text:
The Coming of Bill/Book I/Chapter 8

It seemed to Kirk, as the days went by, that a mist of unreality fell like a curtain between him and the things of this world. Commonplace objects lost their character and became things to marvel at. There was a new bond of sympathy between the world and himself.

A citizen walking in the park with his children became a kind of miracle. Here was a man who had travelled the road which he was travelling now, who had had the same hopes and fear and wonder. Once he encountered a prosperous looking individual moving, like a liner among tugs, in the midst of no fewer than six offspring. Kirk fixed him with such a concentrated stare of emotion and excitement that the other was alarmed and went on his way alertly, as one in the presence of danger. It is probable that, if Kirk had happened to ask him the time at that moment, or indeed addressed him at all, he would have screamed for the police.

The mystery of childbirth and the wonder of it obsessed Kirk as time crept on. And still more was he conscious of the horrible dread that was gathering within him. Ruth's unvarying cheerfulness was to him almost uncanny. None of the doubts and fears which blackened his life appeared to touch her. Once he confided these to his friend, the little doctor, and was thoroughly bullied by him for his foolishness. But in spite of ridicule the fear crept back, cringingly, like a whipped dog.

And then, time moving on its leisurely but businesslike fashion, the day arrived, and for the first time in his life Kirk knew what fear really meant. All that he had experienced till now had, he saw, been a mild apprehension, not worthy of a stronger name. His flesh crawled with the thoughts which rose in his mind like black bubbles in a pond. There were moments when the temptation to stupefy himself with drink was almost irresistible.

It was his utter uselessness that paralysed him. He seemed destined to be of no help to Ruth at just those crises when she needed him most. When she was facing her father with the news of the marriage he had not been at her side. And now, when she was fighting for her life, he could do nothing but pace the empty, quiet studio and think.

The doctor had arrived at eight o'clock, cheery as ever, and had come downstairs after seeing Ruth to ask him to telephone to Mrs. Porter. In his overwrought state, this had jarred upon Kirk. Here, he felt, was somebody who could help where he was useless.

Mrs. Porter had appeared in a cab and had had the cold brutality to ask for a glass of sherry and a sandwich before going upstairs. She put forward the lame excuse that she had not dined. Kirk gave her the sherry and sandwich and resumed his patrol in a glow of indignation. The idea of any one requiring food at this moment struck him as gross and revolting.

His wrath did not last. In a short while fear came back into its own.

The hands of the clock pointed to ten before he stooped to following Mrs. Porter's example. George Pennicut had been sent out, so he went into the little kitchen, where he found eggs, which he mixed with milk and swallowed. After this he was aware of a momentary excess of optimism. The future looked a little brighter. But not for long. Presently he was prowling the studio as restlessly as ever.

Men of Kirk's type are not given to deep thought. Until now he had probably never spent more than a couple of minutes consecutively in self-examination. This vigil forced him upon himself and caused him to pass his character under review, with strange and unsatisfactory results. He had never realised before what a curiously contemptible and useless person he was. It seemed to him that this was all he was fit for—to hang about doing nothing while everybody else was busy and proving his or her own worth.

A door opened and the little doctor came quietly down the stairs. Kirk sprang at him.

"Well?"

"My dear man, everything's going splendidly. Couldn't be better." The doctor's eyes searched his face. "When did you have anything to eat last?"

"I don't know. I had some eggs and milk. I don't know when."

The doctor took him by the shoulders and hustled him into the kitchen, where he searched and found meat and bread.

"Eat that," he said. "I'll have some, too."

"I couldn't."

"And some whisky. Where do you keep it?"

After the first few mouthfuls Kirk ate wolfishly. The doctor munched a sandwich with the placidity of a summer boarder at a picnic. His calmness amazed and almost shocked Kirk.

"You can't help her by killing yourself," said the doctor philosophically. "I like that woman with the gimlet eyes. At least I don't, but she's got sense. Go on. You haven't done yet. Another highball won't hurt you." He eyed Kirk with some sympathy. "It's a bad time for you, of course."

"For me? Good God!"

"You want to keep your nerve. Nothing awful is going to happen."

"If only there was something I could do."

"'They also serve who only stand and wait,'" quoted the doctor sententiously. "There is something you can do."

"What?"

"Light your pipe and take it easy."

Kirk snorted.

"I mean it. In a very short while now you will be required to take the stage and embrace your son or daughter, as the case may be. You don't want to appear looking as if you had been run over by an automobile after a night out. You want your appearance to give Mrs. Winfield as little of a shock as possible. Bear that in mind. Well, I must be going."

And Kirk was alone again.

The food and the drink and the doctor's words had a good effect. His mind became quieter. He sat down and filled his pipe. After a few puffs he replaced it in his pocket. It seemed too callous to think of smoking now. The doctor was a good fellow, but he did not understand. All the same, he was glad that he had had that whisky. It had certainly put heart into him for the moment.

What was happening upstairs? He strained his ears, but could hear nothing.

Gradually, as he waited, his mood of morbid self-criticism returned. He had sunk once more into the depths when he was aware of a soft tapping. The door bell rang very gently. He went to the door and opened it.

"I kinder thought I'd look in and see how things were getting along," said a voice.

It was Steve. A subdued and furtive Steve. Kirk's heart leaped at the sight of him. It was as if he had found something solid to cling to in a shifting world.

"Come in, Steve."

He spoke huskily. Steve sidled into the studio, embarrassment written on every line of him.

"Don't mind my butting in, do you? I've been walking up and down and round the block till every cop on the island's standing by waiting for me to pull something. Another minute and they'd have pinched me on suspicion. I just felt I had to come and see how Miss Ruth was making out."

"The doctor was down here just now. He said everything was going well."

"I guess he knows his business."

There was a silence. Kirk's ears were straining for sounds from above.

"It's hell," said Steve.

Kirk nodded. This kind of talk was more what he wanted. The doctor meant well, but he was too professional. Steve was human.

"Go and get yourself a drink, Steve. I expect you need one."

Steve shook his head.

"Waggon," he said briefly. And there was silence again.

"Say, Kirk."

"Yes?"

"What a wonder she is. Miss Ruth, I mean. I've helped her throw that medicine-ball—often—you wouldn't believe. She's a wonder." He paused. "Say, this is hell, ain't it?"

Kirk did not answer. It was very quiet in the studio now. In the street outside a heavy waggon rumbled part. Somebody shouted a few words of a popular song. Steve sprang to his feet.

"I'll fix that guy," he said. But the singing ceased, and he sat down again.

Kirk got up and began to walk quickly up and down. Steve watched him furtively.

"You want to take your mind off it," he said. "You'll be all in if you keep on worrying about it in that way."

Kirk stopped in his stride.

"That's what the doctor said," he snapped savagely. "What do you two fools think I'm made of?" He recovered himself quickly, ashamed of the outburst. "I'm sorry, Steve. Don't mind anything I say. It's awfully good of you to have come here, and I'm not going to forget it."

Steve scratched his chin reflectively.

"Say, I'll tell you something," he said. "My mother told me once that when I was born my old dad took it just like you. Found he was getting all worked up by having to hang around and do nothing, so he says to himself: 'I've got to take my mind off this business, or it's me for the foolish-house.'

"Well, sir, there was a big guy down on that street who'd been picking on dad good and hard for a mighty long while. And this guy suddenly comes into dad's mind. He felt of his muscle, dad did. 'Gee!' he says to himself, 'I believe the way I'm feeling, I could just go and eat up that gink right away.' And the more he thought of it, the better it looked to him, so all of a sudden he grabs his hat and beats it like a streak down to the saloon on the corner, where he knew the feller would be at that time, and he goes straight up to him and hands him one.

"Back comes the guy at him—he was a great big son of a gun, weighing thirty pounds more than dad—and him and dad mixes it right there in the saloon till the barkeep and about fifty other fellers throws them out, and they goes off to a vacant lot to finish the thing. And dad's so worked up that he gives the other guy his till he hollers that that's all he'll want. And then dad goes home and waits quite quiet and happy and peaceful till they tell him I'm there."

Steve paused.

"Kirk," he said then, "how would you like a round or two with the small gloves, just to get things off your mind for a spell and pass the time? My dad said he found it eased him mighty good."

Kirk stared at him.

"Just a couple of rounds," urged Steve. "And you can go all out at that. I shan't mind. Just try to think I'm some guy that's been picking on you and let me have it. See what I mean?"

For the first time that day the faint ghost of a grin appeared on Kirk's face.

"I wonder if you're right, Steve?"

"I know I'm right. And, say, don't think I don't need it, too. I ain't known Miss Ruth all this time for nothing. You'll be doing me a kindness if you knock my face in."

The small gloves occupied a place of honour to themselves in a lower drawer. It was not often that Kirk used them in his friendly bouts with Steve. For ordinary occasions the larger and more padded species met with his approval. Steve, during these daily sparring encounters, was amiability itself; but he could not be counted upon not to forget himself for an occasional moment in the heat of the fray; and though Kirk was courageous enough, he preferred to preserve the regularity of his features at the expense of a little extra excitement.

Once, after a brisk rally, he had gone about the world looking as if he was suffering from mumps, owing to a right hook which no one regretted more than Steve himself.

But to-day was different; and Kirk felt that even a repetition of that lethal punch would be welcome.

Steve, when the contest opened, was disposed to be consolatory in word as well as deed. He kept up a desultory conversation as he circled and feinted.

"You gotta look at it this way," he began, side-stepping a left, "it ain't often you hear of anything going wrong at times like this. You gotta remember"—he hooked Kirk neatly on the jaw—"that" he concluded.

