his
older ones. The absence of Miss De Voe and Lispenard somewhat reduced
his social obligations it is true, but the demands on his time were
multiplying fast.

One of these demands was actual law work. The first real case to come to
him was from the contractor who had served on the tenement-commission.
He was also employed by the Health Board as special counsel in a number
of prosecutions, to enforce clauses of his Food Bill. The papers said it
was because of his familiarity with the subject, but Peter knew it was
the influence of Green, who had become a member of that Board. Then he
began to get cases from the "district," and though there was not much
money in each case, before long the number of them made a very
respectable total.

The growth of his practice was well proven by a suggestion from Dummer
that they should join forces. "Mr. Bohlmann wants to give you some of
his work, and it's easier to go into partnership than to divide his
practice."

Peter knew that Dummer had a very lucrative business of a certain kind,
but he declined the offer.

"I have decided never to take a case which has not right on its side."

"A lawyer is just as much bound to try a case as a physician is bound to
take a patient."

"That is what lawyers say outside, but they know better."

"Well, have your scruples. We'll make the firm cases only such as you
choose. I'll manage the others."

"I should like to," said Peter. "I'm very grateful for the offer--but we
could hardly do that successfully. If the firm was good for anything, we
should be known as belonging to it, and the public could not well
discriminate."

So that chance of success was passed. But every now and then Bohlmann
sent him something to do, and Dummer helped him to a joint case
occasionally.

So, though friends grew steadily in numbers, society saw less and less
of Peter. Those who cared to study his tastes came to recognize that to
force formal entertaining on him was no kindness, and left it to Peter
to drop in when he chose, making him welcome when he came.

He was pleased to get a letter from Lispenard during the winter, from
Japan. It was long, but only the first paragraph need be quoted, for the
rest related merely to his travels:

    "The breezes of the Pacific have blown away all my bad temper," he
    wrote, "and I want to say that I was wrong, and regret my original
    fault, as well as what it later led me into. You are quite right.
    We must continue friends."

Peter wrote a reply, which led to a regular correspondence. He sent Miss
De Voe, also, a line of Christmas greetings, and received a long letter
from her at Nice, which told him something of Watts and Helen:

    "She is now well again, but having been six years in Europe, she
    and her husband have become wedded to the life. I question if they
    ever return. I spoke of you, and they both inquired with great
    warmth about you."

Peter replied, sending his "remembrance to Mr. and Mrs. D'Alloi in case
you again meet them." From that time on Miss De Voe and he corresponded,
she telling him of her Italian, Greek and Egyptian wanderings, and he
writing of his doings, especially in regard to a certain savings bank
fund standing in the name of "Peter Stirling, trustee" to which Miss De
Voe had, the winter before, arranged to contribute a thousand dollars
yearly.

As his practice increased he began to indulge himself a little. Through
the instrumentality of Mr. Pell, he was put first into one and later
into a second of the New York clubs, and his dinners became far less
simple in consequence. He used these comforters of men, indeed, almost
wholly for dining, and, though by no means a club-man in other senses,
it was still a tendency to the luxurious. To counteract this danger he
asked Mr. Costell to pick him up a saddle-horse, whereupon that friend
promptly presented him with one. He went regularly now to a good tailor,
which conduct ought to have ruined him with the "b'ys," but it didn't.
He still smoked a pipe occasionally in the saloons or on the doorsteps
of the district, yet candor compels us to add that he now had in his
room a box of cigars labelled "Habana." These were creature pleasures,
however, which he only allowed himself on rare occasions. And most of
these luxuries did not appear till his practice had broadened beyond the
point already noted.

Broaden it did. In time many city cases were thrown in his way. As he
became more and more a factor in politics, the judges began to send him
very profitable referee cases. Presently a great local corporation, with
many damage suits, asked him to accept its work on a yearly salary.

"Of course we shall want you to look out for us at Albany," it was
added.

"I'll do what I can to prevent unfair legislation. That must be all,
though. As for the practice, you must let me settle every case where I
think the right is with the plaintiff." This caused demur at first, but
eventually he was employed, and it was found that money was saved in the
long run, for Peter was very successful in getting people to settle out
of court.

Then the savings bank, for which Peter had done his best (not merely as
recorded, but at other times), turned over its law business to him,
giving him many real estate transactions to look into, besides papers to
draw. "He brings us a good many depositors," Mr. Lapham told his
trustees, "and is getting to be a large depositor himself."

Peter began to find help necessary, and took a partner. He did this at
the suggestion of Ogden Ogden, who had concluded his clerkship, and who
said to Peter:

"I have a lot of friends who promise me their work. I don't know how
much it will be, but I should like to try it with you. Of course, yours
is the bigger practice, but we can arrange that."

So after considerable discussion, the sign on Peter's door became
"Stirling and Ogden," and the firm blossomed out with an office boy--one
of Peter's original "angle" friends, now six years older than when Peter
and he had first met.

Ogden's friends did materialize, and brought good paying cases. As the
city, referee, corporation and bank work increased, their joint practice
needed more help, and Ray Rivington was, on Ogden's request, taken in.

"He doesn't get on with his law studies, though he pretends to work over
them hard. In fact he'll never be a good lawyer. He hasn't a legal mind.
But he'll bring cases, for he's very popular in society, and he'll do
all the palavering and running round very well. He's just the fellow to
please people." This was what Ogden urged, adding, "I might as well tell
you that I'm interested for another reason, too. He and Dorothy will
marry, if he can ever get to the marrying point. This, of course, is to
be between us."

"I'll be very glad to have him, both for his own sake, and for what
you've just told me," said Peter.

Thus it was that the firm again changed its name, becoming "Stirling,
Ogden and Rivington," and actually spread into two other rooms, Peter's
original little "ten by twelve" being left to the possession of the
office boy. That functionary gazed long hours at the map of Italy on the
blank wall, but it did not trouble him. He only whistled and sang street
songs at it. As for Peter, he was too busy to need blank walls. He had
fought two great opponents. The world and himself. He had conquered them
both.




CHAPTER XXXIII.

A RENEWAL.


If the American people had anglicized themselves as thoroughly into
liking three-volume stories, as they have in other things, it would be a
pleasure to trace the next ten years of Peter's life; for his growing
reputation makes this period a far easier matter to chronicle than the
more obscure beginnings already recorded. If his own life did not supply
enough material we could multiply our characters, as did Dickens, or
journey sideways, into little essays, as did Thackeray. His life and his
biographer's pen might fail to give interest to such devices, but the
plea is now for "realism," which most writers take to mean microscopical
examination of minutia. If the physical and psychical emotions of a
heroine as she drinks a glass of water can properly be elaborated so as
to fill two printed pages, Peter's life could be extended endlessly.
There were big cases, political fights, globe trottings, and new
friends, all of which have unlimited potentialities for numerous
chapters. But Americans are peculiar people, and do not buy a pound of
sugar any the quicker because its bulk has been raised by a skilful
admixture of moisture and sand. So it seems best partly to take the
advice of the Bellman, in the "Hunting of the Snark," to skip sundry
years. In resuming, it is to find Peter at his desk, reading a letter.
He has a very curious look on his face, due to the letter, the contents
of which are as follows:

    MARCH 22.

    DEAR OLD CHUM--

    Here is the wretched old sixpence, just as bad as ever--if not
    worse--come back after all these years.

    And as of yore, the sixpence is in a dreadful pickle, and appeals
    to the old chum, who always used to pull him out of his scrapes,
    to do it once more. Please come and see me as quickly as possible,
    for every moment is important. You see I feel sure that I do not
    appeal in vain. "Changeless as the pyramids" ought to be your
    motto.

    Helen and our dear little girl will be delighted to see you, as
    will

    Yours affectionately,

    WATTS.

Peter opened a drawer and put the letter into it. Then he examined his
diary calendar. After this he went to a door, and, opening it, said:

"I am going uptown for the afternoon. If Mr. Murtha comes, Mr. Ogden
will see him.".

Peter went down and took a cab, giving the driver a number in Grammercy
Park.

The footman hesitated on Peter's inquiry. "Mr. D'Alloi is in, sir, but
is having his afternoon nap, and we have orders he's not to be
disturbed."

"Take him my card. He will see me."

The footman showed Peter into the drawing-room, and disappeared. Peter
heard low voices for a moment, then the curtains of the back room were
quickly parted, and with hands extended to meet him, Helen appeared.

"This is nice of you--and so unexpected!"

Peter took the hand, but said nothing. They sat down, and Mrs. D'Alloi
continued:

"Watts is asleep, and I have given word that he is not to be disturbed.
I want to see you for a moment myself. You have plenty of time?"

"Yes."

"That's very nice. I don't want you to be formal with us. Do say that
you can stay to dinner?"

"I would, if I were not already engaged."

"Then we'll merely postpone it. It's very good of you to come to see us.
I've tried to get Watts to look you up, but he is so lazy! It's just as
well since you've found us out. Only you should have asked for both of
us."

"I came on business," said Peter.

Mrs. D'Alloi laughed. "Watts is the poorest man in the world for that,
but he'll do anything he can to help you, I know. He has the warmest
feeling for you."

Peter gathered from this that Mrs. D'Alloi did not know of the "scrape,"
whatever it was, and with a lawyer's caution, he did not attempt to
disabuse her of the impression that he had called about his own affairs.

"How you have changed!" Mrs. D'Alloi continued. "If I had not known who
it was from the card, I am not sure that I should have recognized you."

It was just what Peter had been saying to himself of Mrs. D'Alloi. Was
it her long ill-health, or was it the mere lapse of years, which had
wrought such changes in her? Except for the eyes, everything had
altered. The cheeks had lost their roundness and color; the hair had
thinned noticeably; lines of years and pain had taken away the sweet
expression that formerly had counted for so much; the pretty roundness
of the figure was gone, and what charm it now had was due to the
modiste's skill. Peter felt puzzled. Was this the woman for whom he had
so suffered? Was it this memory that had kept him, at thirty-eight,
still a bachelor? Like many another man, he found that he had been
loving an ideal--a creation of his own mind. He had, on a boyish fancy,
built a dream of a woman with every beauty and attraction, and had been
loving it for many years, to the exclusion of all other womankind. Now
he saw the original of his dream, with the freshness and glamour gone,
not merely from the dream, but from his own eyes. Peter had met many
pretty girls, and many sweet ones since that week at the Pierces. He had
gained a very different point of view of women from that callow time.

Peter was not blunderer enough to tell Mrs. D'Alloi that he too, saw a
change. His years had brought tact, if they had not made him less
straightforward. So he merely said, "You think so?"

"Ever so much. You've really grown slender, in spite of your broad
shoulders--and your face is so--so different."

There was no doubt about it. For his height and breadth of shoulder,
Peter was now by no means heavy. His face, too, had undergone a great
change. As the roundness had left it, the eyes and the forehead had both
become more prominent features, and both were good. The square, firm jaw
still remained, but the heaviness of the cheek and nose had melted into
lines which gave only strength and character, and destroyed the dulness
which people used to comment upon. The face would never be called
handsome, in the sense that regular features are supposed to give
beauty, but it was strong and speaking, with lines of thought and
feeling.

"You know," laughed Mrs. D'Alloi, "you have actually become
good-looking, and I never dreamed that was possible!"

"How long have you been here?"

"A month. We are staying with papa, till the house in Fifty-seventh
Street can be put in order. It has been closed since Mrs. D'Alloi's
death. But don't let's talk houses. Tell me about yourself."

"There is little to tell. I have worked at my profession, with success."

"But I see your name in politics. And I've met many people in Europe who
have said you were getting very famous."

"I spend a good deal of time in politics. I cannot say whether I have
made myself famous, or infamous. It seems to depend on which paper I
read."

"Yes, I saw a paper on the steamer, that--" Mrs. D'Alloi hesitated,
remembering that it had charged Peter with about every known sin of
which man is capable. Then she continued, "But I knew it was wrong." Yet
there was quite as much of question as of assertion in her remark. In
truth, Mrs. D'Alloi was by no means sure that Peter was all that was
desirable, for any charge made against a politician in this country has
a peculiar vitality and persistence. She had been told that Peter was an
open supporter of saloons, and that New York politics battened on all
forms of vice. So a favorite son could hardly have retained the purity
that women take as a standard of measurement. "Don't you find ward
politics very hard?" she asked, dropping an experimental plummet, to see
what depths of iniquity there might be.

"I haven't yet."

"But that kind of politics must be very disagreeable to gentlemen. The
men must have such dirty hands!"

"It's not the dirty hands which make American politics disagreeable.
It's the dirty consciences."

"Are--are politics so corrupt and immoral?"

"Politics are what the people make them."

"Really?"

"I suppose your life has not been of a kind to make you very familiar
with it all. Tell me what these long years have brought you?"

"Perfect happiness! Oh, Mr. Stirling--may I call you Peter?--thank you.
Peter, I have the finest, noblest husband that ever lived! He is
everything that is good and kind!" Mrs. D'Alloi's face lighted up with
happiness and tenderness.

"And your children?"

"We have only one. The sweetest, loveliest child you can imagine."

"Fie, fie, Rosebud," cried a voice from the doorway. "You shouldn't
speak of yourself so, even if it is the truth. Leave that to me. How are
you, Peter, old fellow? I'd apologize for keeping you waiting, but if
you've had Helen, there's no occasion. Isn't it Boileau who said that:
'The best thing about many a man is his wife'?"

Mrs. D'Alloi beamed, but said, "It isn't so, Peter. He's much better
than I."

Watts laughed. "You'll have to excuse this, old man. Will happen
sometimes, even in the properest of families, if one marries an angel."

"There, you see," said Mrs. D'Alloi. "He just spoils me, Peter."

"And she thrives on it, doesn't she, Peter?" said Watts. "Isn't she
prettier even than she was in the old days?"

Mrs. D'Alloi colored with pleasure, even while saying: "Now, Watts dear,
I won't swallow such palpable flattery. There's one kiss for it--Peter
won't mind--and now I know you two want to talk old times, so I'll leave
you together. Good-bye, Peter--or rather _au revoir_--for you must be a
regular visitor now. Watts, arrange with Peter to dine with us some day
this week."

Mrs. D'Alloi disappeared through the doorway. Peter's pulse did not
change a beat.




CHAPTER XXXIV.

HELP.


The moment she was gone, Watts held out his hand, saying: "Here, old
man, let us shake hands again. It's almost like going back to college
days to see my old chum. Come to the snuggery, where we shan't be
interrupted." They went through two rooms, to one fitted up as a
smoking-room and office. "It's papa-in-law's workshop. He can't drop his
work at the bank, so he brings it home and goes on here. Sit down. Here,
take a cigar. Now, are you comfortable?"

"Yes."

"_Maintenant_, I suppose you want to know why I wrote you to come so
quickly?"

"Yes."

"Well, the truth of it is, I'm in an awful mess. Yesterday I was so
desperate I thought I should blow my brains out. I went round to the
club to see if I couldn't forget or drown my trouble, just as sick as a
man could be. Fellows talking. First thing I heard was your name. 'Just
won a great case.' 'One of the best lawyers in New York.' Thinks I to
myself, 'That's a special providence.' Peter always was the fellow to
pull me through my college scrapes. I'll write him.' Did it, and played
billiards for the rest of the evening, secure in the belief that you
would come to my help, just as you used to."

"Tell me what it is?"

"Even that isn't easy, chum. It's a devilish hard thing to tell even to
you."

"Is it money trou--?"

"No, no!" Watts interrupted. "It isn't that. The truth is I've a great
deal more money than is good for me, and apparently always shall have. I
wish it were only that!"

"How can I help you?" began Peter.

"I knew you would," cried Watts, joyfully. "Just the same old reliable
you always were. Here. Draw up nearer. That's it. Now then, here goes. I
shan't mind if you are shocked at first. Be as hard on me as you like."

"Well?"

"Well, to make a long story short, I'm entangled with a woman, and
there's the devil to pay. Now you'll pull me through, old man, won't
you?"

"No."

"Don't say that, Peter! You must help me. You're my only hope.

"I do not care to mix myself in such a business," said Peter, very
quietly. "I would rather know nothing about it." Peter rose.

"Don't desert me," cried Watts, springing to his feet, and putting his
hand on Peter's shoulder, so as to prevent his progress to the door.
"Don't. She's going to expose me. Think of the disgrace! My God, Peter,
think--"

"Take your hand off my shoulder."

"But Peter, think--"

"The time to think was before--not now, Watts. I will not concern myself
in this."

"But, old man. I can't face it. It will kill Helen!"

Peter had already thrown aside the arm, and had taken a step towards the
doorway. He stopped and turned. "She does not know?"

"Not a suspicion. And nothing but absolute proof will make her believe
it. She worships me. Oh, Peter, save her! Save Leonore--if you won't
save me!"

"Can they be saved?"

"That's what I want to know. Here--sit down, please! I'll tell you all
about it."

Peter hesitated a moment, and then sat down.

"It began in Paris twelve years ago. Such affairs have a way of
beginning in Paris, old man. It's in the atmosphere. She--"

"Stop. I will ask questions. There's no good going over the whole
story." Peter tried to speak calmly, and to keep his voice and face from
showing what he felt. He paused a moment, and then said: "She threatens
to expose you. Why?"

"Well, after three years I tired of it and tried to end it. Then she
used it to blackmail me for ten years, till, in desperation, I came to
America, to see if I couldn't escape her."

"And she followed you?"

"Yes. She was always tracking me in Europe, and making my life a hell on
earth, and now she's followed me here."

"If it's merely a question of money, I don't see what you want of me."

"She says she doesn't want money now--but revenge. She's perfectly
furious over my coming off without telling her--always had an awful
temper--and--well, you know an infuriated woman is capable of anything.
The Spaniard was right who said it was easier to take care of a peck of
fleas than one woman, eh, chum?"

"So she threatens to tell your wife?"

"No. She says she's going to summon me into court."

"On what grounds?"

"That's the worst part of it. You see, chum, there's a child, and she
says she's going to apply for a proper support for it. Proper support!
Heavens! The money I've paid her would support ten children. It's only
temper."

Peter said, "Watts, Watts," in a sad voice.

"Pretty bad, isn't it? If it wasn't for the child I could--"

Peter interrupted. "Has she any proofs of paternity besides--?"

Watts interrupted in turn. "Yes. Confound it! I was fool enough to write
letters during my infatuation. Talleyrand was right when he said only
fools and women wrote letters."

"How could you?"

"That's what I've asked myself a hundred times. Oh, I'm sorry enough.
I've sworn never to put pen to paper again. _Jamais!_"

"I did not mean the letters. But your vow."

"My vow?"

"Your marriage vow."

"Oh, yes. I know. But you know, chum, before you promise to love one
woman for all time you should have seen them all."

"And that display ten minutes ago was all mockery?"

"No, no! Really, Peter, I'm awfully fond of the little woman. Really I
am. And you know Daudet says a man can love two women at the same time."

"And if so, how about his honor?" Peter was trying to repress his
emotion, but it would jerk out questions.

"Yes, I know. I've said that to myself over and over again. Why, look
here." Watts pulled a small revolver from his hip pocket. "This will
show you how close to the desperation point I have come. I've carried
that for two days, so that if worse comes to worse--well. Phut!--_Voila
tout_."

Peter rose, speaking in a voice ringing with scorn. "You would escape
your sin, to leave it with added disgrace for your wife and daughter to
bear! Put up your pistol, Watts D'Alloi. If I am to help you, I want to
help a man--not a skulker. What do you want me to do?"

"That's what I wish to know. What can I do?"

"You have offered her money?"

"Yes. I told her that--"

"Never mind details," interrupted Peter, "Was it enough to put further
offers out of the question?"

"Yes. She won't hear of money. She wants revenge."

"Give me her name and address."

"Celestine--" The rest was interrupted by a knock at the door. "Well?"
said Watts.

The door was opened, and a footman entered. "If you please, Mr. D'Alloi,
there's a Frenchwoman at the door who wants to see you. She won't give
me her name, but says you'll know who it is."

"Say I won't see her. That I'm busy."

"She told me to say that if you were engaged, she'd see Mrs. D'Alloi."

"My God!" said Watts, under his breath.

"Ask the woman to come in here," said Peter, quietly, but in a way which
made the man leave the room without waiting to see if Watts demurred.

A complete silence followed. Then came the rustle of skirts, and a woman
entered the room. Peter, who stood aside, motioned to the footman to go,
and closed the door himself, turning the key.

The woman came to the middle of the room. "So, Monsieur D'Alloi," she
said in French, speaking very low and distinctly, "you thought it best
not to order your groom to turn me out, as you did that last day in
Paris, when you supposed your flight to America left you free to do as
you pleased? But you did not escape me. Here I am."

Watts sat down in an easy-chair, and striking a match, lighted a
cigarette. "That, Celestine," he said in French, "is what in English we
call a self-evident proposition."

Celestine's foot began to tap the floor, "You needn't pretend you
expected I would follow you. You thought you could drop me, like an old
slipper."

Watts blew a whiff of tobacco from his mouth. "It was a remark of
Ricard's, I believe, 'that in woman, one should always expect the
unexpected.'"

"_Mon Dieu_!" shrieked Celestine. "If I--if I could kill you--you--"

She was interrupted by Peter's bringing a chair to her and saying in
French, "Will you not sit down, please?"

She turned in surprise, for she had been too wrought up to notice that
Peter was in the room. She stared at him and then sat down.

"That's right," said Watts. "Take it easy. No occasion to get excited."

"Ah!" screamed Celestine, springing to her feet, "your name shall be in
all the papers. You shall--"

Peter again interrupted. "Madame, will you allow me to say something?"
He spoke gently and deferentially.

Celestine looked at him again, saying rapidly: "Why should I listen to
you? What are you to me? I don't even know you. My mind's made up. I
tell you--" The woman was lashing herself into a fury, and Peter
interrupted her again:

"Pardon me. We are strangers. If I ask anything of you for myself, I
should expect a refusal. But I ask it for humanity, to which we all owe
help. Only hear what I have to say. I do not claim it as a right, but as
a favor."

Celestine sat down. "I listen," she said. She turned her chair from
Watts and faced Peter, as he stood at the study table.

Peter paused a moment, and then said: "After what I have seen, I feel
sure you wish only to revenge yourself on Mr. D'Alloi?"

"Yes."

"Now let me show you what you will do. For the last two days Mr. D'Alloi
has carried a pistol in his pocket, and if you disgrace him he will
probably shoot himself."

"Bon!"

"But where is your revenge? He will be beyond your reach, and you will
only have a human life upon your conscience ever after."

"I shall not grieve!"

"Nor is that all. In revenging yourself on him, you do one of the
cruelest acts possible. A wife, who trusts and believes in him, will
have her faith and love shattered. His daughter--a young girl, with all
her life before her--must ever after despise her father and blush at
her name. Do not punish the weak and innocent for the sin of the
guilty!" Peter spoke with an earnestness almost terrible. Tears came
into his eyes as he made his appeal, and his two auditors both rose to
their feet, under the impulse of his voice even more than of his words.
So earnest was he, and so spell-bound were the others, that they failed
to hear the door from the dining-room move, or notice the entrance of
Mrs. D'Alloi as Peter ended his plea.

A moment's silence followed Peter's outburst of feeling. Then the
Frenchwoman cried:

"Truly, truly. But what will you do for me and my child? Haven't we been
ill-treated? Don't you owe us help, too? Justice? Don't we deserve
tenderness and protection?"

"Yes," said Peter. "But you wish revenge. Ask for justice, ask for help,
and I will do what is within my power to aid you."

"Watts," cried Mrs. D'Alloi, coming forward, "of what child are you
talking? Whose child? Who is this woman?"

Watts jumped as if he had been shot. Celestine even retreated before the
terrible voice and face with which Mrs. D'Alloi asked her questions. A
sad, weary look came into Peter's eyes. No one answered Mrs. D'Alloi.

"Answer me," she cried

"My dear little woman. Don't get excited. It's all right." Watts managed
to say this much. But he did not look his last remark.

"Answer me, I say. Who is this woman? Speak!"

"It's all right, really, it's all right. Here. Peter will tell you it's
all right."

"Peter," cried Mrs. D'Alloi. "Of whose child were you speaking?"

Peter was still standing by the desk. He looked sad and broken, as he
said:

"This is the mother, Mrs. D'Alloi."

"Yes? Yes?"

Peter raised his eyes to Helen's and looked at her. Then he said
quietly:

"And Watts--will tell you that--I am its father."




CHAPTER XXXV.

RUNNING AWAY.


The dramatic pause which followed Peter's statement was first broken by
Mrs. D'Alloi, who threw her arms about Watt's neck, and cried: "Oh! my
husband. Forgive me, forgive me for the suspicion!"

Peter turned to Celestine. "Madame," he said. "We are not wanted here."
He unlocked the door into the hall, and stood aside while she passed
out, which she did quietly. Another moment found the two on the
sidewalk. "I will walk with you to your hotel, if you will permit me?"
Peter said to her.

"Certainly," Celestine replied. Nothing more was said in the walk of ten
blocks. When they reached the hotel entrance, Peter asked: "Can you see
me for a few moments?"

"Yes. Come to my private parlor." They took the elevator, and were but a
moment in reaching that apartment.

Peter spoke the moment the door was closed. "Madame," he said, "you saw
that scene. Spare his wife and child? He is not worth your anger."

"Ah, Ciel!" cried Celestine, emotionally. "Do you think so lowly of me,
that you can imagine I would destroy your sacrifice? Your romantic, your
dramatic, _mon Dieu!_ your noble sacrifice? Non, non. Celestine Lacour
could never do so. She will suffer cruelty, penury, insults, before she
behaves so shamefully, so perfidiously."

Peter did not entirely sympathize with the Frenchwoman's admiration for
the dramatic element, but he was too good a lawyer not to accept an
admission, no matter upon what grounds. He held out his hand promptly.
"Madame," he said, "accept my thanks and admiration for your generous
conduct."

Celestine took it and shook it warmly.

"Of course," said Peter. "Mr. D'Alloi owes you an ample income."

"Ah!" cried Celestine, shrugging her shoulders. "Do not talk of him--I
leave it to you to make him do what is right."

"And you will return to France?"

"Yes, yes. If you say so?" Celestine looked at Peter in a manner known
only to the Latin races. Just then a side door was thrown open, and a
boy of about twelve years of age dashed into the room, followed by a
French poodle.

"Little villain!" cried Celestine. "How dare you approach without
knocking? Go. Go. Quickly."

"Pardon, Madame," said the child. "I thought you still absent."

"Is that the child?" asked Peter.

"Yes," said Celestine.

"Does he know?"

"Nothing. I do not tell him even that I am his mother."

"Then you are not prepared to give him a mother's care and tenderness?"

"Never. I love him not. He is too like his father. And I cannot have it
known that I am the mother of a child of twelve. It would not be
believed, even." Celestine took a look at herself in the tall mirror.

"Then I suppose you would like some arrangement about him?"

"Yes."

Peter stayed for nearly an hour with the woman. He stayed so long, that
for one of the few times in his life he was late at a dinner engagement.
But when he had left Celestine, every detail had been settled. Peter did
not have an expression of pleasure on his face as he rode down-town, nor
was he very good company at the dinner which he attended that evening.

The next day did not find him in any better mood. He went down-town, and
called on an insurance company and talked for a while with the
president. Then he called at a steamship office. After that he spent
twenty minutes with the head of one of the large schools for boys in the
city. Then he returned to his office.

"A Mr. D'Alloi is waiting for you in your private office, sir," he was
told. "He said that he was an old friend and insisted on going in
there."

Peter passed into his office.

Watts cried: "My dear boy, how can I ever--"

He was holding out his hand, but Peter failed to take it, and
interrupted him.

"I have arranged it all with Madame Lacour," Peter said coldly. "She
sails on La Bretagne on Thursday. You are to buy an annuity for three
thousand dollars a year. In addition, you are to buy an annuity for the
boy till he is twenty-five, of one thousand dollars a year, payable to
me as his guardian. This will cost you between forty and fifty thousand
dollars. I will notify you of the amount when the insurance company
sends it to me. In return for your check, I shall send you the letters
and other things you sent Madame Lacour, or burn them, as you direct.
Except for this the affair is ended. I need not detain you further."

"Oh, I say, chum. Don't take it this way," cried Watts. "Do you
think--?"

"I end it as suits me," said Peter. "Good-day."

"But, at least you must let me pay you a fee for your work?"

Peter turned on Watts quickly, but checked the movement and the words on
his tongue. He only reiterated. "Good-day."

"Well, if you will have it so." Watts went to the door, but hesitated.
"Just as you please. If, later, you change your mind, send me word. I
shan't cherish any feeling for this. I want to be friends."

"Good-day," said Peter. Watts passed out, closing the door.

Peter sat down at his desk, doing nothing, for nearly an hour. How long
he would have sat will never be known, if his brown study had not been
ended by Rivington's entrance. "The Appeals have just handed down their
decision in the Henley case. We win."

"I thought we should," said Peter mechanically.

"Why, Peter! What's the matter with you? You look as seedy as--"

"As I feel," said Peter. "I'm going to stop work and take a ride, to see
if I can't knock some of my dulness out of me." Within an hour he was at
the Riding Club.

"Hello," said the stable man. "Twice in one day! You're not often here
at this hour, sir. Which horse will you have?"

"Give me whichever has the most life in him."

"It's Mutineer has the devil in him always, sir. Though it's not
yourself need fear any horse. Only look out for the ice."

Peter rode into the Park in ten minutes. He met Lispenard at the first
turn.

"Hello! It's not often you are here at this hour." Lispenard reined his
horse up alongside.

"No," said Peter. "I've been through a very revolt--a very disagreeable
experience, and I've come up here to get some fresh air. I don't want to
be sociable."

"That's right. Truthful as ever. But one word before we separate. Keppel
has just received two proofs of Haden's last job. He asks awful prices
for them, but you ought to see them."

"Thanks." And the two friends separated as only true friends can
separate.

Peter rode on, buried in his own thoughts. The park was rather empty,
for dark comes on early in March, and dusk was already in the air. He
shook himself presently, and set Mutineer at a sharp canter round the
larger circle of the bridle path. But before they had half swung the
circle, he was deep in thought again, and Mutineer was taking his own
pace. Peter deserved to get a stumble and a broken neck or leg, but he
didn't. He was saved from it by an incident which never won any credit
for its good results to Peter, however much credit it gained him.

Peter was so deeply engrossed in his own thoughts that he did not hear
the clutter of a horse's feet behind him, just as he struck the long
stretch of the comparatively straight path along the Reservoir. But
Mutineer did, and pricked up his ears. Mutineer could not talk
articulately, but all true lovers of horses understand their language.
Mutineer's cogitations, transmuted into human speech, were something to
this effect:

"Hello! What's that horse trying to do? He can't for a moment expect to
pass me!"