Kirk came back with a swing at the body which made his adversary grunt.

"That's true," he said.

"Sure," rejoined Steve a little breathlessly, falling into a clinch.

They moved warily round each other.

"So," said Steve, blocking a left, "that ought to comfort you some."

Kirk nodded. He guessed correctly that the other was alluding to his last speech, not to the counter which had just made the sight of his left eye a little uncertain.

Gradually, as the bout progressed, Kirk began to lose the slight diffidence which had hampered him at the start. He had been feeling so wonderfully friendly toward Steve, so grateful for his presence, and his sympathy, that it had been hard, in spite of the other's admonitions, to enter into the fray with any real conviction. Moreover, subconsciously, he was listening all the time for sounds from above which never came.

These things gave a certain lameness to his operations. It was immediately after this blow in the eye, mentioned above, that he ceased to be an individual with private troubles and a wandering mind, and became a boxer pure and simple, his whole brain concentrated on the problem of how to get past his opponent's guard.

Steve, recognizing the change in an instant, congratulated himself on the success of his treatment. It had worked even more quickly than he had hoped. He helped the cure with another swift jab which shot over Kirk's guard.

Kirk came in with a rush. Steve slipped him. Kirk rushed again. Steve, receiving a hard punch on a nose which, though accustomed to such assaults, had never grown really to enjoy them, began to feel a slight diminution of his detached attitude toward this encounter. Till now his position had been purely that of the kindly physician soothing a patient. The rapidity with which the patient was permitting himself to be soothed rendered the post of physician something of a sinecure; and Steve, as Kirk had done, began to slip back into the boxer.

It was while he was in what might be called a transition stage that an unexpected swing sent him with some violence against the wall; and from that moment nature asserted itself. A curious, set look appeared on his face; wrinkles creased his forehead; his jaw protruded slightly.

Kirk made another rush. This time Steve did not slip; he went to meet it, head down and hands busy.

Mrs. Lora Delane Porter came downstairs with the measured impressiveness of one who bears weighty news. Her determined face was pale and tired, as it had every right to be; but she bore herself proudly, as one who has fought and not been defeated.

"Mr. Winfield," she said.

There was no answer. Looking about her, she found the studio empty.

Then, from behind the closed door of the inner room, she was aware of a strange, shuffling sound. She listened, astonished. She heard a gasp, then curious thuds, finally a bump louder than the thuds. And then there was silence.

These things surprised Mrs. Porter. She opened the door and looked in.

It says much for her iron self-control that she remained quiet at this point. A lesser person, after a far less tiring ordeal than she had passed through, would have found relief in some cry or exclamation—possibly even in a scream.

Against the far wall, breathing hard and fondling his left eye with a four-ounce glove, leaned Steve Dingle. His nose was bleeding somewhat freely, but this he appeared to consider a trifle unworthy of serious attention. On the floor, an even more disturbing spectacle, Kirk lay at full length. To Mrs. Porter's startled gaze he appeared to be dead. He too, was bleeding, but he was not in a position to notice it.

"It's all right, ma'am," said Steve, removing the hand from his face and revealing an eye which for spectacular dilapidation must have rivalled the epoch-making one which had so excited his mother on a famous occasion. "It's nothing serious."

"Has Mr. Winfield fainted?"

"Not exactly fainted, ma'am. It's like this. He'd got me clear up in a corner, and I seen it's up to me if I don't want to be knocked through the wall, so I has to cross him. Maybe I'd gotten a little worked up myself by then. But it was my fault. I told him to go all out, and he sure did. This eye's going to be a pippin to-morrow."

Mrs. Porter examined the wounded organ with interest.

"That, I suppose Mr. Dingle, is what you call a blue eye?"

"It sure is, ma'am."

"What has been happening?"

"Well, it's this way. I see he's all worked up, sitting around doing nothing except wait, so I makes him come and spar a round to take his mind off it. My old dad, ma'am, when I was coming along, found that dope fixed him all right, so I reckoned it would do as much good here. My old dad went and beat the block off a fellow down our street, and it done him a lot of good."

Mrs. Porter shook his gloved hand.

"Mr. Dingle," she said with enthusiasm, "I really believe that you are the only sensible man I have ever met. Your common sense is astonishing. I have no doubt you saved Mr. Winfield from a nervous break-down. Would you be kind enough, when you are rested, to fetch some water and bring him to and inform him that he is the father of a son?"

title: The Coming of Bill/Book I/Chapter 8


text:
The Coming of Bill/Book I/Chapter 9

William Bannister Winfield was the most wonderful child. Of course, you had to have a certain amount of intelligence to see this. To the vapid and irreflective observer he was not much to look at in the early stages of his career, having a dough-like face almost entirely devoid of nose, a lack-lustre eye, and the general appearance of a poached egg. His immediate circle of intimates, however, thought him a model of manly beauty; and there was the undeniable fact that he had come into the world weighing nine pounds. Take him for all in all, a lad of promise.

Kirk's sense of being in a dream continued. His identity seemed to have undergone a change. The person he had known as Kirk Winfield had disappeared, to be succeeded by a curious individual bubbling over with an absurd pride for which it was not easy to find an outlet. Hitherto a rather reserved man, he was conscious now of a desire to accost perfect strangers in the street and inform them that he was not the ordinary person they probably imagined, but a father with an intensely unusual son at home, and if they did not believe him they could come right along and see for themselves.

The only flaw in his happiness at the moment was the fact that his circle of friends was so small. He had not missed the old brigade of the studio before, but now the humblest of them would have been welcome, provided he would have sat still and listened. Even Percy Shanklyn would have been acceptable as an audience.

Steve, excellent fellow, was always glad to listen to him on his favourite subject. He had many long talks with Steve on the question of William's future. Steve, as the infant's godfather, which post he had claimed and secured at an early date, had definite views on the matter.

Here, held Steve, was the chance of a lifetime. With proper training, a baby of such obvious muscular promise might be made the greatest fighter that ever stepped into the ring. He was the real White Hope. He advised Kirk to direct William's education on the lines which would insure his being, when the time was ripe, undisputed heavy-weight champion of the world. To Steve life outside the ring was a poor affair, practically barren of prizes for the ambitious.

Mrs. Lora Delane Porter, eyeing William's brow, of which there was plenty, he being at this time extremely short of hair, predicted a less robust and more intellectual future for him. Something more on the lines of president of some great university or ambassador at some important court struck her as his logical sphere.

Kirk's view was that he should combine both careers and be an ambassador who took a few weeks off every now and then in order to defend his champion's belt. In his spare time he might paint a picture or two.

Ruth hesitated between the army, the navy, the bar, and business. But every one was agreed that William was to be something special.

This remarkable child had a keen sense of humour. Thus he seldom began to cry in his best vein till the small hours of the morning; and on these occasions he would almost invariably begin again after he had been officially pronounced to be asleep. His sudden grab at the hair of any adult who happened to come within reach was very droll, too.

As to his other characteristics, he was of rather an imperious nature. He liked to be waited on. He wanted what he wanted when he wanted it. The greater part of his attention being occupied at this period with the important duty of chewing his thumb, he assigned the drudgery of life to his dependants. Their duties were to see that he got up in the morning, dressed, and took his tub; and after that to hang around on the chance of general orders.

Any idea Kirk may have had of resuming his work was abandoned during these months. No model, young and breezy or white-haired and motherly, passed the studio doors. Life was far too interesting for work. The canvas which might have become "Carmen" or "A Reverie" or even "The Toreador's Bride" lay unfinished and neglected in a corner.

It astonished Kirk to find how strong the paternal instinct was in him. In the days when he had allowed his mind to dwell upon the abstract wife he had sometimes gone a step further and conjured up the abstract baby. The result had always been to fill him with a firm conviction that the most persuasive of wild horses should not drag him from his bachelor seclusion. He had had definite ideas on babies as a class. And here he was with his world pivoting on one of them. It was curious.

The White Hope, as Steve called his godson—possibly with the idea of influencing him by suggestion—grew. The ailments which attacked lesser babies passed him by. He avoided croup, and even whooping-cough paid him but a flying visit hardly worth mentioning. His first tooth gave him a little trouble, but that is the sort of thing which may happen to anyone; and the spirited way in which he protested against the indignity of cutting it was proof of a high soul.

Such was the remarkableness of this child that it annoyed Kirk more and more that he should be obliged to give the exhibition of his extraordinary qualities to so small an audience. Ruth felt the same; and it was for this reason that the first overtures were made to the silent camp which contained her father and her brother Bailey.

Since that evening in the library there had come no sign from the house on Fifth Avenue that its inmates were aware of her existence. Life had been too full till now to make this a cause of trouble to her; but with William Bannister becoming every day more amazing the desire came to her to try and heal the breach. Her father had so ordered his life in his relation to his children that Ruth's affection was not so deep as it might have been; but, after all, he was William Bannister's grandfather, and, as such, entitled to consideration.

It was these reflections that led to Steve's state visit to John Bannister—probably the greatest fiasco on record. Steve had been selected for the feat on the strength of his having the right of entry to the Fifth Avenue house, for John Bannister was still obeying his doctor's orders and taking his daily spell of exercise with the pugilist—and Steve bungled it hopelessly.

His task was not a simple one. He was instructed to employ tact, to hint rather than to speak, to say nothing to convey the impression that Ruth in any way regretted the step she had taken, to give the idea that it was a matter of complete indifference to her whether she ever saw her father again or not, yet at the same time to make it quite clear that she was very anxious to see him as soon as possible.