But the next moment a roan mare actually did pass him, going at a swift
gallop.

Mutineer laid his ears back, "The impudence!" he said. "Does that
little whiffet of a roan mare think she's going to show me her heels?
I'll teach her!" It is a curious fact that both the men and horses who
are most seldom passed by their kind, object to it most when it happens.

Peter suddenly came back to affairs earthly to find Mutineer just
settling into a gait not permitted by Park regulations. He drew rein,
and Mutineer, knowing that the fun was up, danced round the path in his
bad temper.

"Really," he said to himself, "if I wasn't so fond of you, I'd give you
and that mare, an awful lesson. Hello! not another? This is too much!"

The last remarks had relation to more clattering of hoofs. In a moment a
groom was in view, going also at a gallop.

"Hout of the way," cried the groom, to Peter, for Mutineer was waltzing
round the path in a way that suggested "no thoroughfare." "Hi'm after
that runaway."

Peter looked after the first horse, already a hundred feet away. He said
nothing to groom nor horse, but Mutineer understood the sudden change in
the reins, even before he felt that maddening prick of the spurs. There
was a moment's wild grinding of horse's feet on the slippery road and
then Mutineer had settled to his long, tremendous stride.

"Now, I'll show you," he remarked, "but if only he wouldn't hold me so
damned tight." We must forgive Mutineer for swearing. He lived so much
with the stablemen, that, gentleman though he was, evil communications
could not be entirely resisted.

Peter was riding "cool." He knew he could run the mare down, but he
noticed that the woman, who formed the mount, was sitting straight, and
he could tell from the position of her elbows that she was still pulling
on her reins, if ineffectually. He thought it best therefore to let the
mare wind herself before he forced himself up, lest he should only make
the runaway horse the wilder. So after a hundred yards' run, he drew
Mutineer down to the mare's pace, about thirty feet behind her.

They ran thus for another hundred yards. Then suddenly Peter saw the
woman drop her reins, and catch at the saddle. His quick eye told him in
a moment what had happened. The saddle-girth had broken, or the saddle
was turning. He dug his spurs into Mutineer, so that the horse, who had
never had such treatment, thought that he had been touched by two
branding irons. He gave a furious shake of his ears, and really showed
the blood of his racing Kentucky forebears. In fifteen seconds the horse
was running even with the mare.

Peter had intended merely to catch the reins of the runaway, trusting to
his strength to do what a woman's could not. But when he came up
alongside, he saw that the saddle had turned so far that the rider could
not keep her seat ten seconds longer. So he dropped his reins, bent
over, and putting his arms about the woman lifted her off the precarious
seat, and put her in front of him. He held her there with one arm, and
reached for his reins. But Mutineer had tossed them over his head.

"Mutineer!" said Peter, with an inflection of voice decidedly
commanding.

"I covered a hundred yards to your seventy," Mutineer told the roan
mare. "On a mile track I could go round you twice, without getting out
of breath. I could beat you now, even with double mount easily. But my
Peter has dropped the reins and that puts me on my honor. Good-bye."
Mutineer checked his great racing stride, broke to a canter; dropped to
a trot; altered that to a walk, and stopped.

Peter had been rather astonished at the weight he had lifted. Peter had
never lifted a woman before. His chief experience in the weight of
human-kind had been in wrestling matches at the armory, and only the
largest and most muscular men in the regiment cared to try a bout with
him. Of course Peter knew as a fact that women were lighter than men,
but after bracing himself, much as he would have done to try the
cross-buttock with two hundred pounds of bone and brawn, he marvelled
much at the ease with which he transferred the rider. "She can't weigh
over eighty pounds," he thought. Which was foolish, for the woman
actually weighed one hundred and eighteen, as Peter afterwards learned.

The woman also surprised Peter in another way. Scarcely had she been
placed in front of him, than she put her arms about his neck and buried
her face in his shoulder. She was not crying, but she was drawing her
breath in great gasps in a manner which scared Peter terribly. Peter had
never had a woman cling to him in that way, and frightened as he was,
he made three very interesting discoveries:

1. That a man's shoulder seems planned by nature as a resting place for
a woman's head.

2. That a man's arm about a woman's waist is a very pleasant position
for the arm.

3. That a pair of woman's arms round a man's neck, with the clasped
hands, even if gloved, just resting on the back of his neck, is very
satisfying.

Peter could not see much of the woman. His arm told him that she was
decidedly slender, and he could just catch sight of a small ear and a
cheek, whose roundness proved the youth of the person. Otherwise he
could only see a head of very pretty brown hair, the smooth dressing of
which could not entirely conceal its longing to curl.

When Mutineer stopped, Peter did not quite know what to do. Of course it
was his duty to hold the woman till she recovered herself. That was a
plain duty--and pleasant. Peter said to himself that he really was sorry
for her, and thought his sensations were merely the satisfaction of a
father in aiding his daughter. We must forgive his foolishness, for
Peter had never been a father, and so did not know the parental feeling.

It had taken Mutineer twenty seconds to come to a stand, and for ten
seconds after, no change in the condition occurred. Then suddenly the
woman stopped her gasps. Peter, who was looking down at her, saw the
pale cheek redden. The next moment, the arms were taken from his neck
and the woman was sitting up straight in front of him. He got a downward
look at the face, and he thought it was the most charming he had ever
seen.

The girl kept her eyes lowered, while she said firmly, though with
traces of breathlessness and tremulo in her voice, "Please help me
down."

Peter was out of his saddle in a moment, and lifted the girl down. She
staggered slightly on reaching the ground, so that Peter said: "You had
better lean on me."

"No," said the girl, still looking down, "I will lean against the
horse." She rested against Mutineer, who looked around to see who was
taking this insulting liberty with a Kentucky gentleman. Having looked
at her he said: "You're quite welcome, you pretty dear!" Peter thought
he would like to be a horse, but then it occurred to him that equines
could not have had what he had just had, so he became reconciled to his
lot.

The girl went on flushing, even after she was safely leaning against
Mutineer. There was another ten seconds' pause, and then she said, still
with downcast eyes, "I was so frightened, that I did not know what I was
doing."

"You behaved very well," said Peter, in the most comforting voice he
could command. "You held your horse splendidly."

"I wasn't a bit frightened, till the saddle began to turn." The girl
still kept her eyes on the ground, and still blushed. She was undergoing
almost the keenest mortification possible for a woman. She had for a
moment been horrified by the thought that she had behaved in this way to
a groom. But a stranger--a gentleman--was worse! She had not looked at
Peter's face, but his irreproachable riding-rig had been noticed. "If it
had only been a policeman," she thought. "What can I say to him?"

Peter saw the mortification without quite understanding it. He knew,
however, it was his duty to ease it, and took the best way by giving her
something else to think about.

"As soon as you feel able to walk, you had better take my arm. We can
get a cab at the 72d Street entrance, probably. If you don't feel able
to walk, sit down on that stone, and I'll bring a cab. It oughtn't to
take me ten minutes."

"You are very good," said the girl, raising her eyes, and taking a look
at Peter's face for the first time.

A thrill went through Peter.

The girl had slate-colored eyes!!




CHAPTER XXXVI.

A DREAM.


Something in Peter's face seemed to reassure the girl, for though she
looked down after the glance, she ceased leaning against the horse, and
said, "I behaved very foolishly, of course. Now I will do whatever you
think best."

Before Peter had recovered enough from his thrill to put what he thought
into speech, a policeman came riding towards them, leading the roan
mare. "Any harm done?" he called.

"None, fortunately. Where can we get a cab? Or can you bring one here?"

"I'm afraid there'll be none nearer than Fifty-ninth Street. They leave
the other entrances before it's as dark as this."

"Never mind the cab," said the girl. "If you'll help me to mount, I'll
ride home."

"That's the pluck!" said the policeman.

"Do you think you had better?" asked Peter.

"Yes. I'm not a bit afraid. If you'll just tighten the girth."

It seemed to Peter he had never encountered such a marvellously
fascinating combination as was indicated by the clinging position of a
minute ago and the erect one of the present moment. He tightened the
girth with a pull that made the roan mare wonder if a steam-winch had
hold of the end, and then had the pleasure of the little foot being
placed in his hand for a moment, as he lifted the girl into the saddle.

"I shall ride with you," he said, mounting instantly.

"Beg pardon," said the policeman. "I must take your names. We are
required to report all such things to headquarters."

"Why, Williams, don't you know me?" asked Peter.

Williams looked at Peter, now for the first time on a level with him. "I
beg your pardon, Mr. Stirling. It was so dark, and you are so seldom
here afternoons that I didn't know you."

"Tell the chief that this needn't go on record, nor be given to the
reporters."

"Very well, Mr. Stirling."

"I beg your pardon," said the girl in a frank yet shy way, "but will you
tell me your first name?"

Peter was rather astonished, but he said "Peter."

"Oh!" cried the girl, looking Peter in the face. "I understand it now. I
didn't think I could behave so to a stranger! I must have felt it was
you." She was smiling joyfully, and she did not drop her eyes from his.
On the contrary she held out her hand to him.

Of course Peter took it. He did not stop to ask if it was right or wrong
to hold a young girl's hand. If it was wrong, it was certainly a very
small one, judging from the size of the hand.

"I was so mortified! But if it's you it's all right."

Peter thought this mood of the girl was both delightful and
complimentary, but he failed to understand anything of it, except its
general friendliness. His manner may have suggested this, for suddenly
the girl said:

"But of course, you do not know who I am? How foolish of me! I am
Leonore D'Alloi."

It was Peter's turn to gasp. "Not--?" he began and then stopped.

"Yes," said the girl joyfully, as if Peter's "not" had had something
delightful in it.

"But--she's a child."

"I'll be eighteen next week," said Leonore, with all the readiness of
that number of years to proclaim its age.

Peter concluded that he must accept the fact. Watts could have a child
that old. Having reached this conclusion, he said, "I ought to have
known you by your likeness to your mother." Which was an unintentional
lie. Her mother's eyes she had, as well as the long lashes; and she had
her mother's pretty figure, though she was taller. But otherwise she was
far more like Watts. Her curly hair, her curvy mouth, the dimple, and
the contour of the face were his. Leonore D'Alloi was a far greater
beauty than her mother had ever been. But to Peter, it was merely a
renewal of his dream.

Just at this point the groom rode up. "Beg pardon, Miss D'Alloi," he
said, touching his cap. "My 'orse went down on a bit of hice."

"You are not hurt, Belden?" said Miss D'Alloi.

Peter thought the anxious tone heavenly. He rather wished he had broken
something himself.

"No. Nor the 'orse."

"Then it's all right. Mr. Stirling, we need not interrupt your ride.
Belden will see me home."

Belden see her home! Peter would see him do it! That was what Peter
thought. He said, "I shall ride with you, of course." So they started
their horses, the groom dropping behind.

"Do you want to try it again?" asked Mutineer of the roan.

"No," said the mare. "You are too big and strong."

Leonore was just saying: "I could hear the pound of a horse's feet
behind me, but I thought it was the groom, and knew he could never
overtake Fly-away. So when I felt the saddle begin to slip, I thought I
was--was going to be dragged--as I once saw a woman in England--Oh!--and
then suddenly I saw a horse's head, and then I felt some one take hold
of me so firmly that I didn't have to hold myself at all, and I knew I
was safe. Oh, how nice it is to be big and strong!"

Peter thought so too.

So it is the world over. Peter and Mutineer felt happy and proud in
their strength, and Leonore and Fly-away glorified them for it. Yet in
spite of this, as Peter looked down at the curly head, from his own and
Mutineers altitude, he felt no superiority, and knew that the slightest
wish expressed by that small mouth, would be as strong with him as if a
European army obeyed its commands.

"What a tremendous horse you have?" said Leonore. "Isn't he?" assented
Peter. "He's got a bad temper, I'm sorry to say, but I'm very fond of
him. He was given me by my regiment, and was the choice of a very dear
friend now dead."

"Who was that?"

"No one you know. A Mr. Costell."

"Oh, yes I do. I've heard all about him."

"What do you know of Mr. Costell?"

"What Miss De Voe told me."

"Miss De Voe?"

"Yes. We saw her both times in Europe. Once at Nice, and once in--in
1882--at Maggiore. The first time, I was only six, but she used to tell
me stories about you and the little children in the angle. The last time
she told me all she could remember about you. We used to drift about the
lake moonlight nights, and talk about you."

"What made that worth doing to you?"

"Oh from the very beginning, that I can remember, papa was always
talking about 'dear old Peter'"--the talker said the last three words
in such a tone, shot such a look up at Peter, half laughing and half
timid, that in combination they nearly made Peter reel in his
saddle--"and you seemed almost the only one of his friends he did speak
of, so I became very curious about you as a little girl, and then Miss
De Voe made me more interested, so that I began questioning Americans,
because I was really anxious to learn things concerning you. Nearly
every one did know something, so I found out a great deal about you."

Peter was realizing for the first time in his life, how champagne made
one feel.

"Tell me whom you found who knew anything about me?"

"Oh, nearly everybody knew something. That is, every one we've met in
the last five years. Before that, there was Miss De Voe, and grandpapa,
of course, when he came over in 1879--"

"But," interrupted Peter, "I don't think I had met him once before that
time, except at the Shrubberies."

"No, he hadn't seen you. But he knew a lot about you, from Mr. Lapharn
and Mr. Avery, and some other men who had met you."

"Who else?"

"Miss Leroy, mamma's bridesmaid, who spent two weeks at our villa near
Florence, and Dr. Purple, your clergyman, who was in the same house with
us at Ober-Ammergau, and--and--oh the best were Mr. and Mrs. Rivington.
They were in Jersey, having their honeymoon. They told me more than all
the rest put together."

"I feel quite safe in their hands. Dorothy and I formed a mutual
admiration society a good many years ago."

"She and Mr. Rivington couldn't say enough good of you."

"You must make allowance for the fact that they were on their wedding
journey, and probably saw everything rose-colored."

"That was it. Dorothy told me about your giving Mr. Rivington a full
partnership, in order that Mr. Ogden should give his consent."

Peter laughed.

"Ray swore that he wouldn't tell. And Dorothy has always appeared
ignorant. And yet she knew it on her wedding trip."

"She couldn't help it. She said she must tell some one, she was so
happy. So she told mamma and me. She showed us your photograph. Papa and
mamma said it was like you, but I don't think it is."

Again Leonore looked up at him. Leonore, when she glanced at a man, had
the same frank, fearless gaze that her mother had of yore. But she did
not look as often nor as long, and did not seem so wrapped up in the
man's remarks when she looked. We are afraid even at seventeen that
Leonore had discovered that she had very fetching eyes, and did not
intend to cheapen them, by showing them too much. During the whole of
this dialogue, Peter had had only "come-and-go" glimpses of those eyes.
He wanted to see more of them. He longed to lean over and turn the face
up and really look down into them. Still, he could see the curly hair,
and the little ear, and the round of the cheek, and the long lashes. For
the moment Peter did not agree with Mr. Weller that "life isn't all beer
and skittles."

"I've been so anxious to meet you. I've begged papa ever since we landed
to take me to see you. And he's promised me, over and over again, to do
it, but something always interfered. You see, I felt very strange
and--and queer, not knowing people of my own country, and I felt that I
really knew you, and wouldn't have to begin new as I do with other
people. I do so dread next winter when I'm to go into society. I don't
know what I shall do, I'll not know any one."

"You'll know me."

"But you don't go into society."

"Oh, yes, I do. Sometimes, that is. I shall probably go more next
winter. I've shut myself up too much." This was a discovery of Peter's
made in the last ten seconds.

"How nice that will be! And will you promise to give me a great deal of
attention?"

"You'll probably want very little. I don't dance." Peter suddenly became
conscious that Mr. Weller was right.

"But you can learn. Please. I do so love valsing."

Peter almost reeled again at the thought of waltzing with Leonore. Was
it possible life had such richness in it? Then he said with a bitter
note in his voice very unusual to him:

"I'm afraid I'm too old to learn."

"Not a bit," said Leonore. "You don't look any older than lots of men
I've seen valsing. Young men I mean. And I've seen men seventy years old
dancing in Europe."

Whether Peter could have kept his seat much longer is to be questioned.
But fortunately for him, the horses here came to a stop in front of a
stable.

"Why," said Leonore, "here we are already! What a short ride it has
been."

Peter thought so too, and groaned over the end of it. But then he
suddenly remembered that Leonore was to be lifted from her horse. He
became cold with the thought that she might jump before he could get to
her, and he was off his horse and by her side with the quickness of a
military training. He put his hands up, and for a moment had--well,
Peter could usually express himself but he could not put that moment
into words. And it was not merely that Leonore had been in his arms for
a moment, but that he had got a good look up into her eyes.

"I wish you would take my horse round to the Riding Club," he told the
groom. "I wish to see Miss D'Alloi home."

"Thank you very much, but my maid is here in the brougham, so I need not
trouble you. Good-bye, and thank you. Oh, thank you so much!" She stood
very close to Peter, and looked up into his eyes with her own. "There's
no one I would rather have had save me."

She stepped into the brougham, and Peter closed the door. He mounted his
horse again, and straightening himself up, rode away.

"Hi thought," remarked the groom to the stableman, "that 'e didn't know
'ow to sit 'is 'orse, but 'e's all right, arter all. 'E rides like ha
'orse guards capting, w'en 'e don't 'ave a girl to bother 'im."

Would that girl bother him?




CHAPTER XXXVII.

"FRIENDS."


At first blush, judging from Peter's behavior, the girl was not going to
bother him. Peter left his horse at the stable, and taking a hansom,
went to his club. There he spent a calm half hour over the evening
papers. His dinner was eaten with equal coolness. Not till he had
reached his study did he vary his ordinary daily routine. Then, instead
of working or reading, he rolled a comfortable chair up to the fire, put
on a fresh log or two, opened a new box of Bock's, and lighting one,
settled back in the chair. How many hours he sat and how many cigars he
smoked are not recorded, lest the statement should make people skeptical
of the narrative.

Of course Peter knew that life had not lost its troubles. He was not
fooling himself as to what lay before him. He was not callous to the
sufferings already endured. But he put them, past, and to come, from him
for one evening, and sat smoking lazily with a dreamy look on his face.
He had lately been studying the subject of Asiatic cholera, but he did
not seem to be thinking of that. He had just been through what he called
a "revolting experience," but it is doubtful if he was thinking of that.
Whatever his thoughts were, they put a very different look on his face
than that which it used to wear while he studied blank walls.

When Peter sat down, rather later than usual at his office desk the next
morning, he took a sheet of paper, and wrote, "Dear sir," upon it. Then
he tore it up. He took another and wrote, "My dear Mr. D'Alloi." He tore
that up. Another he began, "Dear Watts." A moment later it was in the
paper basket. "My dear friend," served to bring a similar fate to the
fourth. Then Peter rose and strolled about his office aimlessly. Finally
he went out into a gallery running along the various rooms, and, opening
a door, put his head in.

"You hypocritical scoundrel," he said. "You swore to me that you would
never tell a living soul."

"Well?" came a very guilty voice back.

"And Dorothy's known all this time."

Dead silence.

"And you've both been as innocent as--as you were guilty."

"Look here, Peter, I can't make you understand, because you've--you've
never been on a honeymoon. Really, old fellow, I was so happy over your
generosity in giving me a full share, when I didn't bring a tenth of the
business, and so happy over Dorothy, that If I hadn't told her, I should
have simply--bust. She swore she'd never tell. And now she's told you!"

"No, but she told some one else."

"Never!"

"Yes."

"Then she's broken her word. She--"

"The Pot called the Kettle black."

"But to tell one's own wife is different. I thought she could keep a
secret."

"How can you expect a person to keep a secret when you can't keep it
yourself?" Peter and Ray were both laughing.

Ray said to himself, "Peter has some awfully knotty point on hand, and
is resting the brain tissue for a moment." Ray had noticed, when Peter
interrupted him during office hours, on matters not relating to
business, that he had a big or complex question in hand.

Peter closed the door and went back to his room. Then he took a fifth
sheet of paper, and wrote:

    "WATTS: A day's thought has brought a change of feeling on my
    part. Neither can be the better for alienation or unkind thoughts.
    I regret already my attitude of yesterday. Let us cancel all that
    has happened since our college days, and put aside as if it had
    never occurred.

    "PETER"

Just as he had finished this, his door opened softly. 'Peter did not
hear it, but took the letter up and read it slowly.

"Boo!"

Peter did not jump at the Boo. He looked up very calmly, but the moment
he looked up, jump he did. He jumped so that he was shaking hands
before the impetus was lost.

"This is the nicest kind of a surprise," he said.

"Bother you, you phlegmatic old cow," cried a merry voice. "Here we have
spent ten minutes palavering your boy, in order to make him let us
surprise you, and then when we spring it on you, you don't budge. Wasn't
it shabby treatment, Dot?"

"You've disappointed us awfully, Mr. Stirling."

Peter was shaking hands more deliberately with Leonore than he had with
Watts. He had been rather clever in shaking hands with him first, so
that he need not hurry himself over the second. So he had a very nice
moment--all too short--while Leonore's hand lay in his. He said, in
order to prolong the moment, without making it too marked, "It will take
something more frightful than you, Miss D'Alloi, to make me jump." Then
Peter was sorry he had said it, for Leonore dropped her eyes.

"Now, old man, give an account of yourself." Watts was speaking
jauntily, but not quite as easily as he usually did. "Here Leonore and I
waited all last evening, and you never came. So she insisted that we
come this morning."

"I don't understand?" Peter was looking at Leonore as if she had made
the remark. Leonore was calmly examining Peter's room.

"Why, even a stranger would have called last night to inquire about
Dot's health, after such an accident. But for you not to do it, was
criminal. If you have aught to say why sentence should not now be passed
on you, speak now or forever--no--that's the wedding ceremony, isn't it?
Not criminal sentence--though, on second thought, there's not much
difference."

"Did you expect me, Miss D'Alloi?"

Miss D'Alloi was looking at a shelf of law books with her back to Peter,
and was pretending great interest in them. She did not turn, but said
"Yes."

"I wish I had known that," said Peter, with the sincerest regret in his
voice.

Miss D'Alloi's interest in legal literature suddenly ceased. She turned
and Peter had a momentary glimpse of those wonderful eyes. Either his
words or tone had evidently pleased Miss D'Alloi. The corners of her
mouth were curving upwards. She made a deep courtesy to him and said:
"You will be glad to know, Mr. Stirling, that Miss D'Alloi has suffered
no serious shock from her runaway, and passed a good night. It seemed to
Miss D'Alloi that the least return she could make for Mr. Stirling's
kindness, was to save him the trouble of coming to inquire about Miss
D'Alloi's health, and so leave Mr. Stirling more time to his grimy old
law books."

"There, sir, I hope you are properly crushed for your wrong-doing,"
cried Watts.

"I'm not going to apologize for not coming," said Peter, "for that is my
loss; but I can say that I'm sorry."

"That's quite enough," said Leonore. "I thought perhaps you didn't want
to be friends. And as I like to have such things right out, I made papa
bring me down this morning so that I could see for myself." She spoke
with a frankness that seemed to Peter heavenly, even while he grew cold
at the thought that she should for a moment question his desire to be
friends.

"Of course you and Peter will be friends," said Watts.

"But mamma told me last night--after we went upstairs, that she was sure
Mr. Stirling would never call."

"Never, Dot?" cried Watts.

"Yes. And when I asked her why, she wouldn't tell me at first, but at
last she said it was because he was so unsociable. I shan't be friends
with any one who won't come to see me." Leonore was apparently looking
at the floor, but from under her lashes she was looking at something
else.

Whatever Peter may have felt, he looked perfectly cool. Too cool,
Leonore thought. "I'm not going to make any vows or protestations of
friendship," he said, "I won't even pledge myself to come and see you,
Miss D'Alloi. Remember, friendship comes from the word free. If we are
to be friends, we must each leave the other to act freely."

"Well," said Leonore, "that is, I suppose, a polite way of saying that
you don't intend to come. Now I want to know why you won't?"

"The reasons will take too long to explain to you now, so I'll defer the
telling till the first time I call on you." Peter was smiling down at
her.

Miss D'Alloi looked up at Peter, to see what meaning his face gave his
last remark. Then she held out her two hands. "Of course we are to be
the best of friends," she said. Peter got a really good look down into
those eyes as they shook hands.

The moment this matter had been settled, Leonore's manner changed. "So
this is the office of the great Peter Stirling?" she said, with the
nicest tone of interest in her voice, as it seemed to Peter.

"It doesn't look it," said Watts. "By George, with the business people
say your firm does, you ought to do better than this. It's worse even
than our old Harvard quarters, and those were puritanical enough."

"There is a method in its plainness. If you want style, go into Ogden's
and Rivington's rooms."

"Why do you have the plain office, Mr. Stirling?"

"I have a lot of plain people to deal with, and so I try to keep my room
simple, to put them at their ease. I've never heard of my losing a
client yet, because my room is as it is, while I should have frightened
away some if I had gone in for the same magnificence as my partners."

"But I say, chum, I should think that is the sort you would want to
frighten away. There can't be any money in their business?"

"We weren't talking of money. We were talking of people. I am very glad
to say, that with my success, there has been no change in my relations
with my ward. They all come to me here, and feel perfectly at home,
whether they come as clients, as co-workers, or merely as friends."

"Ho, ho," laughed Watts. "You wily old fox! See the four bare walls. The
one shelf of law books. The one cheap cabinet of drawers. The four
simple chairs, and the plain desk. Behold the great politician! The man
of the people."

Peter made no reply. But Leonore said to him, "I'm glad you help the
poor people still, Mr. Stirling," and gave Peter another glimpse of
those eyes. Peter didn't mind after that.

"Look here, Dot," said Watts. "You mustn't call chum Mr. Stirling. That
won't do. Call him--um--call him Uncle Peter."

"I won't," said Leonore, delighting Peter thereby. "Let me see. What
shall I call you?" she asked of Peter.

"Honey," laughed Watts.

"What shall I call you?" Miss D'Alloi put her head on one side, and
looked at Peter out of the corners of her eyes.

"You must decide that, Miss D'Alloi."

"I suppose I must. I--think--I--shall--call--you--Peter." She spoke
hesitatingly till she said his name, but that went very smoothly. Peter
on the spot fell in love with the five letters as she pronounced them.

"Plain Peter?" inquired Watts.

"Now what will you call me?"

"Miss D'Alloi," said Peter.

"No. You--are--to--call--me--call--me--"

"Miss D'Alloi," re-affirmed Peter.

"Then I will call you Mr. Stirling, Peter."

"No, you won't."

"Why?"

"Because you said you'd call me Peter."

"But not if you won't--"

"You made no condition at the time of promise. Shall I show you the
law?"

"No. And I shall not call you Peter, any more, Peter."

"Then I shall prosecute you."

"But I should win the case, for I should hire a friend of mine to defend
me. A man named Peter." Leonore sat down in Peter's chair. "I'm going to
write him at once about it." She took one of his printed letter sheets
and his pen, and, putting the tip of the holder to her lips (Peter has
that pen still), thought for a moment. Then she wrote:

    DEAR PETER:

    I am threatened with a prosecution. Will you defend me? Address
    your reply to "Dear Leonore."

    LEONORE D'ALLOI.

"Now" she said to Peter, "you must write me a letter in reply. Then you
can have this note." Leonore rose with the missive in her hand.

"I never answer letters till I've received them." Peter took hold of the
slender wrist, and possessed himself of the paper. Then he sat down at
his desk and wrote on another sheet:

    DEAR MISS D'ALLOI:

    I will defend you faithfully and always.

    PETER STIRLING

"That isn't what I said," remarked Miss D'Alloi. "But I suppose it will
have to do."

"You forget one important thing."

"What is that?"

"My retaining fee."

"Oh, dear," sighed Leonore. "My allowance is nearly gone. Don't you ever
do work for very, very poor people, for nothing?"

"Not if their poverty is pretence."

"Oh, but mine isn't. Really. See. Here is my purse. Look for yourself.
That's all I shall have till the first of the month."

She gave Peter her purse. He was still sitting at his desk, and he very
deliberately proceeded to empty the contents out on his blotter. He
handled each article. There was a crisp ten-dollar bill, evidently the
last of those given by the bank at the beginning of the month. There
were two one-dollar bills. There was a fifty-cent piece, two quarters
and a dime. A gold German twenty-mark piece, about eight inches of
narrow crimson ribbon, and a glove button, completed the contents. Peter
returned the American money and the glove button to the purse and handed
it back to Miss D'Alloi.

"You've forgotten the ribbon and the gold piece," said Leonore.

"You were never more mistaken in your life," replied Peter, with
anything but legal guardedness concerning unprovable statements. He
folded up the ribbon neatly and put it, with the coin, in his waistcoat
pocket.

"Oh," said Leonore, "I can't let you have that That's my luck-piece."

"Is it?" Peter expressed much surprise blended with satisfaction in his
tone.

"Yes. You don't want to take my good luck."

"I will think it over, and write you a legal opinion later.

"Please!" Miss D'Alloi pleaded.

"That is just what I have succeeded in doing--for myself."

"But I want my luck-piece. I found it in a crack of the rocks crossing
the Ghemi. And I must have the ribbon. I need it to match for a gown it
goes with." Miss D'Alloi put true anxiety into her voice, whatever she
really felt.

"I shall be glad to help you match it," said Peter, "and any time you
send me word, I will go shopping with you. As for your luck, I shall
keep that for the present."

"Now I know," said Leonore crossly, "why lawyers have such a bad
reputation. They are perfect thieves!" She looked at Peter with the
corners of her mouth drawn down. He gazed at her with a very grave look
on his face. They eyed each other steadily for a moment, and then the
corners of Leonore's mouth suddenly curled upwards. She tried hard for a
moment to keep serious. Then she gave up and laughed. Then they both
laughed.

Many people will only see an amusing side to the dialogue here so
carefully recorded. If so, look back to the time when everything that he
or she said was worth listening to. Or if there has never been a he or a
she, imitate Peter, and wait. It is worth waiting for.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE HERMITAGE.


It is not to be supposed from this last reflection of ours, that Leonore
was not heart-whole. Leonore had merely had a few true friends, owing to
her roving life, and at seventeen a girl craves friends. When,
therefore, the return to America was determined upon, she had at once
decided that Peter and she would be the closest of friends. That she
would tell him all her confidences, and take all her troubles to him.
Miss De Voe and Dorothy had told her about Peter, and from their
descriptions, as well as from her father's reminiscences, Leonore had
concluded that Peter was just the friend she had wanted for so long.
That Leonore held her eyes down, and tried to charm yet tantalize her
intended friend, was because Leonore could not help it, being only
seventeen and a girl. If Leonore had felt anything but a friendly
interest and liking, blended with much curiosity, in Peter, she never
would have gone to see him in his office, and would never have talked
and laughed so frankly with him.