William Bannister, grown to maturity and upholding the interests of his country as ambassador at some important court, might have jibbed at the mission.

William Bannister was to accompany Steve and be produced dramatically to support verbal arguments. It seemed to Ruth that for her father to resist William when he saw him was an impossibility. William's position was that of the ace of trumps in the cards which Steve was to play.

Steve made a few objections. His chief argument against taking up the post assigned to him was that he was a roughneck, and that the job in question was one which no roughneck, however gifted in the matter of left hooks, could hope to carry through with real success. But he yielded to pressure, and the expedition set out.

William Bannister at this time was at an age when he was beginning to talk a little and walk a little and take a great interest in things. His walking was a bit amateurish, and his speech rather hard to follow unless you had the key to it. But nobody could have denied that his walk, though staggery, was a genuine walk, and his speech, though limited, genuine speech, within the meaning of the act.

He made no objections to the expedition. On being told that he was going to see his grandpa he nodded curtly and said: "Gwa-wah," after his custom. For, as a conversationalist, perhaps the best description of him is to say that he tried hard. He rarely paused for a word. When in difficulties he said something; he did not seek refuge in silence. That the something was not always immediately intelligible was the fault of his audience for not listening more carefully.

Perhaps the real mistake of the expedition was the nature of its baggage. William Bannister had stood out for being allowed to take with him his wheelbarrow, his box of bricks, and his particular favourite, the dying pig, which you blew out and then allowed to collapse with a pleasing noise. These properties had struck his parents as excessive, but he was firm; and when he gave signs of being determined to fight it out on these lines if it took all the summer, they gave in.

Steve had no difficulty in smuggling William into his grandfather's house. He was a great favourite below stairs there. His great ally was the English butler, Keggs.

Keggs was a stout, dignified, pigeon-toed old sinner, who cast off the butler when not on duty and displayed himself as something of a rounder. He was a man of many parts. It was his chief relaxation to look in at Broadway hotels while some big fight was in progress out West to watch the ticker and assure himself that the man he had backed with a portion of the loot which he had accumulated in the form of tips was doing justice to his judgment, for in private Keggs was essentially the sport.

It was this that so endeared Steve to him. A few years ago Keggs had won considerable sums by backing Steve, and the latter was always given to understand that, as far as the lower regions of it were concerned, the house on Fifth Avenue was open to him at all hours.

To-day he greeted Steve with enthusiasm and suggested a cigar in the pantry before the latter should proceed to his work.

"He ain't ready for you yet, Mr. Dingle. He's lookin' over some papers in—for goodness' sake, who's this?"

He had caught sight of William Bannister, who having wriggled free of Steve, was being made much of by the maids.

"The kid," said Steve briefly.

"Not——"

Steve nodded.

"Sure. His grandson."

Keggs' solemnity increased.

"You aren't going to take him upstairs with you?"

"Surest thing you know. That's why I brought him."

"Don't you do it, Mr. Dingle. 'E's in an awful temper this morning—he gets worse and worse—he'll fire you as soon as look at you."

"Can't be helped. I've got me instructions."

"You always were game," said Keggs admiringly. "I used to see that quick enough before you retired from active work. Well, good luck to you, Mr. Dingle."

Steve gathered up William Bannister, the wheelbarrow, the box of bricks, and the dying pig and made his way to the gymnasium.

The worst of these pre-arranged scenes is that they never happen just as one figured them in one's mind. Steve had expected to have to wait a few minutes in the gymnasium, then there would be a step outside and the old man would enter. The beauty of this, to Steve's mind, was that he himself would be "discovered," as the stage term is; the onus of entering and opening the conversation would be on Mr. Bannister. And, as everybody who has ever had an awkward interview knows, this makes all the difference.

But the minutes passed, and still no grandfather. The nervousness which he had with difficulty expelled began to return to Steve. This was exactly like having to wait in the ring while one's opponent tried to get one's goat by dawdling in the dressing room.

An attempt to relieve himself by punching the ball was a dismal failure. At the first bang of the leather against the wood William Bannister, who had been working in a pre-occupied way at the dying pig, threw his head back and howled, and would not be comforted till Steve took out the rope and skipped before him, much as dancers used to dance before oriental monarchs in the old days.

Steve was just saying to himself for the fiftieth time that he was a fool to have come, when Keggs arrived with the news that Mr. Bannister was too busy to take his usual exercise this morning and that Steve was at liberty to go.

It speaks well for Steve's character that he did not go. He would have given much to retire, for the old man was one of the few people who inspired in him anything resembling fear. But he could not return tamely to the studio with his mission unaccomplished.

"Say, ask him if he can see me for a minute. Say it is important."

Keggs' eye rested on William Bannister, and he shook his head.

"I shouldn't, Mr. Dingle. Really I shouldn't. You don't know what an ugly mood he's in. Something's been worrying him. It's what you might call courting disaster."

"Gee! Do you think I want to do it? I've just got to. That's all there is to it."

A few moments later Keggs returned with the news that Mr. Bannister would see Dingle in the library.

"Come along, kid," said Steve. "Gimme hold of the excess baggage, and let's get a move on."

So in the end it was Mr. Bannister who was discovered and Steve who made the entrance. And, as Steve pointed out to Kirk later, it just made all the difference.

The effect of the change on Steve was to make him almost rollicking in his manner, as if he and Mr. Bannister were the nucleus of an Old Home Week celebration or two old college chums meeting after long absence. Nervousness, on the rare occasions when he suffered from it, generally had that effect on him.

He breezed into the library, carrying the wheelbarrow, the box of bricks, and the dying pig, and trailing William in his wake. William's grandfather was seated with his back to the door, dictating a letter to one of his secretaries.

He looked up as Steve entered. He took in Steve and William in a rapid glance and guessed the latter's identity in an instant. He had expected something of this sort ever since he had heard of his grandson's birth. Indeed, he had been somewhat surprised that the visit had not occurred before.

He betrayed no surprise.

"One moment, Dingle," he said, and turned to the secretary again. A faint sneer came and went on his face.

The delay completed Steve's discomfiture. He placed the wheel harrow on the floor, the box of bricks on the wheelbarrow, and the dying pig on the box of bricks, whence it was instantly removed and inflated by William.

"'Referring to your letter of the eighth—'" said Mr. Bannister in his cold, level voice.

He was interrupted by the incisive cry of the dying pig.

"Ask your son to be quiet, Dingle," he said impassively.

Steve was staggered.

"Say, this ain't my son, squire," he began breezily.

"Your nephew, then, or whatever relation he happens to be to you."

He resumed his dictation. Steve wiped his forehead and looked helplessly at the White Hope, who, having discarded the dying pig, was now busy with the box of bricks.

Steve wished he had not come. He was accustomed to the primitive exhibition of emotions, having moved in circles where the wrathful expressed their wrath in a normal manner.

Anger which found its expression in an exaggerated politeness was out of his line and made him uncomfortable.

After what seemed to him a century, John Bannister dismissed the secretary. Even then, however, he did not come immediately to Steve. He remained for a few moments writing, with his back turned. Then, just when Steve had given up hope of ever securing his attention, he turned suddenly.

"Well?"

"Say, it's this way, colonel," Steve had begun, when a triumphant cry from the direction of the open window stopped him. The White Hope was kneeling on a chair, looking down into the street.

"Bix," he explained over his shoulder.

"Kindly ring the bell, Dingle," said Mr. Bannister, unmoved. "Your little nephew appears to have dropped his bricks into Fifth Avenue."

In answer to the summons Keggs appeared. He looked anxious.

"Keggs," said Mr. Bannister, "tell one of the footmen to go out into the avenue and pick up some wooden bricks which he will find there. Dingle's little brother has let some fall."

As Keggs left the room Steve's pent-up nervousness exploded in a whirl of words.

"Aw say, boss, quit yer kiddin'. You know this kid ain't anything to do with me. Why, say, how would he be any relation of a roughneck like me? Come off the roof, bo. You know well enough who he is. He's your grandson. On the level."

Mr. Bannister looked at William, now engaged in running the wheelbarrow up and down the room, emitting the while a curious sound, possibly to encourage an imaginary horse. The inspection did not seem to excite him or afford him any pleasure.

"Oh!" he said.

Steve was damped, but resumed gamely:

"Say, boss, this is the greatest kid on earth. I'm not stringing you, honest. He's a wonder. On the level, did you ever see a kid that age with a pair of shoulders on him like what this kid's got? Say, squire, what's the matter with calling the fight off and starting fair? Miss Ruth would be tickled to death if you would. Can the rough stuff, colonel. I know you think you've been given a raw deal, Kirk chipping in like that and copping off Miss Ruth, but for the love of Mike, what does it matter? You seen for yourself what a dandy kid this is. Well, then, check your grouch with your hat. Do the square thing. Have out the auto and come right round to the studio and make it up. What's wrong with that, colonel? Honest, they'd be tickled clean through."

At this point Keggs entered, followed by a footman carrying wooden bricks.

"Keggs," said Mr. Bannister, "telephone for the automobile at once—"

"That's the talk, colonel," cried Steve joyfully. "I know you were a sport."

"——to take me down to Wall Street."

Keggs bowed.

"Oh Keggs," said Mr. Bannister, as he turned to leave.

"Sir?"

"Another thing. See that Dingle does not enter the house again."

And Mr. Bannister resumed his writing, while Steve, gathering up the wheelbarrow, the box of bricks, and the dying pig, took William by the hand and retreated.