As for Peter, he did not put his feelings into good docketed shape. He
did not attempt to label them at all. He had had a delicious half-hour
yesterday. He had decided, the evening before, that he must see those
slate-colored eyes again, if he had to go round the world in pursuit of
them. How he should do it, he had not even thought out, till the next
morning. He had understood very clearly that the owner of those
slate-colored eyes was really an unknown quantity to him. He had
understood, too, that the chances were very much against his caring to
pursue those eyes after he knew them better. But he was adamant that he
must see those eyes again, and prove for himself whether they were but
an _ignis fatuus_, or the radiant stars that Providence had cast for the
horoscope of Peter Stirling. He was studying those eyes, with their
concomitants, at the present time. He was studying them very coolly, to
judge from his appearance and conduct. Yet he was enjoying the study in
a way that he had never enjoyed the study of somebody "On Torts."
Somebody "On Torts," never looked like that. Somebody "On Torts," never
had luck-pieces, and silk ribbons. Somebody "On Torts," never wrote
letters and touched the end of pens to its lips. Somebody "On Torts,"
never courtesied, nor looked out from under its eyelashes, nor called
him Peter.

While this investigation had been progressing, Watts had looked at the
shelf of law books, had looked out of the window, had whistled, and had
yawned. Finally, in sheer _ennui_ he had thrown open a door, and looked
to see what lay beyond.

"Ha, ha!" he cried. "All is discovered. See! Here sits Peter Stirling,
the ward politician, enthroned in Jeffersonian simplicity. But here,
behind the arras, sits Peter Stirling, the counsellor of banks and
railroads, in the midst of all the gorgeousness of the golden East."
Watts passed into the room beyond.

"What does he mean, Peter?"

"He has gone into my study. Would you like--"

He was interrupted by Watts calling, "Come in here, Dot, and see how the
unsociable old hermit bestows himself."

So Leonore and Peter followed Watts's lead. The room into which they
went was rather a curious one. It was at least twenty-five feet square,
having four windows, two looking out on Broadway, and two on the side
street. It had one other door besides that by which they had entered.
Here the ordinary quality ended. Except for the six openings already
noted and a large fireplace, the walls were shelved from floor to
ceiling (which was not a low one), with dusky oak shelving. The ceiling
was panelled in dark oak, and the floor was covered with a smooth
surface of the same wood. Yet though the shelves were filled with books,
few could be seen, for on every upright of the shelving, were several
frames of oak, hinged as one sees them in public galleries occasionally,
and these frames contained etchings, engravings, and paintings. Some
were folded back against the shelves. Others stood out at right angles
to them and showed that the frames were double ones, both sides
containing something. Four easy-chairs, three less easy chairs, and a
large table desk, likewise of dusky oak were the sole other fittings of
the room, if we except two large polar bear skins.

"Oh," cried Leonore looking about, "I'm so glad to see this. People have
told me so much about your rooms. And no two of them ever agreed."

"No," said Peter. "It seems a continual bone of contention with my
friends. They scold me because I shelved it to the ceiling, because I
put in one-colored wood, because I framed my pictures and engravings
this way, and because I haven't gone in for rugs, and bric-a-brac, and
the usual furnishings. At times I have really wondered, from their
determination to change things, whether it was for them to live in, or
for my use?"

"It is unusual," said Leonore, reluctantly, and evidently selecting a
word that should not offend Peter.

"You ought to be hung for treating fine pictures so," said Watts.

"I had to give them those broad flat mats, because the books gave no
background."

"It's--it's--" Leonore hesitated. "It's not so startling, after a
moment."

"You see they had to hang this way, or go unhung. I hadn't wall space
for both pictures and books. And by giving a few frames a turn,
occasionally, I can always have fresh pictures to look at."

"Look here, Dot, here's a genuine Rembrandt's 'Three Crosses,'" called
Watts. "I didn't know, old man, that you were such a connoisseur."

"I'm not," said Peter. "I'm fond of such things, but I never should have
had taste or time to gather these."

"Then how did you get them?"

"A friend of mine--a man of exquisite taste--gathered them. He lost his
money, and I bought them of him."

"That was Mr. Le Grand?" asked Leonore, ceasing her study of the "Three
Crosses."

"Yes."

"Mrs. Rivington told me about it."

"It must have been devilish hard for him to part with such a
collection," said Watts.

"He hasn't really parted with them. He comes down here constantly, and
has a good time over them. It was partly his scheme to arrange them this
way."

"And are the paintings his, too, Peter?"

Peter could have hugged her for the way she said Peter. "No," he managed
to remark. "I bought some of them, and Miss De Voe and Lispenard Ogden
the others. People tell me I spoil them by the flat framing, and the
plain, broad gold mats. But it doesn't spoil them to me. I think the
mixture of gold mats and white mats breaks the monotony. And the
variation just neutralizes the monotone which the rest of the room has.
But of course that is my personal equation."

"Then this room is the real taste of the 'plain man,' eh?" inquired
Watts.

"Really, papa, it is plain. Just as simple as can be."

"Simple! Yes, sweet simplicity! Three-thousand-dollar-etching
simplicity! Millet simplicity! Oh, yes. Peter's a simple old dog."

"No, but the woodwork and the furniture. Isn't this an enticing chair? I
must try it." And Leonore almost dissolved from view in its depths.
Peter has that chair still. He would probably knock the man down who
offered to buy it.

It occurred to Peter that since Leonore was so extremely near the
ground, and was leaning back so far, that she could hardly help but be
looking up. So he went and stood in front of the fireplace, and looked
down at her. He pretended that his hands were cold. Watts perhaps was
right. Peter was not as simple as people thought.

It seemed to Peter that he had never had so much to see, all at once, in
his life. There were the occasional glimpses of the eyes (for Leonore,
in spite of her position, did manage to cover the larger part of them)
not one of which must be missed. Then there was her mouth. That would
have been very restful to the eye; if it hadn't been for the distracting
chin below it. Then there were the little feet, just sticking out from
underneath the tailor-made gown, making Peter think of Herrick's famous
lines. Finally there were those two hands! Leonore was very deliberately
taking off her gloves. Peter had not seen those hands ungloved yet, and
waited almost breathlessly for the unveiling. He decided that he must
watch and shake hands at parting before Leonore put those gloves on
again.

"I say," said Watts, "how did you ever manage to get such a place here?"

"I was a tenant for a good many years of the insurance company that owns
the building, and when it came to rebuild, it had the architect fit this
floor for me just as I wished it. So I put our law-offices in front and
arranged my other rooms along the side street. Would you like to see
them?" Peter asked this last question very obviously of Leonore.

"Very much."

So they passed through the other door, to a little square hall, lighted
by a skylight, with a stairway going up to the roof.

"I took the upper floor, so as to get good air and the view of the city
and the bay, which is very fine," Peter said. "And I have a staircase to
the roof, so that in good weather I can go up there."

"I wondered what the great firm was doing up ten stories," said Watts.

"Ogden and Rivington have been very good in yielding to my
idiosyncracies. This is my mealing closet."

It was a room nine feet square, panelled, ceiled and floored in
mahogany, and the table and six chairs were made of the same material.

"So this is what the papers call the 'Stirling political incubator?' It
doesn't look like a place for hatching dark plots," said Watts.

"Sometimes I have a little dinner here. Never more than six, however,
for it's too small."

"I say, Dot, doesn't this have a jolly cosy feeling? Couldn't one sit
here blowy nights, with the candles lit, eating nuts and telling
stories? It makes me think of the expression, 'snug as a bug.'"

"Miss Leroy told me, Peter, what a reputation your dinners had, and how
every one was anxious to be invited just once," said Leonore.

"But not a second time, old man. You caught Dot's inference, I hope?
Once is quite enough."

"Peter, will you invite me some day?"

"Would he?" Peter longed to tell her that the place and everything it
contained, including its owner--Then Peter said to himself, "You really
don't know anything about her. Stop your foolishness." Still Peter knew
that--that foolishness was nice. He said, "People only care for my
dinners because they are few and far between, and their being way down
here in the city, after business hours, makes them something to talk
about. Society wants badly something to talk about most of the time. Of
course, my friends are invited." Peter looked down at Leonore, and she
understood, without, his saying so, that she was to be a future guest.

"How do you manage about the prog, chum?"

"Mr. Le Grand had a man--a Maryland darky--whom he turned over to me. He
looks after me generally, but his true forte is cooking. For oysters and
fish and game I can't find his equal. And, as I never attempt very
elaborate dinners, he cooks and serves for a party of six in very good
shape. We are not much in haste down here after six, because it's so
still and quiet. The hurry's gone up-town to the social slaves. Suppose
you stay and try his skill at lunch to-day? My partners generally are
with me, and Jenifer always has something good for them."

"By all means," said Watts.

But Leonore said: "No. We mustn't make a nuisance of ourselves the first
time we come." Peter and Watts tried to persuade her, but she was not
persuadable. Leonore had no intention, no matter how good a time it
meant, of lunching sola with four men.

"I think we must be going," she said.

"You mustn't go without seeing the rest of my quarters," said Peter,
hoping to prolong the visit.

Leonore was complaisant to that extent. So they went into the pantry,
and Leonore proceeded, apparently, to show her absolute ignorance of
food matters under the pretext that she was displaying great
housekeeping knowledge. She told Peter that he ought to keep his
champagne on ice. "That champagne will spoil if it isn't kept on ice."
She complained because some bottles of Burgundy had dust on them.
"That's not merely untidy," she said, "but it's bad for the wine. It
ought to be stood on end, so that the sediment can settle." She
criticised the fact that a brace of canvas-backs were on ice. "All your
game should be hung," she said. She put her finger or her eyes into
every drawer and cupboard, and found nothing to praise. She was
absolutely grave over it, but before long Peter saw the joke and entered
into it. It was wonderful how good some of the things that she touched
tasted later.

Then they went into Peter's sleeping-room, Leonore said it was very
ordinary, but promptly found two things to interest her.

"Do you take care of your window flowers?"

"No, Mrs. Costell comes down to lunch with me once a week, and potters
with them. She keeps all the windows full of flowers--perhaps you have
noticed them in the other rooms, as well?"

"Yes. I liked them, but I didn't think they could be yours. They grow
too well for a man."

"It seems as if Mrs. Costell had only to look at a plant, and it breaks
out blossoming," Peter replied.

"What a nice speech," said Leonore.

"It's on a nice subject," Peter told her. "When you have that, it's very
easy to make a nice speech."

"I want to meet Mrs. Costell. I've heard all about her."

The second point of interest concerned the contents of what had
evidently been planned as an umbrella-stand.

"Why do you have three swords?" she asked, taking the handsomest from
its resting place.

"So that I can kill more people."

"Why, Dot, you ought to know that an officer wants a service sword and a
dress-sword."

"But these are all dress-swords. I'm afraid you are very proud of your
majorship."

Peter only smiled a reply down at her.

"Yes," said Leonore, "I have found out your weakness at last. You like
gold lace and fixings."

Still Peter only smiled.

"This sword is presented to Captain Peter Stirling in recognition of his
gallant conduct at Hornellsville, July 25, 1877," Leonore read on the
scabbard. "What did you do at Hornellsville?"

"Various things."

"But what did you do to get the sword?"

"My duty!"

"Tell me?"

"I thought you knew all about me."

"I don't know this."

Peter only smiled at her.

"Tell me. If you don't, somebody else will. Please."

"Why, Dot, these are all presentation swords."

"Yes," said Peter; "and so gorgeous that I don't dare use them. I keep
the swords I wear at the armory."

"Are you going to tell me what you did to get them?"

"That one was given me by my company when I was made captain. That was
subscribed for by some friends. The one you have was given me by a
railroad."

"For what?"

"For doing my duty."

"Come, papa. We'll go home."

Peter surrendered. "There were some substitutes for strikers in freight
cars that were fitted up with bunks. The strikers fastened the doors on
them, and pushed them into a car-shed."

"And what did you do?"

"We rolled the cars back."

"I don't think that was much. Nothing to give a sword for. Now, have you
anything more to show us?"

"No. I have a spare room, and Jenifer has a kitchen and sleeping place
beyond, but they are not worth showing."

They went out into the little square hall, and so into the study.
Leonore began unfolding her gloves.

"I've had a very nice time," she said. "I think I shall come again very
often, I like down-town New York." Leonore was making her first trip to
it, so that she spoke from vast knowledge.

"I can't tell you how pleasant it has been to me. It isn't often that
such sunshine gets in here," said Peter.

"Then you do prefer sunshine to grimy old law books?" inquired Leonore,
smiling demurely.

"Some sunshine," said Peter, meaningly.

"Wherever there has been sunshine there ought to be lots of flowers. I
have a good mind--yes, I will--leave you these violets," Leonore took a
little bunch that she had worn near her throat and put them and her hand
in Peter's. And she hadn't put her glove on yet! Then she put her gloves
on, and Peter shook hands. Then he remembered that he ought to see them
to the elevator, so he took them out--and shook hands again. After that
he concluded it was his duty to see them to the carriage--and he shook
hands again.

Peter was not an experienced hand, but he was doing very well.




CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE DUDE.


Just as Peter came back to his office, his lunch was announced.

"What makes you look so happy?" asked Ray.

"Being so," said Peter, calmly.

"What a funny old chap he is?" Ray remarked to Ogden, as they went back
to work. "He brought me his opinion, just after lunch, in the
Hall-Seelye case. I suppose he had been grubbing all the morning over
those awful figures, and a tougher or dryer job, you couldn't make. Yet
he came in to lunch looking as if he was walking on air."

When Peter returned to his office, he would have preferred to stop work
and think for a bit. He wanted to hold those violets, and smell them now
and then. He wished to read that letter over again. He longed to have a
look at that bit of ribbon and gold. But he resisted temptation. He
said: "Peter Stirling, go to work." So all the treasures were put in a
drawer of his study table, and Peter sat down at his office desk. First,
after tearing up his note to Watts, he wrote another, as follows:

    WATTS:

    You can understand why I did not call last night, or bind myself
    as to the future. I shall hope to receive an invitation to call
    from Mrs. D'Alloi. How, I must leave to you; but you owe me this
    much, and it is the only payment I ask of you. Otherwise let us
    bury all that has occurred since our college days, forever.

    PETER.

Then he ground at the law till six, when he swung his clubs and
dumb-bells for ten minutes; took a shower; dressed himself, and dined.
Then he went into his study, and opened a drawer. Did he find therein a
box of cigars, or a bunch of violets, gold-piece, ribbon and sheet of
paper? One thing is certain. Peter passed another evening without
reading or working. And two such idle evenings could not be shown in
another week of his life for the last twenty years.

The next day Peter was considerably nearer earth. Not that he didn't
think those eyes just as lovely, and had he been thrown within their
radius, he would probably have been as strongly influenced as ever. But
he was not thrown within their influence, and so his strong nature and
common sense reasserted themselves. He took his coffee, his early
morning ride, and then his work, in their due order. After dinner, that
evening, he only smoked one cigar. When he had done that, he remarked to
himself--apropos of the cigars, presumably--"Peter, keep to your work.
Don't burn yourself again." Then his face grew very firm, and he read a
frivolous book entitled: "Neun atiologische und prophylactische Satze
... uber die Choleraepidemien in Ostindien," till nearly one o'clock.

The following day was Sunday. Peter went to church, and in the afternoon
rode out to Westchester to pass the evening there with Mrs. Costell.
Peter thought his balance was quite recovered. Other men have said the
same thing. The fact that they said so, proved that they were by no
means sure of themselves.