That terminated Ruth's attempts to conciliate her father.

There remained Bailey. From Bailey she was prepared to stand no nonsense. Meeting him on the street, she fairly kidnapped him, driving him into a taxicab and pushing him into the studio, where he was confronted by his nephew.

Bailey came poorly through the ordeal. William Bannister, a stern critic, weighed him up in one long stare, found him wanting, and announced his decision with all the strength of powerful lungs. In the end he had to be removed, hiccupping, and Bailey, after lingering a few uneasy moments making conversation to Kirk, departed, with such a look about the back of him as he sprang into his cab that Ruth felt that the visit was one which would not be repeated.

She went back into the studio with a rather heavy heart. She was fond of Bailey.

The sight of Kirk restored her. After all, what had happened was only what she had expected. She had chosen her path, and she did not regret it.

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/

title: The Coming of Bill/Book I/Chapter 9


text:
The Coming of Bill/Book I/Chapter 10

Two events of importance in the small world which centred round William B. Winfield occurred at about this time. The first was the entrance of Mamie, the second the exit of Mrs. Porter.

Mamie was the last of a series of nurses who came and went in somewhat rapid succession during the early years of the White Hope's life. She was introduced by Steve, who, it seemed, had known her since she was a child. She was the nineteen-year-old daughter of a compositor on one of the morning papers, a little, mouselike thing, with tiny hands and feet, a soft voice, and eyes that took up far more than their fair share of her face.

She had had no professional experience as a nursery-maid; but, as Steve pointed out, the fact that, in the absence of her mother, who had died some years previously, she had had sole charge of three small brothers at the age when small brothers are least easily handled, and had steered them through to the office-boy age without mishap, put her extremely high in the class of gifted amateurs. Mamie was accordingly given a trial, and survived it triumphantly. William Bannister, that discerning youth, took to her at once. Kirk liked the neat way she moved about the studio, his heart being still sore at the performance of one of her predecessors, who had upset and put a substantial foot through his masterpiece, that same "Ariadne in Naxos" which Lora Delane Porter had criticised on the occasion of her first visit to the studio. Ruth, for her part, was delighted with Mamie.

As for Steve, though as an outside member of the firm he cannot be considered to count, he had long ago made up his mind about her. Some time before, when he had found it impossible for him to be in her presence, still less to converse with her, without experiencing a warm, clammy, shooting sensation and a feeling of general weakness similar to that which follows a well-directed blow at the solar plexus, he had come to the conclusion that he must be in love. The furious jealousy which assailed him on seeing her embraced by and embracing a stout person old enough to be her father convinced him of this.

The discovery that the stout man actually was her father's brother relieved his mind to a certain extent, but the episode left him shaken. He made up his mind to propose at once and get it over. When Mamie joined the garrison of No. 90 a year later the dashing feat was still unperformed. There was that about Mamie which unmanned Steve. She was so small and dainty that the ruggedness which had once been his pride seemed to him, when he thought of her, an insuperable defect. The conviction that he was a roughneck deepened in him and tied his tongue.

The defection of Mrs. Porter was a gradual affair. From a very early period in the new regime she had been dissatisfied. Accustomed to rule, she found herself in an unexpectedly minor position. She had definite views on the hygienic upbringing of children, and these she imparted to Ruth, who listened pleasantly, smiled, and ignored them.

Mrs. Porter was not used to such treatment. She found Ruth considerably less malleable than she had been before marriage, and she resented the change.

Kirk, coming in one afternoon, found Ruth laughing.

"It's only Aunt Lora," she said. "She will come in and lecture me on how to raise babies. She's crazy about microbes. It's the new idea. Sterilization, and all that. She thinks that everything a child touches ought to be sterilized first to kill the germs. Bill's running awful risks being allowed to play about the studio like this."

Kirk looked at his son and heir, who was submitting at that moment to be bathed. He was standing up. It was a peculiarity of his that he refused to sit down in a bath, being apparently under the impression, when asked to do so, that there was a conspiracy afoot to drown him.

"I don't see how the kid could be much fitter."

"It's not so much what he is now. She is worrying about what might happen to him. She can talk about bacilli till your flesh creeps. Honestly, if Bill ever did get really ill, I believe Aunt Lora could talk me round to her views about them in a minute. It's only the fact that he is so splendidly well that makes it seem so absurd."

Kirk laughed.

"It's all very well to laugh. You haven't heard her. I've caught myself wavering a dozen times. Do you know, she says a child ought not to be kissed?"

"It has struck me," said Kirk meditatively, "that your Aunt Lora, if I may make the suggestion, is the least bit of what Steve would call a shy-dome. Is there anything else she had mentioned?'

"Hundreds of things. Bill ought to be kept in a properly sterilized nursery, with sterilized toys and sterilized everything, and the temperature ought to be just so high and no higher, and just so low and no lower. Get her to talk about it to you. She makes you wonder why everybody is not dead."

"This is a new development, surely? Has she ever broken out in this place before?"

"Oh, yes. In the old days she often used to talk about it. She has written books about it."

"I thought her books were all about the selfishness of the modern young man in not marrying."

"Not at all. Some of them are about how to look after the baby. It's no good the modern young man marrying if he's going to murder his baby directly afterward, is it?"

"Something in that. There's just one objection to this sterilized nursery business, though, which she doesn't seem to have detected. How am I going to provide these things on an income of five thousand and at the same time live in that luxury which the artist soul demands? Bill, my lad, you'll have to sacrifice yourself for your father's good. When I'm a millionaire we'll see about it. Meanwhile—"

"Meanwhile," said Ruth, "come and be dried before you catch your death of cold." She gathered William Bannister into her lap.

"I pity any germ that tries to play catch-as-catch-can with that infant," remarked Kirk. "He'd simply flatten it out in a round. Did you ever see such a chest on a kid of that age?"

It was after the installation of Whiskers at the studio that the diminution of Mrs. Porter's visits became really marked. There was something almost approaching a battle over Whiskers, who was an Irish terrier puppy which Hank Jardine had presented to William Bannister as a belated birthday present.

Mrs. Porter utterly excommunicated Whiskers. Nothing, she maintained, was so notoriously supercharged with bacilli as a long-haired dog. If this was true, William Bannister certainly gave them every chance to get to work upon himself. It was his constant pleasure to clutch Whiskers to him in a vice-like clinch, to bury his face in his shaggy back, and generally to court destruction. Yet the more he clutched, the healthier did he appear to grow, and Mrs. Porter's demand for the dog's banishment was overruled.

Mrs. Porter retired in dudgeon. She liked to rule, and at No. 90 she felt that she had become merely among those present. She was in the position of a mother country whose colony has revolted. For years she had been accustomed to look on Ruth as a disciple, a weaker spirit whom she could mould to her will, and now Ruth was refusing to be moulded.

So Mrs. Porter's visits ceased. Ruth still saw her at the apartment when she cared to go there, but she kept away from the studio. She considered that in the matter of William Bannister her claim had been jumped, that she had been deposed; and she withdrew.

"I shall bear up," said Kirk, when this fact was brought home to him. "I mistrust your Aunt Lora as I should mistrust some great natural force which may become active at any moment and give you yours. An earthquake, for instance. I have no quarrel with your Aunt Lora in her quiescent state, but I fear the developments of that giant mind. We are better off without her."

"All the same," said Ruth loyally, "she's rather a dear. And we ought to remember that, if it hadn't been for her, you and I would never have met."

"I do remember it. And I'm grateful. But I can't help feeling that a woman capable of taking other people's lives and juggling with them as if they were india-rubber balls as she did with ours, is likely at any moment to break out in a new place. My gratitude to her is the sort of gratitude you would feel toward a cyclone if you were walking home late for dinner and it caught you up and deposited you on your doorstep. Your Aunt Lora is a human cyclone. No, on the whole, she's more like an earthquake. She has a habit of splitting up and altering the face of the world whenever she feels like it, and I'm too well satisfied with my world at present to relish the idea of having it changed."

Little by little the garrison of the studio had been whittled down. Except for Steve, the community had no regular members outside the family itself. Hank was generally out of town. Bailey paid one more visit, then seemed to consider that he could now absent himself altogether. And the members of Kirk's bachelor circle stayed away to a man.

Their isolation was rendered more complete by the fact that Ruth, when she had ornamented New York society, had made few real friends. Most of the girls she had known bored her. They were gushing creatures with a passion for sharing and imparting secrets, and Ruth's cool reserve had alienated her from them.

When she married she dropped out. The romance of her wedding gave people something to talk about for a few days, and then she was forgotten.

And so it came about that she had her desire and was able practically to monopolize Kirk. He and she and William Bannister lived in a kind of hermit's cell for three and enjoyed this highly unnatural state of things enormously. Life had never seemed so full either to Kirk or herself. There was always something to do, something to think about, something to look forward to, if it was only a visit to a theatre or the inspection of William Bannister's bath.

title: The Coming of Bill/Book I/Chapter 10


text:
The Coming of Bill/Book I/Chapter 11

It was in the third year of the White Hope's life that the placid evenness of Kirk's existence began to be troubled. The orderly procession of the days was broken by happenings of unusual importance, one at least of them extraordinarily unpleasant. This was the failure of a certain stock in which nearly half of Kirk's patrimony was invested, that capital which had always seemed to him as solid a part of life as the asphalt on which he walked, as unchangeable a part of nature as the air he breathed. He had always had it, and he could hardly bring himself to realize that he was not always to have it.

It gave him an extraordinary feeling of panic and discomfort when at length he faced the fact squarely that his private means, on the possession of which he had based the whole lazy scheme of his life, were as much at the mercy of fate as the stake which a gambler flings on the green cloth. He did not know enough of business to understand the complicated processes by which a stock hitherto supposed to be as impregnable as municipal bonds had been hammered into a ragged remnant in the course of a single day; but the result of them was unpleasantly clear and easily grasped.

His income was cut in half, and instead of being a comfortably off young man, idly watching the pageant of life from a seat in the grand stand, he must now plunge into the crowd and endeavour to earn a living as others did.

For his losses did not begin and end with the ruin of this particular stock. At intervals during the past two years he had been nibbling at his capital, and now, forced to examine his affairs frankly and minutely, he was astonished at the inroads he had made upon it.

There had been the upkeep of the summer shack he had bought in Connecticut. There had been expenses in connection with William Bannister. There had been little treats for Ruth. There had been cigars and clothes and dinners and taxi-cabs and all the other trifles which cost nothing but mount up and make a man wander beyond the bounds of his legitimate income.

It was borne in upon Kirk, as he reflected upon these things, that the only evidence he had shown of the possession of the artistic temperament had been the joyous carelessness of his extravagance. In that only had he been the artist. It shocked him to think how little honest work he had done during the past two years. He had lived in a golden haze into which work had not entered.

He was to be shocked still more very soon.

Stung to action by his thoughts, he embarked upon a sweeping attack on the stronghold of those who exchange cash for artists' dreams. He ransacked the studio and set out on his mission in a cab bulging with large, small, and medium-sized canvases. Like a wave receding from a breakwater he returned late in the day, a branded failure.

The dealers had eyed his canvases, large, small, and medium-sized, and, in direct contravention of their professed object in life, had refused to deal. Only one of them, a man with grimy hands but a moderately golden heart, after passing a sepia thumb over some of the more ambitious works, had offered him fifteen dollars for a little sketch which he had made in an energetic moment of William Bannister crawling on the floor. This, the dealer asserted, was the sort of "darned mushy stuff" the public fell for, and he held it to be worth the fifteen, but not a cent more. Kirk, humble by now, accepted three battered-looking bills and departed.

He had a long talk with Ruth that night, and rose from it in the frame of mind which in some men is induced by prayer. Ruth was quite marvellously sensible and sympathetic.

"I wanted you," she said in answer to his self-reproaches, "and here we are, together. It's simply nonsense to talk about ruining my life and dragging me down. What does it matter about this money? We have got plenty left."

"We've got about as much left as you used to spend on hats in the old days."

"Well, we can easily make it do. I've thought for some time that we were growing too extravagant. And talking of hats, I had no right to have that last one you bought me. It was wickedly expensive. We can economize there, at any rate. We can get along splendidly on what you have now. Besides, directly you settle down and start to paint, we shall be quite rich again."

Kirk laughed grimly.

"I wish you were a dealer," he said. "Fifteen dollars is what I have managed to extract from them so far. One of the Great Unwashed on Sixth Avenue gave me that for that sketch I did of Bill on the floor."

"Which took you about three minutes to do," Ruth pointed out triumphantly. "You see! You're bound to make a fortune if you stick to it."

Kirk put his arm round her and gave her a silent hug of gratitude. He had dreaded this talk, and lo! it was putting new life into him.

They sat for a few moments in silence.

"I don't deserve it," said Kirk at last. "Instead of comforting me like this, and making me think I'm rather a fine sort of a fellow, you ought to be lashing me with scorpions. I don't suppose any man has ever made such a criminal idiot of himself in this city before."

"You couldn't tell that this stock was going to fail."

"No; but I could have done some work these last three years and made it not matter whether it failed or not. You can't comfort me out of that knowledge. I knew all along that I was being a waster and a loafer, but I was so happy that I didn't mind. I was so interested in seeing what you and the kid would do next that I didn't seem to have time to work. And the result is that I've gone right back.

"There was a time when I really could paint a bit. Not much, it's true, but enough to get along with. Well, I'm going to start it again in earnest now, and if I don't make good, well, there's always Hank's offer."

Ruth turned a little pale. They had discussed Hank's offer before, but then life had been bright and cloudless and Hank's offer a thing to smile at. Now it had assumed an uncomfortably practical aspect.

"You will make good," said Ruth.

"I'll do my best," said Kirk. But even as he spoke his mind was pondering on the proposition which Hank had made.

Hank, always flitting from New York into the unknown and back again, had called at the studio one evening, after a long absence, looking sick and tired. He was one of those lean, wiry men whom it is unusual to see in this condition, and Kirk was sympathetic and inquisitive.

Hank needed no pressing. He was full of his story.

"I've been in Colombia," he said. "I got back on a fruit-steamer this morning. Do you know anything of Colombia?"

Kirk reflected.

"Only that there's generally a revolution there," he said.

"There wasn't anything of that kind this trip, except in my interior." Hank pulled thoughtfully at his pipe. The odour of his remarkable brand of tobacco filled the studio. "I've had a Hades of a time," he said simply.

Kirk looked at him curiously. Hank was in a singularly chastened mood to-night.

"What took you there?"

"Gold."

"Gold? Mining?"

Hank nodded.

"I didn't know there were gold-mines in that part of the world," said Kirk.

"There are. The gold that filled the holds of Spanish galleons in the sixteenth century came from Colombia. The place is simply stiff with old Spanish relics."

"But surely the mines must have been worked out ages ago."

"Only on the surface."

Kirk laughed.

"How do you mean, only on the surface? Explain. I don't know a thing about gold, except that getting it out of picture-dealers is like getting blood out of a turnip."

"It's simple enough. The earth hoards its gold in two ways. There's auriferous rock and auriferous dirt. If the stuff is in the rock, you crush it. If it's in the dirt, you wash it."

"It sounds simple."

"It is. The difficult part is finding it."

"And you have done that?"

"I have. Or I'm practically certain I have. At any rate, I know that I have discovered the ditches made by the Spaniards three hundred years ago. If there was gold there in those days there is apt to be gold there now. Only it isn't on the surface any longer. They cleaned up as far as the surface is concerned, so I have to sink shafts and dig tunnels."

"I see. It isn't so simple as it used to be."

"It is, practically, if you have any knowledge of mining."

"Well, what's your trouble?" asked Kirk. "Why did you come back? Why aren't you out there grabbing it with both hands and getting yourself into shape to be a walking gold-mine to your friends? I don't like to see this idle spirit in you, Hank."

Hank smoked long and thoughtfully.

"Kirk," he said suddenly.

"Well?"

Hank shook his head.

"No, it's no good."

"What is no good? What do you mean?"

"I came back," said Hank, suddenly lucid, "with a wild notion of getting you to come in with me on this thing."

"What! Go to Colombia with you?"

Hank nodded.

"But, of course, it's not possible. It's no job for a married man."

"Why not? If this gold of yours is just lying about in heaps it seems to me that a married man is exactly the man who ought to be around grabbing it. Or do you believe that old yarn about two being able to live as cheaply as one? Take it from me, it's not so. If there is gold waiting to be gathered up in handfuls, me for it. When do we start? Can I bring Ruth and the kid?"

"I wish we could start. If I could have had you with me these last few months I'd never have quit. But I guess it's out of the question. You've no idea what sort of an inferno it is, and I won't let you come into it with your eyes shut. But if ever you are in a real tight corner let me know. It might be worth your while then to take a few risks."

"Oh! there are risks?"

"Risks! My claims are located along the in the Choco district. Does that convey anything to you?"

"Not a thing."

"The workings are three hundred miles inland. Just three hundred miles of pure Hades. You can get all the fevers you ever heard of, and a few more, I got most of them last trip."

"I thought you were looking pretty bad."

"I ought to be. I've swallowed so much quinine since I saw you last that my ears are buzzing still. And then there are the insects. They all bite. Some bite worse than others, but not much. Darn it! even the butterflies bite out there. Every animal in the country has some other animal constantly chasing it until a white man comes along, when they call a truce and both chase him. And the vegetation is so thick and grows so quickly that you have to cut down the jungle about the workings every few days or so to avoid being swamped by it. Otherwise," finished Hank, refilling his pipe and lighting it, "the place is a pretty good kind of summer resort."

"And you're going back to it? Back to the quinine and the beasts and the butterflies?"

"Sure. The gold runs up to twenty dollars the cubic yard and is worth eighteen dollars an ounce."

"When are you going?"

"I'm in no hurry. This year, next year, some time, never. No, not never. Call it some time."

"And you want me to come, too?"

"I would give half of whatever there is in the mine to have you come. But things being as they are, well, I guess we can call it off. Is there any chance in the world, Kirk, of your ever ceasing to be a bloated capitalist? Could any of your stocks go back on you?"

"I doubt it. They're pretty gilt-edged, I fancy, though I've never studied the question of stocks. My little gold-mine isn't in the same class with yours, but it's as solid as a rock, and no fevers and insects attached to it, either."

And now the gold-mine had proved of less than rock-like solidity. The most gilt-edged of all the stocks had failed. The capitalist had become in one brief day the struggling artist.

Hank's proposal seemed a good deal less fantastic now to Kirk as he prepared for his second onslaught, the grand attack, on the stronghold of those who bought art with gold.

title: The Coming of Bill/Book I/Chapter 11


text:
The Coming of Bill/Book I/Chapter 12

One afternoon, about two weeks later, Kirk, returning to the studio from an unprofitable raid into the region of the dealers, found on the table a card bearing the name of Mrs. Robert Wilbur. This had been crossed out, and beneath it, in a straggly hand, the name Miss Wilbur had been written.