This was shown very markedly on Monday in Peter's case, for after lunch
he did not work as steadily as he had done in the morning hours. He was
restless. Twice he pressed his lips, and started in to work very, very
hard--and did it for a time. Then the restlessness would come on again.
Presently he took to looking at his watch. Then he would snap it to, and
go to work again, with a great determination in his face, only to look
at the watch again before long. Finally he touched his bell.

"Jenifer," he said, "I wish you would rub off my spurs, and clean up my
riding trousers."

"For lohd, sar, I done dat dis day yesserday."

"Never mind, then," said Peter. "Tell Curzon to ring me up a hansom."

When Peter rode into the park he did not vacillate. He put his horse at
a sharp canter, and started round the path. But he had not ridden far
when he suddenly checked his horse, and reined him up with a couple of
riders. "I've been looking for you," he said frankly. Peter had not
ceased to be straightforward.

"Hello! This is nice," said Watts.

"Don't you think it's about time?" said Leonore. Leonore had her own
opinion of what friendship consisted. She was not angry with Peter--not
at all. But she did not look at him.

Peter had drawn his horse up to the side on which Leonore was riding.
"That is just what I thought," he said deliberately, "and that's why I'm
here now."

"How long ago did that occur to you, please?" said Leonore, with
dignity.

"About the time it occurred to me that you might ride here regularly
afternoons."

"Don't you?" Leonore was mollifying.

"No. I like the early morning, when there are fewer people."

"You unsociable old hermit," exclaimed Watts.

"But now?" asked Leonore.

When Leonore said those two words Peter had not yet had a sight of those
eyes. And he was getting desperately anxious to see them. So he replied:
"Now I shall ride in the afternoons."

He was rewarded by a look. The sweetest kind of a look. "Now, that is
very nice, Peter," said Leonore. "If we see each other every day in the
Park, we can tell each other everything that we are doing or thinking
about. So we will be very good friends for sure." Leonore spoke and
looked as if this was the pleasantest of possibilities, and Peter was
certain it was.

"I say, Peter," said Watts. "What a tremendous dude we have come out. I
wanted to joke you on it the first time I saw you, but this afternoon
it's positively appalling. I would have taken my Bible oath that it was
the last thing old Peter would become. Just look at him, Dot. Doesn't he
fill you with 'wonder, awe and praise?'"

Leonore looked at Peter a little shyly, but she said frankly:

"I've wondered about that, Peter. People told me you were a man
absolutely without style."

Peter smiled. "Do you remember what Friar Bacon's brass head said?"

"Time is: Time was: Time will never be again?" asked Leonore.

"That fits my lack of style, I think."

"Pell and Ogden, and the rest of them, have made you what I never could,
dig at you as I would. So you've yielded to the demands of your toney
friends?"

"Of course I tried to dress correctly for my up-town friends, when I was
with them. But it was not they who made me careful, though they helped
me to find a good tailor, when I decided that I must dress better."

"Then it was the big law practice, eh? Must keep up appearances?"

"I fancy my dressing would no more affect my practice, than does the
furnishing of my office."

"Then who is she? Out with it, you sly dog."

"Of course I shan't tell you that"

"Peter, will you tell me?" asked Leonore.

Peter smiled into the frank eyes. "Who she is?"

"No. Why you dress so nicely. Please?"

"You'll laugh when I tell you it is my ward."

"Oh, nonsense," laughed Watts. "That's too thin. Come off that roof.
Unless you're guardian of some bewitching girl?"

"Your ward, Peter?"

"Yes. I don't know whether I can make you understand it. I didn't at
first. You see I became associated with the ward, in people's minds,
after I had been in politics for a few years. So I was sometimes put in
positions to a certain extent representative of it. I never thought
much how I dressed, and it seems that sometimes at public meetings, and
parades, and that sort of thing, I wasn't dressed quite as well as the
other men. So when the people of my ward, who were present, were asked
to point me out to strangers, they were mortified about the way I
looked. It seemed to reflect on the ward. The first inkling I had of it
was after one of these parades, in which, without thinking, I had worn a
soft hat. I was the only man who did not wear a silk one, and my ward
felt very badly about it. So they made up a purse, and came to me to ask
me to buy a new suit and silk hat and gloves. Of course that set me
asking questions, and though they didn't want to hurt my feelings, I
wormed enough out of them to learn how they felt. Since then I've spent
a good deal of money on tailors, and dress very carefully."

"Good for 'de sixt'! Hurrah for the unwashed democracy, where one man's
as good as another! So a 'Mick' ward wants its great man to put on all
the frills? I tell you, chum, we may talk about equality, but the lower
classes can't but admire and worship the tinsel and flummery of
aristocracy."

"You are mistaken. They may like to see brilliant sights. Soldiers,
ball-rooms or the like, and who does not? Beauty is aesthetic, not
aristocratic. But they judge people less by their dress or money than is
usually supposed. Far less than the people up-town do. They wanted me to
dress better, because it was appropriate. But let a man in the ward try
to dress beyond his station, and he'd be jeered out of it, or the ward,
if nothing worse happened."

"Oh, of course they'd hoot at their own kind," said Watts. "The hardest
thing to forgive in this world is your equal's success. But they
wouldn't say anything to one of us."

"If you, or Pell, or Ogden should go into Blunkers's place in my ward,
this evening, dressed as you are, or better, you probably would be told
to get out. I don't believe you could get a drink. And you would stand a
chance of pretty rough usage. Last week I went right from a dinner to
Blunkers's to say a word to him. I was in evening dress, newcastle, and
crush hat--even a bunch of lilies of the valley--yet every man there
was willing to shake hands and have me sit down and stay. Blunkers
couldn't have been dressed so, because it didn't belong to him. For the
same reason, you would have no business in Blunkers's place, because you
don't belong there. But the men know I dressed for a reason, and came to
the saloon for a reason. I wasn't putting on airs. I wasn't intruding my
wealth on them."

"Look here, chum, will you take me into Blunkers's place some night, and
let me hear you powwow the 'b'ys?' I should like to see how you do it."

"Yes," Peter said deliberately, "if some night you'll let me bring
Blunkers up to watch one of your formal dinners. He would enjoy the
sight, I'm sure."

Leonore cocked her little nose up in the air, and laughed merrily.

"Oh, but that's very different," said Watts.

"It's just as different as the two men with the toothache," said Peter.
"They both met at the dentist's, who it seems had only time to pull one
tooth. The question arose as to which it should be. 'I'm so brave,' said
one, 'that I can wait till to-morrow.' 'I'm such a coward,' said the
other, 'that I don't dare have it done to-day.'"

"Haven't you ever taken people to those places, Peter?" asked Leonore.

"No. I've always refused. It's a society fad now to have what are called
'slumming parties,' and of course I've been asked to help. It makes my
blood tingle when I hear them talk over the 'fun' as they call it. They
get detectives to protect them, and then go through the tenements--the
homes of the poor--and pry into their privacy and poverty, just out of
curiosity. Then they go home and over a chafing dish of lobster or
terrapin, and champagne, they laugh at the funny things they saw. If the
poor could get detectives, and look in on the luxury and comfort of the
rich, they wouldn't see much fun in it, and there's less fun in a
down-town tenement than there is in a Fifth Avenue palace. I heard a
girl tell the other night about breaking in on a wake by chance.
'Weren't we lucky?' she said. 'It was so funny to see the poor people
weeping and drinking whisky at the same time. Isn't it heartless?' Yet
the dead--perhaps the bread-winner of the family, fallen in the
struggle--perhaps the last little comer, not strong enough to fight
this earth's battle--must have lain there in plain view of that girl.
Who was the most heartless? The family and friends who had gathered over
that body, according to their customs, or the party who looked in on
them and laughed?" Peter had forgotten where he was, or to whom he was
talking.

Leonore had listened breathlessly. But the moment he ceased speaking,
she bowed her head and began to sob. Peter came down from his indignant
tirade like a flash. "Miss D'Alloi," he cried, "forgive me. I forgot.
Don't cry so." Peter was pleading in an anxious voice. He felt as if he
had committed murder.

"There, there, Dot. Don't cry. It's nothing to cry about."

Miss D'Alloi was crying and endeavoring at the same time to solve the
most intricate puzzle ever yet propounded by man or woman--that is, to
find a woman's pocket. She complicated things even more by trying to
talk. "I--I--know I'm ver--ver--very fooooooolish," she managed to get
out, however much she failed in a similar result with her
pocket-handkerchief.

"Since I caused the tears, you must let me stop them," said Peter. He
had produced his own handkerchief, and was made happy by seeing Leonore
bury her face in it, and re-appear not quite so woe-begone.

"I--only--didn't--know--you--could--talk--like--like that," explained
Leonore.

"Let this be a lesson for you," said Watts. "Don't come any more of your
jury-pathos on my little girl."

"Papa! You--I--Peter, I'm so glad you told me--I'll never go to one."

Watts laughed. "Now I know why you charm all the women whom I hear
talking about you. I tell you, when you rear your head up like that, and
your eyes blaze so, and you put that husk in your voice, I don't wonder
you fetch them. By George, you were really splendid to look at."

That was the reason why Leonore had not cried till Peter had finished
his speech. We don't charge women with crying whenever they wish, but we
are sure that they never cry when they have anything better to do.




CHAPTER XL.

OPINIONS.


When the ride was ended, Leonore was sent home in the carriage, Watts
saying he would go with Peter to his club. As soon as they were in the
cab, he said:

"I wanted to see you about your letter."

"Well?"

"Everything's going as well as can be expected. Of course the little
woman's scandalized over your supposed iniquity, but I'm working the
heavy sentimental 'saved-our-little-girl's life' business for all it's
worth. I had her crying last night on my shoulder over it, and no woman
can do that and be obstinate long. She'll come round before a great
while."

Peter winced. He almost felt like calling Watts off from the endeavor.
But he thought of Leonore. He must see her--just to prove to himself
that she was not for him, be it understood--and how could he see enough
of her to do that--for Peter recognized that it would take a good deal
of that charming face and figure and manner to pall on him--if he was
excluded from her home? So he justified the continuance of the attempt
by saying to himself: "She only excludes me because of something of
which I am guiltless, and I've saved her from far greater suffering than
my presence can ever give her. I have earned the privilege if ever man
earned it" Most people can prove to themselves what they wish to prove.
The successful orator is always the man who imposes his frame of mind on
his audience. We call it "saying what the people want said." But many of
the greatest speakers first suggest an idea to their listeners, and when
they say it in plain English, a moment later, the audience say,
mentally, "That's just what we thought a moment ago," and are convinced
that the speaker is right.

Peter remained silent, and Watts continued: "We get into our own house
to-morrow, and give Leonore a birthday dinner Tuesday week as a
combined house-warming and celebration. Save that day, for I'm
determined you shall be asked. Only the invitation may come a little
late. You won't mind that?"

"No. But don't send me too many of these formal things. I keep out of
them as much as I can. I'm not a society man and probably won't fit in
with your friends."

"I should know you were not _de societe_ by that single speech. If
there's one thing easy to talk to, or fit in with, it's a society man or
woman. It's their business to be chatty and pleasant, and they would be
polite and entertaining to a kangaroo, if they found one next them at
dinner. That's what society is for. We are the yolk of the egg, which
holds and blends all the discordant, untrained elements. The oil,
vinegar, salt, and mustard We don't add much flavor to life, but people
wouldn't mix without us."

"I know," said Peter, "if you want to talk petty personalities and
trivialities, that it's easy enough to get through endless hours of
time. But I have other things to do."

"Exactly. But we have a purpose, too. You mustn't think society is all
frivolity. It's one of the hardest working professions."

"And the most brainless."

"No. Don't you see, that society is like any other kind of work, and
that the people who will centre their whole life on it must be the
leaders of it? To you, the spending hours over a new _entree_, or over a
cotillion figure, seems rubbish, but it's the exact equivalent of your
spending hours over who shall be nominated for a certain office. Because
you are willing to do that, you are one of the 'big four.' Because we
are willing to do our task, we differentiate into the 'four hundred.'
You mustn't think society doesn't grind up brain-tissue. But we use so
much in running it, that we don't have enough for other subjects, and so
you think we are stupid. I remember a woman once saying she didn't like
conversazioni, 'because they are really brain-parties, and there is
never enough to go round, and give a second help,' Any way, how can you
expect society to talk anything but society, when men like yourself stay
away from it."

"I don't ask you to talk anything else. But let me keep out of it."

"'He's not the man for Galway'," hummed Watts. "He prefers talking to
'heelers,' and 'b'ys,' and 'toughs,' and other clever, intellectual
men."

"I like to talk to any one who is working with a purpose in life."

"I say, Peter, what do those fellows really say of us?"

"I can best describe it by something Miss De Voe once said. We were at a
dinner together, where there was a Chicago man who became irritated at
one or two bits of ignorance displayed by some of the other guests over
the size and prominence of his abiding place. Finally he said: 'Why,
look here, you people are so ignorant of my city, that you don't even
know how to pronounce its name.' He turned to Miss De Voe and said, 'We
say Chicawgo. Now, how do you pronounce it in New York?' Miss De Voe put
on that quiet, crushing manner she has when a man displeases her, and
said, 'We never pronounce it in New York.'"

"Good for our Dutch-Huguenot stock! I tell you, Peter, blood does tell."

"It wasn't a speech I should care to make, because it did no good, and
could only mortify. But it does describe the position of the lower wards
of New York towards society. I've been working in them for nearly
sixteen years, and I've never even heard the subject mentioned."

"But I thought the anarchists and socialists were always taking a whack
at us?"

"They cry out against over-rich men--not against society. Don't confuse
the constituents with the compound. Citric acid is a deadly poison, but
weakened down with water and sugar, it is only lemonade. They growl at
the poison, not at the water and sugar. Before there can be hate, there
must be strength."

The next day Peter turned up in the park about four, and had a
ride--with Watts. The day after that, he was there a little earlier, and
had a ride--with the groom. The day following he had another ride--with
the groom. Peter thought they were very wonderful rides. Some one told
him a great many interesting things. About some one's European life,
some one's thoughts, some one's hopes, and some one's feelings. Some
one really wanted a friend to pour it all out to, and Peter listened
well, and encouraged well.

"He doesn't laugh at me, as papa does," some one told herself, "and so
it's much easier to tell him. And he shows that he really is interested.
Oh, I always said he and I should be good friends, and we are going to
be."

This put some one in a very nice frame of mind, and Peter thought he had
never met such a wonderful combination of frankness, of confluence, and
yet of a certain girlish shyness and timidity. Some one would tell him
something, and then appeal to him, if he didn't think that was so? Peter
generally thought it was. Some one did not drop her little touch of
coquetry, for that was ingrain, as it is in most pretty girls. But it
was the most harmless kind of coquetry imaginable. Someone was not
thinking at all of winning men's hearts. That might come later. At
present all she wanted was that they should think her pretty, and
delightful, so that--that they should want to be friend.

When Peter joined Watts and Leonore, however, on the fourth day, there
was a noticeable change in Leonore's manner to him. He did not get any
welcome except a formal "Good-afternoon," and for ten minutes Watts and
he had to sustain the conversation by firing remarks at each other past
a very silent intermediary. Peter had no idea what was wrong, but when
he found that she did not mollify at the end of that time, he said to
her;

"What is the matter?"

"Matter with what?" asked Leonore, calmly.

"With you."

"Nothing."

"I shan't take that for an answer. Remember, we have sworn to be
friends."

"Friends come to see each other."

Peter felt relieved; and smiled, "They do," he said, "when they can."

"No, they don't, sometimes," said Leonore severely. Then she unbent a
little. "Why haven't you been to see us? You've had a full week."

"Yes," said Peter, "I have had a very full week."

"Are you going to call on us, Mr. Stirling?"

"To whom are you talking?"

"To you."

"My name's Peter."

"That depends. Are you going to call on us?"

"That is my hope and wish."

Leonore unbent a little more. "If you are," she said, "I wish you would
do it soon, because mamma said to-day she thought of asking you to my
birthday dinner next Tuesday, but I said you oughtn't to be asked till
you had called."

"Did you know that bribery is unlawful?"

"Are you going to call?"

"Of course I am."

"That's better. When?"

"What evening are you to be at home?"

"To-morrow," said Leonore, beginning to curl up the corners of her
mouth.

"Well," said Peter, "I wish you had said this evening, because that's
nearer, but to-morrow isn't so far away."

"That's right. Now we'll be friends again."

"I hope so."

"Are you willing to be good friends--not make believe, or half friends,
but--real friends?"

"Absolutely."

"Don't you think friends should tell each other everything?"

"Yes." Peter was quite willing, even anxious, that Leonore should tell
him everything.

"You are quite sure?"

"Yes."

"Then," said Leonore, "tell me about the way you got that sword."

Watts laughed. "She's been asking every one she's met about that. Do
tell her, just for my sake."

"I've told you already."

"Not the way I want it. I know you didn't try to make it interesting.
Some of the people remembered there was something very fine, but I
haven't found anybody yet who could really tell it to me. Please tell
about it nicely, Peter." Leonore was looking at Peter with the most
pleading of looks.

"It was during the great railroad strike. The Erie had brought some men
up from New York to fill the strikers' places. The new hands were lodged
in freight cars, when off work, for it wasn't safe for them to pass
outside the guard lines of soldiers. Some of the strikers applied for
work, and were reinstated. They only did it to get inside our lines. At
night, when the substitutes in the cars were fast asleep, tired out with
the double work they had done, the strikers locked the car-doors. They
pulled the two cars into a shed full of freight, broke open a petroleum
tank, and with it wet the cars and some others loaded with jute. They
set fire to the cars and barricaded the shed doors. Of course we didn't
know till the flames burst through the roof of the shed, when by the
light, one of the superintendents found the bunk cars gone. The
fire-department was useless, for the strikers two days before, had cut
all the hose. So we were ordered up to get the cars out. Some strikers
had concealed themselves in buildings where they could overlook the
shed, and while we were working at the door, they kept firing on us. We
were in the light of the blazing shed, and they were in the dark, which
gave them a big advantage over us, and we couldn't spare the time to
attend to them. We tore up some rails and with them smashed in the door.
The men in the cars were screaming, so we knew which to take, and
fortunately they were the nearest to the door. We took our muskets--for
the frames of the cars were blazing, and the metal part too hot to
touch--and fixing bayonets, drove them into the woodwork and so pushed
the cars out. When we were outside, we used the rails again, to smash an
opening in the ends of the cars which were burning the least. We got the
men out unharmed, but pretty badly frightened."

"And were you not hurt?"

"We had eight wounded and a good many badly burned."

"And you?"

"I had my share of the burn."

"I wish you would tell me what you did--not what the others did."

Peter would have told her anything while she looked like that at him.

"I was in command at that point. I merely directed things, except taking
up the rails. I happened to know how to get a rail up quickly, without
waiting to unscrew the bolts. I had read it, years before, in a book on
railroad construction. I didn't think that paragraph would ever help me
to save forty lives--for five minutes' delay would have been fatal. The
inside of the shed was one sheet of flame. After we broke the door down,
I only stood and superintended the moving of the cars. The men did the
real work."

"But you said the inside of the shed was a sheet of flame."

"Yes. The railroad had to give us all fresh uniforms. So we made new
toggery out of that night's work. I've heard people say militia are no
good. If they could have stood by me that night, and seen my company
working over those blazing cars, in that mass of burning freight, with
the roof liable to fall any minute, and the strikers firing every time a
man showed himself, I think they would have altered their opinion."

"Oh," said Leonore, her eyes flashing with enthusiasm. "How splendid it
is to be a man, and be able to do real things! I wish I had known about
it in Europe."

"Why?"

"Because the officers were always laughing about our army. I used to get
perfectly wild at them, but I couldn't say anything in reply. If I could
only have told them about that."

"Hear the little Frenchwoman talk," said Watts.

"I'm not French."

"Yes you are, Dot."

"I'm all American. I haven't a feeling that isn't all American. Doesn't
that make me an American, Peter, no matter where I was born?"

"I think you are an American under the law."

"Am I really?" said Leonore, incredulously.

"Yes. You were born of American parents, and you will be living in this
country when you become of age. That constitutes nationality."

"Oh, how lovely! I knew I was an American, really, but papa was always
teasing me and saying I was a foreigner. I hate foreigners."

"Confound you, chum, you've spoiled one of my best jokes! It's been such
fun to see Dot bristle when I teased her. She's the hottest little
patriot that ever lived."

"I think Miss D'Alloi's nationality is akin to that of a case of which I
once heard," said Peter, smiling. "A man was bragging about the number
of famous men who were born in his native town. He mentioned a
well-known personage, among others, and one of his auditors said: 'I
didn't know he was born there,' 'Oh, yes, he was,' replied the man. 'He
was born there, but during the temporary absence of his parents!'"

"Peter, how much does a written opinion cost?" asked Leonore, eagerly.

"It has a range about equal to the woman's statement that a certain
object was as long as a piece of string."

"But your opinions?"

"I have given an opinion for nothing. The other day I gave one to a
syndicate, and charged eight thousand dollars."

"Oh, dear!" said Leonore. "I wonder if I can afford to get your opinion
on my being an American? I should like to frame it and hang it in my
room. Would it be expensive?"

"It is usual with lawyers," said Peter gravely, "to find out how much a
client has, and then make the bill for a little less. How much do you
have?"

"I really haven't any now. I shall have two hundred dollars on the
first. But then I owe some bills."

"You forget your grandmamma's money, Dot."

"Oh! Of course. I shall be rich, Peter, I come into the income of my
property on Tuesday. I forget how much it is, but I'm sure I can afford
to have an opinion."

"Why, Dot, we must get those papers out, and you must find some one to
put the trust in legal shape, and take care of it for you," said Watts.

"I suppose," said Leonore to Peter, "if you have one lawyer to do all
your work, that he does each thing cheaper, doesn't he?"

"Yes. Because he divides what his client has, on several jobs, instead
of on one," Peter told her.

"Then I think I'll have you do it all. We'll come down and see you about
it. But write out that opinion at once, so that I can prove that I'm an
American."

"Very well. But there's a safer way, even, of making sure that you're an
American."

"What is that?" said Leonore, eagerly.

"Marry one," said Peter.

"Oh, yes," said Leonore, "I've always intended to do that, but not for a
great many years."




CHAPTER XLI.

CALLS.


Peter dressed himself the next evening with particular care, even for
him. As Peter dressed, he was rather down on life. He had been kept from
his ride that afternoon by taking evidence in a referee case. "I really
needed the exercise badly," he said. He had tried to work his
dissatisfaction off on his clubs and dumb-bells, but whatever they had
done for his blood and tissue, they had not eased his frame of mind.
Dinner made him a little pleasanter, for few men can remain cross over a
proper meal. Still, he did not look happy, when, on rising from his
coffee, he glanced at his watch and found that it was but ten minutes
past eight.

He vacillated for a moment, and then getting into his outside trappings,
he went out and turned eastward, down the first side street. He walked
four blocks, and then threw open the swing door of a brilliantly lighted
place, stepping at once into a blaze of light and warmth which was most
attractive after the keen March wind blowing outside.

He nodded to the three barkeepers. "Is Dennis inside?" he asked.

"Yes, Misther Stirling. The regulars are all there."

Peter passed through the room, and went into another without knocking.
In it were some twenty men, sitting for the most part in attitudes
denoting ease. Two, at a small table in the corner, were playing
dominoes. Three others, in another corner, were amusing themselves with
"High, Low, Jack." Two were reading papers. The rest were collected
round the centre table, most of them smoking. Some beer mugs and
tumblers were standing about, but not more than a third of the twenty
were drinking anything. The moment Peter entered, one of the men jumped
to his feet.

"B'ys," he cried, "here's Misther Stirling. Begobs, sir, it's fine to
see yez. It's very scarce yez been lately." He had shaken hands, and
then put a chair in place for Peter.

The cards, papers, and dominoes had been abandoned the moment Dennis
announced Peter's advent, and when Peter had finished shaking the hands
held out to him, and had seated himself, the men were all gathered round
the big table.

Peter laid his hat on the table, threw back his Newcastle and lit a
cigar. "I've been very short of time, Dennis. But I had my choice this
evening before going uptown, of smoking a cigar in my own quarters, or
here. So I came over to talk with you all about Denton."

"An' what's he been doin'?" inquired Dennis.

"I saw him to-day about the Hummel franchise that comes up in the Board
next Tuesday. He won't vote for it, he says. I told him I thought it was
in the interest of the city to multiply means of transit, and asked him
why he refused. He replied that he thought the Hummel gang had been
offering money, and that he would vote against bribers."

"He didn't have the face to say that?" shouted one of the listeners.

"Yes."

"Oi never!" said Dennis. "An' he workin' night an' day to get the Board
to vote the rival road."

"I don't think there's much doubt that money is being spent by both
sides," said Peter. "I fear no bill could ever pass without it. But the
Hummel crowd are really responsible people, who offer the city a good
percentage. The other men are merely trying to get the franchise, to
sell it out at a profit to Hummel. I don't like the methods of either,
but there's a road needed, and there'll be a road voted, so it's simply
a choice between the two. I shouldn't mind if Denton voted against both
schemes, but to say he'll vote against Hummel for that reason, and yet
vote for the other franchise shows that he's not square. I didn't say so
to him, because I wanted to talk it over with the ward a little first to
see if they stood with me."

"That we do, sir," said Dennis, with a sureness which was cool, if
nothing more. Fortunately for the boldness of the speaker, no one
dissented, and two or three couples nodded heads or pipes at each other.

Peter looked at his watch. "Then I can put the screws on him safely,
you think?"

"Yes," cried several.

Peter rose. "Dennis, will you see Blunkers and Driscoll this evening, or
some time to-morrow, and ask if they think so too? And if they don't,
tell them to drop in on me, when they have leisure."

"Begobs, sir, Oi'll see them inside av ten minutes. An' if they don't
agree widus, shure, Oi'll make them."

"Thank you. Good-night."

"Good-night, Mr. Stirling," came a chorus, and Peter passed into the
street by the much maligned side-door.

Dennis turned to the group with his face shining with enthusiasm. "Did
yez see him, b'ys? There was style for yez. Isn't he somethin' for the
ward to be proud av?"

Peter turned to Broadway, and fell into a long rapid stride. In spite of
the cold he threw open his coat, and carried his outer covering on his
arm. Peter had no intention of going into an up-town drawing-room with
any suggestion of "sixt" ward tobacco. So he walked till he reached
Madison Square, when, after a glance at his watch, he jumped into a cab.

It was a quarter-past nine when the footman opened the door of the
Fifty-seventh Street house, in reply to Peter's ring. Yet he was told
that, "The ladies are still at dinner."

Peter turned and went down the stoop. He walked to the Avenue, and
stopped at a house not far off.

"Is Mrs. Pell at home?" he asked, and procured entrance for both his
pasteboard and himself.

"Welcome, little stranger," was his greeting. "And it is so nice that
you came this evening. Here is Van, on from Washington for two days."

"I was going to look you up, and see what 'we, the people' were talking
about, so that I could enlighten our legislators when I go back," said a
man of forty.

"I wrote Pope a long letter to-day, which I asked him to show you," said
Peter. "Things are in a bad shape, and getting worse."

"But, Peter," queried the woman, "if you are the leader, why do you let
them get so?"

"So as to remain the leader," said Peter, smiling quietly.

"Now that's what comes of ward politics," cried Mrs. Pell, "You are
beginning to make Irish bulls."

"No," replied Peter, "I am serious, and because people don't understand
what I mean, they don't understand American politics."

"But you say in effect that the way you retain your leadership, is by
not leading. That's absurd!"

"No. Contradiction though it may seem the way to lose authority, is to
exercise it too much. Christ enunciated the great truth of democratic
government, when he said, 'He that would be the greatest among you,
shall be the servant of all'"

"I hope you won't carry your theory so far as to let them nominate
Maguire?" said Mr. Pell, anxiously.

"Now, please don't begin on politics," said the woman. "Here is Van,
whom I haven't seen for nine weeks, and here is Peter whom I haven't
seen for time out of mind, and just as I think I have a red-letter
evening before me, you begin your everlasting politics."

"I merely stopped in to shake hands," said Peter. "I have a call to make
elsewhere, and can stay but twenty minutes. For that time we choose you
speaker, and you can make us do as it pleases you."

Twenty minutes later Peter passed into the D'Alloi drawing-room. He
shook Mrs. D'Alloi's hand steadily, which was more than she did with
his. Then he was made happy for a moment, with that of Leonore. Then he
was introduced to a Madame Mellerie, whom he placed at once as the
half-governess, half-companion, who had charge of Leonore's education; a
Mr. Maxwell, and a Marquis de somebody. They were both good-looking
young fellows; and greeted Peter in a friendly way. But Peter did not
like them.

He liked them less when Mrs. D'Alloi told him to sit in a given place,
and then put Madame Mellerie down by him. Peter had not called to see
Madame Mellerie. But he made a virtue of necessity, and he was too
instinctively courteous not to treat the Frenchwoman with the same touch
of deference his manner towards women always had. After they had been
chatting for a little on French literature, it occurred to Peter that
her opinion of him might have some influence with Leonore, so he decided
that he would try and please her. But this thought turned his mind to
Leonore, and speaking of her to her governess, he at once became so
interested in the facts she began to pour out to him, that he forgot
entirely about his diplomatic scheme.

This arrangement continued half an hour, when a dislocation of the
_statu quo_ was made by the departure of Mr. Maxwell. When the exit was
completed, Mrs. D'Alloi turned to place her puppets properly again. But
she found a decided bar to her intentions. Peter had formed his own
conclusions as to why he had been set to entertain Madame Mellerie, not
merely from the fact itself, but from the manner in which it had been
done, and most of all, from the way Mrs. D'Alloi had managed to stand
between Leonore and himself, as if protecting the former, till she had
been able to force her arrangements. So with the first stir Peter had
risen, and when the little bustle had ceased he was already standing by
Leonore, talking to her. Mrs. D'Alloi did not look happy, but for the
moment she was helpless.

Peter had had to skirt the group to get to Leonore, and so had stood
behind her during the farewells. She apparently had not noticed his
advent, but the moment she had done the daughter-of-the-house duty, she
turned to him, and said: "I wondered if you would go away without seeing
me. I was so afraid you were one of the men who just say, 'How d'ye do'
and 'Good-bye,' and think they've paid a call."

"I called to see you to-night, and I should not have gone till I had
seen you. I'm rather a persistent man in some things."

"Yes," said Leonore, bobbing her head in a very knowing manner, "Miss De
Voe told me."

"Mr. Stirling," said Mrs. D'Alloi, "can't you tell us the meaning of the
Latin motto on this seal?" Mrs. D'Alloi held a letter towards him, but
did not stir from her position across the room.