The phenomenon of a caller at the cell of the two hermits was so strange that he awaited Ruth's arrival with more than his customary impatience. She would be able to identify the visitor. George Pennicut, questioned on the point, had no information of any value to impart. A very pretty young lady she was, said George, with what you might call a lively manner. She had seemed disappointed at finding nobody at home. No, she had left no message.

Ruth, arriving a few moments later, was met by Kirk with the card in his hand.

"Can you throw any light on this?" he said. "Who is Miss Wilbur, who has what you might call a lively manner and appears disappointed when she does not find us at home?"

Ruth looked at the card.

"Sybil Wilbur? I wonder what she wants."

"Who is she? Let's get that settled first."

"Oh, she's a girl I used to know. I haven't seen her for two years. I thought she had forgotten my existence."

"Call her up on the phone. If we don't solve this mystery we shan't sleep to-night. It's like Robinson Crusoe and the footprint."

Ruth went to the telephone. After a short conversation she turned to Kirk with sparkling eyes and the air of one with news to impart.

"Kirk! She wants you to paint her portrait!"

"What!"

"She's engaged to Bailey! Just got engaged! And the first thing she does is to insist on his letting her come to you for her portrait," Ruth bubbled with laughter. "It's to be a birthday present for Bailey, and Bailey has got to pay for it. That's so exactly like Sybil."

"I hope the portrait will be. She's taking chances."

"I think it's simply sweet of her. She's a real friend."

"At fairly long intervals, apparently. Did you say you had not seen her for two years?"

"She is an erratic little thing with an awfully good heart. I feel touched at her remembering us. Oh, Kirk, you must do a simply wonderful portrait, something that everybody will talk about, and then our fortune will be made! You will become the only painter that people will go to for their portraits."

Kirk did not answer. His experiences of late had developed in him an unwonted mistrust of his powers. To this was added the knowledge that, except for an impressionist study of Ruth for private exhibition only, he had never attempted a portrait. To be called upon suddenly like this to show his powers gave him much the same feeling which he had experienced when called upon as a child to recite poetry before an audience. It was a species of stage fright.

But it was certainly a chance. Portrait-painting was an uncommonly lucrative line of business. His imagination, stirred by Ruth's, saw visions of wealthy applicants turned away from the studio door owing to pressure of work on the part of the famous man for whose services they were bidding vast sums.

"By Jove!" he said thoughtfully.

Another aspect of the matter occurred to him.

"I wonder what Bailey thinks about it!"

"Oh, he's probably so much in love with her that he doesn't mind what she does. Besides, Bailey likes you."

"Does he?"

"Oh, well, if he doesn't, he will. This will bring you together."

"I suppose he knows about it?"

"Oh, yes. Sybil said he did. It's all settled. She will be here to-morrow for the first sitting."

Kirk spoke the fear that was in his mind.

"Ruth, old girl, I'm horribly nervous about this. I am taken with a sort of second sight. I see myself making a ghastly failure of this job and Bailey knocking me down and refusing to come across with the cheque."

"Sybil is bringing the cheque with her to-morrow," said Ruth simply.

"Is she?" said Kirk. "Now I wonder if that makes it worse or better. I'm trying to think!"

Sybil Wilbur fluttered in next day at noon, a tiny, restless creature who darted about the studio like a humming-bird. She effervesced with the joy of life. She uttered little squeaks of delight at everything she saw. She hugged Ruth, beamed at Kirk, went wild over William Bannister, thought the studio too cute for words, insisted on being shown all over it, and talked incessantly.

It was about two o'clock before she actually began to sit, and even then she was no statue. A thought would come into her small head and she would whirl round to impart it to Ruth, destroying in a second the pose which it had taken Kirk ten painful minutes to fix.

Kirk was too amused to be irritated. She was such a friendly little soul and so obviously devoted to Ruth that he felt she was entitled to be a nuisance as a sitter. He wondered more and more what weird principle of selection had been at work to bring Bailey and this butterfly together. He had never given any deep thought to the study of his brother-in-law's character; but, from his small knowledge of him, he would have imagined some one a trifle more substantial and serious as the ideal wife for him. Life, he conceived, was to Bailey a stately march. Sybil Wilbur evidently looked on it as a mad gallop.

Ruth felt the same. She was fond of Sybil, but she could not see her as the fore-ordained Mrs. Bailey.

"I suppose she swept him off his feet," she said. "It just shows that you never really get to know a person even if you're their sister. Bailey must have all sorts of hidden sides to his character which I never noticed—unless she has. But I don't think there is much of that about Sybil. She's just a child. But she's very amusing, isn't she? She enjoys life so furiously."

"I think Bailey will find her rather a handful. Does she ever sit still, by the way? If she is going to act right along as she did to-day this portrait will look like that cubist picture of the 'Dance at the Spring'."

As the sittings went on Miss Wilbur consented gradually to simmer down and the portrait progressed with a fair amount of speed. But Kirk was conscious every day of a growing sensation of panic. He was trying his very hardest, but it was bad work, and he knew it.

His hand had never had very much cunning, but what it had had it had lost in the years of his idleness. Every day showed him more clearly that the portrait of Miss Wilbur, on which so much depended, was an amateurish daub. He worked doggedly on, but his heart was cold with that chill that grips the artist when he looks on his work and sees it to be bad.

At last it was finished. Ruth thought it splendid. Sybil Wilbur pronounced it cute, as she did most things. Kirk could hardly bear to look at it. In its finished state it was worse than he could have believed possible.

In the old days he had been a fair painter with one or two bad faults. Now the faults seemed to have grown like weeds, choking whatever of merit he might once have possessed. This was a horrible production, and he was profoundly thankful when it was packed up and removed from the studio. But behind his thankfulness lurked the feeling that all was not yet over, that there was worse to come.

It came.

It was heralded by a tearful telephone call from Miss Wilbur, who rang up Ruth with the agitated information that "Bailey didn't seem to like it." And on the heels of the message came Bailey in person, pink from forehead to collar, and almost as wrathful as he had been on the great occasion of his first visit to the studio. His annoyance robbed his speech of its normal stateliness. He struck a colloquial note unusual with him.

"I guess you know what I've come about," he said.

He had found Kirk alone in the studio, as ill luck would have it. In the absence of Ruth he ventured to speak more freely than he would have done in her presence.

"It's an infernal outrage," he went on. "I've been stung, and you know it."

Kirk said nothing. His silence infuriated Bailey.

"It's the portrait I'm speaking about—the portrait, if you have the nerve to call it that, of Miss Wilbur. I was against her sitting to you from the first, but she insisted. Now she's sorry."

"It's as bad as all that, is it?" said Kirk dully. He felt curiously indisposed to fight. A listlessness had gripped him. He was even a little sorry for Bailey. He saw his point of view and sympathized with it.

"Yes," said Bailey fiercely. "It is, and you know it."

Kirk nodded. Bailey was quite right. He did know it.

"It's a joke," went on Bailey shrilly. "I can't hang it up. People would laugh at it. And to think that I paid you all that money for it. I could have got a real artist for half the price."

"That is easily remedied," said Kirk. "I will send you a cheque to-morrow."

Bailey was not to be appeased. The venom of more than three years cried out for utterance. He had always held definite views upon Kirk, and Heaven had sent him the opportunity of expressing them.

"Yes, I dare say," he said contemptuously. "That would settle the whole thing, wouldn't it? What do you think you are—a millionaire? Talking as if that amount of money made no difference to you? Where does my sister come in? How about Ruth? You sneak her away from her home and then——"

Kirk's lethargy left him. He flushed.

"I think that will be about all, Bannister?" he said. He spoke quietly, but his voice trembled.

But Bailey's long-dammed hatred, having at last found an outlet, was not to be checked in a moment.

"Will it? Will it? The hell it will. Let me tell you that I came here to talk straight to you, and I'm going to do it. It's about time you had your darned dime-novel romance shown up to you the way it strikes somebody else. You think you're a tremendous dashing twentieth-century Young Lochinvar, don't you? You thought you had done a pretty smooth bit of work when you sneaked Ruth away! You! You haven't enough backbone in you even to make a bluff at working to support her. You're just what my father said you were—a loafer who pretends to be an artist. You've got away with it up to now, but you've shown yourself up at last. You damned waster!"

Kirk walked to the door and flung it open.

"You're perfectly right, Bannister," he said quietly. "Everything you have said is quite true. And now would you mind going?"

"I've not finished yet."

"Yes, you have."

Bailey hesitated. The first time frenzy had left him, and he was beginning to be a little ashamed of himself for having expressed his views in a manner which, though satisfying, was, he felt, less dignified than he could have wished.

He looked at Kirk, who was standing stiffly by the door. Something in his attitude decided Bailey to leave well alone. Such had been his indignation that it was only now that for the first time it struck him that his statement of opinion had not been made without considerable bodily danger to himself. Jarred nerves had stood him in the stead of courage; but now his nerves were soothed and he saw things clearly.

He choked down what he had intended to say and walked out. Kirk closed the door softly behind him and began to pace the studio floor as he had done on that night when Ruth had fought for her life in the room upstairs.

His mind worked slowly at first. Then, as it cleared, he began to think more and more rapidly, till the thoughts leaped and ran like tongues of fire scorching him.

It was all true. That was what hurt. Every word that Bailey had flung at him had been strictly just.

He had thought himself a fine, romantic fellow. He was a waster and a loafer who pretended to be an artist. He had thrown away the little talent he had once possessed. He had behaved shamefully to Ruth, shirking his responsibilities and idling through life. He realized it now, when it was too late.