Peter understood the device. He was to be drawn off, and made to sit by
Mrs. D'Alloi, not because she wanted to see him, but because she did not
want him to talk to Leonore. Peter had no intention of being dragooned.
So he said: "Madame Mellerie has been telling me what a good Latin
scholar Miss D'Alloi is. I certainly shan't display my ignorance, till
she has looked at it." Then he carried the envelope over to Leonore,
and in handing it to her, moved a chair for her, not neglecting one for
himself. Mrs. D'Alloi looked discouraged, the more when Peter and
Leonore put their heads close together, to examine the envelope.

"'_In bonam partem_,'" read Leonore. "That's easy, mamma. It's--why, she
isn't listening!"

"You can tell her later. I have something to talk to you about."

"What is that?"

"Your dinner in my quarters. Whom would you like to have there?"

"Will you really give me a dinner?"

"Yes."

"And let me have just whom I want?"

"Yes."

"Oh, lovely! Let me see. Mamma and papa, of course."

"That's four. Now you can have two more."

"Peter. Would you mind--I mean----" Leonore hesitated a moment and then
said in an apologetic tone--"Would you like to invite madame? I've been
telling her about your rooms--and you--and I think it would please her
so."

"That makes five," said Peter.

"Oh, goody!" said Leonore, "I mean," she said, correcting herself, "that
that is very kind of you."

"And now the sixth?"

"That must be a man of course," said Leonore, wrinkling up her forehead
in the intensity of puzzlement. "And I know so few men." She looked out
into space, and Peter had a moment's fear lest she should see the
marquis, and name him. "There's one friend of yours I'm very anxious to
meet. I wonder if you would be willing to ask him?"

"Who is that?"

"Mr. Moriarty."

"No, I can't ask him, I don't want to cheapen him by making a show of
him."

"Oh! I haven't that feeling about him. I----"

"I think you would understand him and see the fine qualities. But do you
think others would?" Peter mentioned no names, but Leonore understood.

"No," she said. "You are quite right."

"You shall meet him some day," said Peter, "if you wish, but when we can
have only people who won't embarrass or laugh at him."

"Really, I don't know whom to select."

"Perhaps you would like to meet Le Grand?"

"Very much. He is just the man."

"Then we'll consider that settled. Are you free for the ninth?"

"Yes. I'm not going out this spring, and mamma and papa haven't really
begun yet, and it's so late in the season that I'm sure we are free."

"Then I will ice the canvas-backs and champagne and dust off the
Burgundy for that day, if your mamma accedes."

"Peter, I wanted to ask you the other day about that. I thought you
didn't drink wine."

"I don't. But I give my friends a glass, when they are good enough to
come to me. I live my own life, to please myself, but for that very
reason, I want others to live their lives to please themselves. Trying
to live other people's lives for them, is a pretty dog-in-the-manger
business."

Just then Mrs. D'Alloi joined them. "Were you able to translate it?" she
asked, sitting down by them.

"Yes, indeed," said Leonore. "It means 'Towards the right side,' or as a
motto it might be translated, 'For the right side.'"

Mrs. D'Alloi had clearly, to use a western expression, come determined
to "settle down and grow up with the country." So Peter broached the
subject of the dinner, and when she hesitated, Leonore called Watts into
the group. He threw the casting ballot in favor of the dinner, and so it
was agreed upon. Peter was asked to come to Leonore's birthday festival,
"If you don't mind such short notice," and he didn't mind, apparently.
Then the conversation wandered at will till Peter rose. In doing so, he
turned to Leonore, and said:

"I looked the question of nationality up to-day, and found I was right.
I've written out a legal opinion in my best hand, and will deliver it to
you, on receiving my fee."

"How much is that?" said Leonore, eagerly.

"That you come and get it."




CHAPTER XLII.

DOWN-TOWN NEW YORK.


Peter had not been working long the next morning when he was told that
"The Honorable Terence Denton wishes to see you," "Very well," he said,
and that worthy was ushered in.

"Good-morning, Denton. I'm glad to see you. I was going down to the Hall
to-day to say something, but you've saved me the trouble."

"I know you was. So I thought I'd get ahead of you," said Denton, with a
surly tone and manner.

"Sit down," said Peter. Peter had learned that, with a certain class of
individuals, a distance and a seat have a very dampening effect on
anger. It is curious, man's instinctive desire to stand up to and be
near the object for which anger is felt.

"You've been talking against me in the ward, and makin' them down on
me."

"No, I didn't talk against you. I've spoken with some of the people
about the way you think of voting on the franchises."

"Yes. I wasn't round, but a friend heard Dennis and Blunkers a-going
over it last night. And it's you did it."

"Yes. But you know me well enough to be sure, after my talk with you
yesterday, that I wouldn't stop there."

"So you try to set the pack on me."

"No. I try to see how the ward wants its alderman to vote on the
franchises."

"Look a-here. What are you so set on the Hummel crowd for?"

"I'm not."

"Is it because Hummel's a big contractor and gives you lots of law
business?"

"No," said Peter, smiling. "And you don't think it is, either."

"Has they offered you some stock cheap?"

"Come, come, Denton. You know the _tu quoque_ do here."

Denton shifted in his seat uneasily, not knowing what reply to make.
Those two little Latin words had such unlimited powers of concealment in
them. He did not know whether _tu quoque_ meant something about votes,
an insulting charge, or merely a reply, and feared to make himself
ridiculous by his response to them. He was not the first man who has
been hampered and floored by his own ignorance. He concluded he must
make an entire change of subject to be safe. So he said, "I ain't goin'
to be no boss's puppy dog."

"No," said Peter, finding it difficult not to smile, "you are not that
kind of a man."

"I takes my orders from no one."

"Denton, no one wants you to vote by order. We elected you alderman to
do what was best for the ward and city, as it seems to you. You are
responsible for your votes to us, and no other man can be. I don't care
who orders you or advises you; in the end, you must vote yourself, and
you yourself will be held to account by us."

"Yes. But if I don't vote as you wants, you'll sour the boys on me."

"I shall tell them what I think. You can do the same. It's a fair game
between us."

"No, it ain't. You're rich and you can talk more."

"You know my money has nothing to do with it. You know I don't try to
deceive the men in talking to them. If they trust what I tell them, it's
because it's reasonable, and because I haven't tricked them before."

"Well, are you goin' to drive me out?"

"I hope not. I think you've made a good alderman, Denton, and you'll
find I've said so."

"But now?"

"If you vote for that franchise, I shall certainly tell the ward that I
think you've done wrong. Then the ward will do as they please."

"As you please, you mean."

"No. You've been long enough in politics to know that unless I can make
the ward think as I do, I couldn't do anything. What would you care for
my opinion, if you didn't know that the votes are back of it?"

Just then the door swung open, and Dennis came in. "Tim said yez was
alone wid Denton, sir, so Oi came right in. It's a good-mornin', sir.
How are yez, Terence?"

"You are just the man I want, Dennis. Tell Denton how the ward feels
about the franchises."

"Shure. It's one man they is. An' if Denton will step down to my place
this night, he'll find out how they think."

"They never would have felt so, if Mister Stirling hadn't talked to
them. Not one in twenty knew the question was up."

"That's because they are most of them too hard working to keep track of
all the things. Come, Denton; I don't attempt to say how you shall vote.
I only tell you how it seems to me. Go round the ward, and talk with
others. Then you can tell whether I can give you trouble in the future
or not. I don't want to fight you. We've been good friends in the past,
and we can do more by pulling in double harness than by kicking, I don't
know a man I would rather see at the Hall." Peter held out his hand, and
Denton took it.

"All right, Mister Stirling. I'll do my best to stay friends," he said,
and went out.

Peter turned and smiled at Dennis. "They can't find out that it's not I,
but the ward. So every time there's trouble they lay it against me, and
it's hard to keep them friendly. And I hate quarrels and surliness."

"It's yezself can do it, though. Shure, Denton was in a great state av
mind this mornin', they was tellin' me, but he's all right now, an' will
vote right, or my name isn't Dennis Moriarty."

"Yes. He doesn't know it yet, but he'll vote square on Tuesday."

Just then Tim brought in the cards of Watts and Leonore, and strangely
enough, Peter said they were to be shown in at once. In they came, and
after the greetings, Peter said:

"Miss D'Alloi, this is my dear friend, Dennis Moriarty. Dennis, Miss
D'Alloi has wanted to know you because she's heard of your being such a
friend to me."

"Shure," said Dennis, taking the little hand so eagerly offered him,
"Oim thinkin' we're both lucky to be in the thoughts at all, at all, av
such a sweet young lady."

"Oh, Mr. Moriarty, you've kissed the blarney stone."

"Begobs," responded Dennis, "it needs no blarney stone to say that.
It's afther sayin' itself."

"Peter, have you that opinion?"

"Yes." Peter handed her out a beautifully written sheet of script, all
in due form, and given an appearance of vast learning, by red ink
marginal references to such solid works as "Wheaton," "Story," and
"Cranch's" and "Wallace's" reports. Peter had taken it practically from
a "Digest," but many apparently learned opinions come from the same
source. And the whole was given value by the last two lines, which read,
"Respectfully submitted, Peter Stirling." Peter's name had value at the
bottom of a legal opinion, or a check, if nowhere else.

"Look, Mr. Moriarty," cried Leonore, too full of happiness over this
decision of her nationality not to wish for some one with whom to share
it, "I've always thought I was French--though I didn't feel so a
bit--and now Mr. Stirling has made me an American, and I'm so happy. I
hate foreigners."

Watts laughed. "Why, Dot. You mustn't say that to Mr. Moriarty. He's a
foreigner himself."

"Oh, I forgot. I didn't think that----" Poor Leonore stopped there,
horrified at what she had said.

"No," said Peter, "Dennis is not a foreigner. He's one of the most
ardent Americans I know. As far as my experience goes, to make one of
Dennis's bulls, the hottest American we have to-day, is the
Irish-American."

"Oh, come," said Watts. "You know every Irishman pins his loyalty to the
'owld counthry.'"

"Shure," said Dennis, "an' if they do, what then? Sometimes a man finds
a full-grown woman, fine, an' sweet, an' strong, an' helpful to him, an'
he comes to love her big like. But does that make him forget his old
weak mother, who's had a hard life av it, yet has done her best by him?
Begobs! If he forgot her, he wouldn't be the man to make a good husband.
Oi don't say Oi'm a good American, for its small Oi feel besides Misther
Stirling. But Oi love her, an' if she ever wants the arm, or the blood,
or the life, av Dennis Moriarty, she's only got to say so."

"Well," said Watts, "this is very interesting, both as a point of view
and as oratory; but it isn't business. Peter, we came down this morning
to take whatever legal steps are necessary to put Dot in possession of
her grandmother's money, of which I have been trustee. Here is a lot of
papers about it. I suppose everything is there relating to it."

"Papa seemed to think it would be very wise to ask you to take care of
it, and pay me the income, I can't have the principal till I'm
twenty-five."

"You must tie it up some way, Peter, or Dot will make ducks and drakes
of it. She has about as much idea of the value of money as she has of
the value of foreigners. When we had our villa at Florence, she
supported the entire pauper population of the city."

Peter had declined heretofore the care of trust funds. But it struck him
that this was really a chance--from a business standpoint, entirely! It
is true, the amount was only ninety two thousand, and, as a trust
company would handle that sum of money for four hundred and odd dollars,
he was bound to do the same; and this would certainly not pay him for
his time. "Sometimes, however," said Peter to himself, "these,
trusteeships have very handsome picking's, aside from the half per
cent." Peter did not say that the "pickings," as they framed themselves
in his mind, were sundry calls on him at his office, and a justifiable
reason at all times for calling on Leonore; to say nothing of letters
and other unearned increment. So Peter was not obstinate this time.
"It's such a simple matter that I can have the papers drawn while you
wait, if you've half an hour to spare." Peter did this, thinking it
would keep them longer, but later it occurred to him it would have been
better to find some other reason, and leave the papers, because then
Leonore would have had to come again soon. Peter was not quite as cool
and far-seeing as he was normally.

He regretted his error the more when they all took his suggestion that
they go into his study. Peter rang for his head clerk, and explained
what was needed with great rapidity, and then left the latter and went
into the study.

"I wonder what he's in such a hurry for?" said the clerk, retiring with
the papers.

When Peter entered the library he found Leonore and Watts reposing in
chairs, and Dennis standing in front of them, speaking. This was what
Dennis was saying:

"'Schatter, boys, an' find me a sledge.' Shure, we thought it was
demented he was, but he was the only cool man, an' orders were orders.
Dooley, he found one, an' then the captain went to the rails an' gave it
a swing, an' struck the bolts crosswise like, so that the heads flew
off, like they was shootin' stars. Then he struck the rails sideways, so
as to loosen them from the ties. Then says he: 'Half a dozen av yez take
off yez belts an' strap these rails together!' Even then we didn't
understand, but we did it All this time the dirty spal--Oi ask yez
pardon, miss--all this time the strikers were pluggin' at us, an'
bullets flyin' like fun. 'Drop your muskets,' says the captain, when we
had done; 'fall in along those rails. Pick them up, and double-quick for
the shed door,' says he, just as if he was on parade. Then we saw what
he was afther, and double-quick we went. Begobs, that door went down as
if it was paper. He was the first in. 'Stand back,' says he, 'till Oi
see what's needed.' Yez should have seen him walk into that sheet av
flame, an' stand theer, quiet-like, thinkin', an' it so hot that we at
the door were coverin' our faces to save them from scorchin'. Then he
says: 'Get your muskets!' We went, an' Moike says to me: 'It's no good.
No man can touch them cars. He's goin' to attind to the strikers,' But
not he. He came out, an' he says: 'B'ys, it's hot in there, but, if you
don't mind a bit av a burn, we can get the poor fellows out. Will yez
try?' 'Yes!' we shouted. So he explained how we could push cars widout
touchin' them. 'Fall in,' says he. 'Fix bayonets. First file to the
right av the cars, second rank to the left. Forward, march!' An' we went
into that hell, an' rolled them cars out just as if we was marchin' down
Broadway, wid flags, an' music, an' women clappin' hands."

"But weren't you dreadfully burnt?"

"Oh, miss, yez should have seen us! We was blacker thin the divil
himsilf. Hardly one av us but didn't have the hair burnt off the part
his cap didn't cover; an', as for eyelashes, an' mustaches, an'
blisters, no one thought av them the next day. Shure, the whole company
was in bed, except them as couldn't lie easy."

"And Mr. Stirling?"

"Shure, don't yez know about him?"

"No."

"Why, he was dreadful burnt, an' the doctors thought it would be blind
he'd be; but he went to Paris, an' they did somethin' to him there that
saved him. Oh, miss, the boys were nearly crazy wid fear av losin' him.
They'd rather be afther losin' the regimental cat."

Peter had been tempted to interrupt two or three times, but it was so
absorbing to watch Leonore's face, and its changing expression, as,
unconscious of his presence, she listened to Dennis, that Peter had not
the heart to do it. But now Watts spoke up.

"Do you hear that, Peter? There's value for you! You're better than the
cat."

So the scenes were shifted, and they all sat and chatted till Dennis
left. Then the necessary papers were brought in and looked over at
Peter's study-table, and Miss D'Alloi took another of his pens. Peter
hoped she'd stop and think a little, again, but she didn't. Just as she
had begun an L she hesitated, however.

"Why," she said, "this paper calls me 'Leonore D'Alloi, spinster!' I'm
not going to sign that."

"That i