Suddenly through the chaos of his reflections there shone out clearly one coherent thought, the recollection of what Hank Jardine had offered to him. "If ever you are in a real tight corner——"

His brain cleared. He sat down calmly to wait for Ruth. His mind was made up. Hank's offer was the way out, the only way out, and he must take it.

title: The Coming of Bill/Book I/Chapter 12


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Rh Not beautiful in its brightness and sublimity alone, but beautiful wherever the steps of Deity have trod—wherever the hand of the divine artificer has been employed, from the golden glory of a sunset cloud, to the gossamer thread on which are strung the pearls of morning dew.

Now, let me ask whether a mind, habitually engaged in the contemplation of subjects such as these, would be likely to be diverted from its noble but natural exercise, by vulgar calculations upon the comparative beauty of a face? No. It would be perfectly aware, where such beauty did exist; but it would also be impressed with the important fact, that in relation to the wondrous and magnificent whole, its own share of beauty constituted so small a part, as scarcely to be worthy of a passing thought.

Those who are accustomed to enlightened views on this subject, will know also that there are different kinds of personal beauty, amongst which, that of form and colouring holds a very inferior rank. There is a beauty of expression, for instance, of sweetness, of nobility, of intellectual refinement, of feeling, of animation, of meekness, of resignation, and many other kinds of beauty, which may all be allied to the plainest features, and yet may remain, to give pleasure long after the blooming cheek has faded, and silver grey has mingled with the hair. And how far more powerful in their influence upon others, are some of these kinds of beauty! for, after all, beauty depends more upon the movements of the face, than upon the form of the features, when at rest; and thus, a countenance habitually under the influence of amiable feelings acquires a beauty of the highest order, from the frequency with which such feelings are the originating cause of the movements or expressions which stamp their character upon it.

Who has not waited for the first opening of the lips of a

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the preceding chapters we have dealt chiefly with the coloration of animals as distinctive of the several species; and we have seen that, in an enormous number of cases, the colours can be shown to have a definite purpose, and to be useful either as a means of protection or concealment, of warning to enemies, or of recognition by their own kind. We have now to consider a subordinate but very widespread phenomenon—-the differences of colour or of ornamental appendages in the two sexes. These differences are found to have special relations with the three classes of coloration above referred to, in many cases confirming the explanation already given of their purport and use, and furnishing us with important aid in formulating a general theory of animal coloration.

In comparing the colours of the two sexes we find a perfect gradation, from absolute identity of colour up to such extreme difference that it is difficult to believe that the two forms can belong to the same species; and this diversity in the


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 colours of the sexes does not bear any constant relation to affinity or systematic position. In both insects and birds we find examples of complete identity and extreme diversity of the sexes; and these differences occur sometimes in the same tribe or family, and sometimes even in the same genus.

It is only among the higher and more active animals that sexual differences of colour acquire any prominence. In the mollusca the two sexes, when separated, are always alike in colour, and only very rarely present slight differences in the form of the shell. In the extensive group of crustacea the two sexes as a rule are identical in colour, though there are often differences in the form of the prehensile organs; but in a very few cases there are differences of colour also. Thus, in a Brazilian species of shore-crab (Gelasimus) the female is grayish-brown, while in the male the posterior part of the cephalo-thorax is pure white, with the anterior part of a rich green. This colour is only acquired by the males when they become mature, and is liable to rapid change in a few minutes to dusky tints. In some of the freshwater fleas (Daphnoidae) the males are ornamented with red and blue spots, while in others similar colours occur in both sexes. In spiders also, though as a rule the two sexes are alike in colour, there are a few exceptions, the males being ornamented with brilliant colours on the abdomen, while the female is dull coloured.

It is only when we come to the winged insects that we find any large amount of peculiarity in sexual coloration, and even here it is only developed in certain orders. Flies (Diptera), field-bugs (Hemiptera), cicadas (Homoptera), and the grasshoppers, locusts, and crickets (Orthoptera) present very few and unimportant sexual differences of colour; but the last two groups have special musical organs very fully developed in the males of some of the species, and these no doubt enable the sexes to discover and recognise each other. In some cases, however, when the female is protectively coloured, as in the well-known leaf-insects already referred to (p. 207), the male


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 is smaller and much less protectively formed and coloured. In the bees and wasps (Hymenoptera) it is also the rule that the sexes are alike in colour, though there are several cases among solitary bees where they differ; the female being black, and the male brown in Anthophora retusa, while in Andraena fulva the female is more brightly coloured than the male. Of the great order of beetles (Coleoptera) the same thing may be said. Though often so rich and varied in their colours the sexes are usually alike, and Mr. Darwin was only able to find about a dozen cases in which there was any conspicuous difference between them. They exhibit, however, numerous sexual characters, in the length of the antennae, and in horns, legs, or jaws remarkably enlarged or curiously modified in the male sex.

It is in the family of dragonflies (order Neuroptera) that we first meet with numerous cases of distinctive sexual coloration. In some of the Agrionidae the males have the bodies rich blue and the wings black, while the females have the bodies green and the wings transparent. In the North American genus Hetaerina the males alone have a carmine spot at the base of each wing; but in some other genera the sexes hardly differ at all.

The great order of Lepidoptera, including the butterflies and moths, affords us the most numerous and striking examples of diversity of sexual colouring. Among the moths the difference is usually but slight, being manifested in a greater intensity of the colour of the smaller winged male; but in a few cases there is a decided difference, as in the ghost-moth (Hepialus humuli), in which the male is pure white, while the female is yellow with darker markings. This may be a recognition colour, enabling the female more readily to discover her mate; and this view receives some support from the fact that in the Shetland Islands the male is almost as yellow as the female, since it has been suggested that at midsummer, when this moth appears, there is in that high latitude sufficient twilight all night to render any special coloration unnecessary.

Butterflies present us with a wonderful amount of sexual


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 difference of colour, in many cases so remarkable that the two sexes of the same species remained for many years under different names and were thought to be quite distinct species. We find, however, every gradation from perfect identity to complete diversity, and in some cases we are able to see a reason for this difference. Beginning with the most extraordinary cases of diversity—as in Diadema misippus, where the male is black, ornamented with a large white spot on each wing margined with rich changeable blue, while the female is orange-brown with black spots and stripes—we find the explanation in the fact that the female mimics an uneatable Danais, and thus gains protection while laying its eggs on low plants in company with that insect. In the allied species, Diadema bolina, the females are also very different from the males, but are of dusky brown tints, evidently protective and very variable, some specimens having a general resemblance to the uneatable Euplaeas; so that we see here some of the earlier stages of both forms of protection. The remarkable differences in some South American Pieridae are similarly explained. The males of Pieris pyrrha, P. lorena, and several others, are white with a few black bands and marginal spots like so many of their allies, while the females are gaily coloured with yellow and brown, and exactly resemble some species of the uneatable Heliconidae of the same district. Similarly, in the Malay Archipelago, the female of Diadema anomala is glossy metallic blue, while the male is brown; the reason for this reversal of the usual rule being, that the female exactly mimics the brilliant colouring of the common and uneatable Euplaea midamus, and thus secures protection. In the fine Adolias dirtea, the male is black with a few specks of ochre-yellow and a broad marginal band of rich metallic greenish-blue, while the female is brownish-black entirely covered with rows of ochre-yellow spots. This latter coloration does not appear to be protective when the insect is seen in the cabinet, but it really is so. I have observed the female of this butterfly in Sumatra, where it settles on the ground in the forest, and its yellow spots so harmonise with the flickering gleams of sunlight on the dead leaves that it can only be detected with the greatest difficulty.


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 A hundred other cases might be quoted in which the female is either more obscurely coloured than the male, or gains protection by imitating some inedible species; and any one who has watched these female insects flying slowly along in search of the plants on which to deposit their eggs, will understand how important it must be to them not to attract the attention of insect-eating birds by too conspicuous colours. The number of birds which capture insects on the wing is much greater in tropical regions than in Europe; and this is perhaps the reason why many of our showy species are alike, or almost alike, in both sexes, while they are protectively coloured on the under side which is exposed to view when they are at rest. Such are our peacock, tortoise-shell, and red admiral butterflies; while in the tropics we more commonly find that the females are less conspicuous on the upper surface even when protectively coloured beneath.

We may here remark, that the cases already quoted prove clearly that either male or female may be modified in colour apart from the opposite sex. In Pieris pyrrha and its allies the male retains the usual type of coloration of the whole genus, while the female has acquired a distinct and peculiar style of colouring. In Adolias dirtea, on the other hand, the female appears to retain something like the primitive colour and markings of the two sexes, modified perhaps for more perfect protection; while the male has acquired more and more intense and brilliant colours, only showing his original markings by the few small yellow spots that remain near the base of the wings. In the more gaily coloured Pieridae, of which our orange-tip butterfly may be taken as a type, we see in the female the plain ancestral colours of the group, while the male has acquired the brilliant orange tip to its wings, probably as a recognition mark.

In those species in which the under surface is protectively coloured, we often find the upper surface alike in both sexes, the tint of colour being usually more intense in the male. But in some cases this leads to the female being more conspicuous, as in some of the Lycaenidae, where the female is bright blue and the male of a blue so much deeper and soberer in tint as to appear the less brilliantly coloured of the two.


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In the production of these varied results there have probably been several causes at work. There seems to be a constant tendency in the male of most animals—but especially of birds and insects—to develop more and more intensity of colour, often culminating in brilliant metallic blues or greens or the most splendid iridescent hues; while, at the same time, natural selection is constantly at work, preventing the female from acquiring these same tints, or modifying her colours in various directions to secure protection by assimilating her to her surroundings, or by producing mimicry of some protected form. At the same time, the need for recognition must be satisfied; and this seems to have led to diversities of colour in allied species, sometimes the female, sometimes the male undergoing the greatest change according as one or other could be modified with the greatest ease, and so as to interfere least with the welfare of the race. Hence it is that sometimes the males of allied species vary most, as in the different species of Epicalia; sometimes the females, as in the magnificent green species of Ornithoptera and the "Aeneas" group of Papilio.

The importance of the two principles—the need of protection and recognition—in modifying the comparative coloration of the sexes among butterflies, is beautifully illustrated in the case of the groups which are protected by their distastefulness, and whose females do not, therefore, need the protection afforded by sober colours.

In the great families, Heliconidae and Acraeidae, we find that the two sexes are almost always alike; and, in the very few exceptions, that the female, though differently, is not less gaily or less conspicuously coloured. In the Danaidae the same general rule prevails, but the cases in which the male exhibits greater intensity of colour than the female are perhaps more numerous than in the other two families. There is, however, a curious difference in this respect between the Oriental and the American groups of distasteful Papilios with warning colours, both of which are the subjects of mimicry. In the Eastern groups—of which P. hector and P. coon may be taken


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 as types—the two sexes are nearly alike, the male being sometimes more intensely coloured and with fewer pale markings; but in the American groups—represented by P. aeneas, P. sesostris, and allies—there is a wonderful diversity, the males having a rich green or bluish patch on the fore wings, while the females have a band or spots of pure white, not always corresponding in position to the green spot of the males. There are, however, transitional forms, by which a complete series can be traced, from close similarity to great diversity of colouring between the sexes; and this may perhaps be only an extreme example of the intenser colour and more concentrated markings which are a very prevalent characteristic of male butterflies.

There are, in fact, many indications of a regular succession of tints in which colour development has occurred in the various groups of butterflies, from an original grayish or brownish neutral tint. Thus in the "Aeneas" group of Papilios we have the patch on the upper wings yellowish in P. triopas, olivaceous in P. bolivar, bronzy-gray with a white spot in P. erlaces, more greenish and buff in P. iphidamas, gradually changing to the fine blue of P. brissonius, and the magnificent green of P. sesostris. In like manner, the intense crimson spots of the lower wings can be traced step by step from a yellow or buff tint, which is one of the most widespread colours in the whole order. The greater purity and intensity of colour seem to be usually associated with more pointed wings, indicating greater vigour and more rapid flight.

Mr. Darwin, as is well known, imputed most of the brilliant colours and varied patterns of butterflies' wings to sexual selection—that is, to a constant preference, by female butterflies, for the more brilliant males; the colours thus produced being sometimes transmitted to the males alone, sometimes to both sexes. This view has always seemed to me to be unsupported by evidence, while it is also quite inadequate to account for the facts. The only direct evidence, as set forth with his usual fairness by Mr. Darwin himself, is opposed to his views. Several entomologists assured him that, in moths, the females evince not the least choice of their


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 partners; and Dr. Wallace of Colchester, who has largely bred the fine Bombyx cynthia, confirmed this statement. Among butterflies, several males often pursue one female, and Mr. Darwin says, that, unless the female exerts a choice the pairing must be left to chance. But, surely, it may be the most vigorous or most persevering male that is chosen, not necessarily one more brightly or differently coloured, and this will be true "natural selection." Butterflies have been noticed to prefer some coloured flowers to others; but that does not prove, or even render probable, any preference for the colour itself, but only for flowers of certain colours, on account of the more agreeable or more abundant nectar obtained from them. Dr. Schulte called Mr. Darwin's attention to the fact, that in the Diadema bolina the brilliant blue colour surrounding the white spots is only visible when we look towards the insect's head, and this is true of many of the iridescent colours of butterflies, and probably depends upon the direction of the striae on the scales. It is suggested, however, that this display of colour will be seen by the female as the male is approaching her, and that it has been developed by sexual selection. But in the majority of cases the males follow the female, hovering over her in a position which would render it almost impossible for her to see the particular colours or patterns on his upper surface; to do so the female should mount higher than the male, and fly towards him—being the seeker instead of the sought, and this is quite opposed to the actual facts. I cannot, therefore, think that this suggestion adds anything whatever to the evidence for sexual selection of colour by female butterflies. This question will, however, be again touched upon after we have considered the phenomena of sexual colour among the vertebrata.

The general rule among vertebrates, as regards colour, is, for the two sexes to be alike. This prevails, with only a few exceptions, in fishes, reptiles, and mammalia; but in birds diversity of sexual colouring is exceedingly frequent, and is, not improbably, present in a greater or less degree in more


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 than half of the known species. It is this class, therefore, that will afford us the best materials for a discussion of the problem, and that may perhaps lead us to a satisfactory explanation of the causes to which sexual colour is due.

The most fundamental characteristic of birds, from our present point of view, is a greater intensity of colour in the male. This is the case in hawks and falcons; in many thrushes, warblers, and finches; in pigeons, partridges, rails, plovers, and many others. When the plumage is highly protective or of dull uniform tints, as in many of the thrushes and warblers, the sexes are almost or quite identical in colour; but when any rich markings or bright tints are acquired, they are almost always wanting or much fainter in the female, as we see in the black-cap among warblers, and the chaffinch among finches.

It is in tropical regions, where from a variety of causes colour has been, developed to its fullest extent, that we find the most remarkable examples of sexual divergence of colour. The most gorgeously coloured birds known are the birds of paradise, the chatterers, the tanagers, the humming-birds, and the pheasant-tribe, including the peacocks. In all these the females are much less brilliant, and, in the great majority of cases, exceptionally plain and dull coloured birds. Not only are the remarkable plumes, crests, and gorgets of the birds of paradise entirely wanting in the females, but these latter are usually without any bright colour at all, and rank no higher than our thrushes in ornamental plumage. Of the humming-birds the same may be said, except that the females are often green, and sometimes slightly metallic, but from their small size and uniform tints are never conspicuous. The glorious blues and purples, the pure whites and intense crimsons of the male chatterers are represented in the females by olive-greens or dull browns, as are the infinitely varied tints of the male tanagers. And in pheasants, the splendour of plumage which characterises the males is entirely absent in the females, which, though often ornamental, have always comparatively sober and protective tints. The same thing occurs with many other groups. In the Eastern tropics are many brilliant birds belonging to the families of the warblers, flycatchers, shrikes, etc., but the female is always


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 much less brilliant than the male and often quite dull coloured.

The reason of this phenomenon is not difficult to find, if we consider the essential conditions of a bird's existence, and the most important function it has to fulfil. In order that the species may be continued, young birds must be produced, and the female birds have to sit assiduously on their eggs. While doing this they are exposed to observation and attack by the numerous devourers of eggs and birds, and it is of vital importance that they should be protectively coloured in all those parts of the body which are exposed during incubation. To secure this end all the bright colours and showy ornaments which decorate the male have not been acquired by the female, who often remains clothed in the sober hues which were probably once common to the whole order to which she belongs. The different amounts of colour acquired by the females have no doubt depended on peculiarities of habits and of environment, and on the powers of defence or of concealment possessed by the species. Mr. Darwin has taught us that natural selection cannot produce absolute, but only relative perfection; and as a protective colour is only one out of many means by which the female birds are able to provide for the safety of their young, those which are best endowed in other respects will have been allowed to acquire more colour than those with whom the struggle for existence is more severe.

This principle is strikingly illustrated by the existence of considerable numbers of birds in which both sexes are similarly and brilliantly coloured,—in some cases as brilliantly as the males of many of the groups above referred to. Such are the extensive families of the kingfishers, the woodpeckers, the toucans, the parrots, the turacos, the hangnests, the starlings, and many other smaller groups, all the species of which are conspicuously or brilliantly coloured, while in all of them the females are either coloured exactly like the males, or, when differently coloured, are equally conspicuous. When


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 searching for some cause for this singular apparent exception to the rule of female protective colouring, I came upon a fact which beautifully explains it; for in all these cases, without exception, the species either nests in holes in the ground or in trees, or builds a domed or covered nest, so as completely to conceal the sitting-bird. We have here a case exactly parallel to that of the butterflies protected by distastefulness, whose females are either exactly like the males, or, if different, are equally conspicuous. We can hardly believe that so exact a parallel should exist between such remote classes of animals, except under the influence of a general law; and, in the need of protection by all defenceless animals, and especially by most female insects and birds, we have such a law, which has been proved to have influenced the colours of a considerable proportion of the animal kingdom.

The general relation which exists between the mode of nesting and the coloration of the sexes in those groups of birds which need protection from enemies, may be thus expressed: When both sexes are brilliant or conspicuous, the nest is such as to conceal the sitting-bird; but when the male is brightly coloured and the female sits exposed on the nest, she is always less brilliant and generally of quite sober and protective hues.

It must be understood that the mode of nesting has influenced the colour, not that the colour has determined the mode of nesting; and this, I believe, has been generally, though not perhaps universally, the case. For we know that colour varies more rapidly, and can be more easily modified and fixed by selection, than any other character; whereas habits, especially when connected with structure, and when they pervade a whole group, are much more persistent and more difficult to change, as shown by the habit of the dog turning round two or three times before lying down, believed to be that of the wild ancestral form which thus smoothed down the herbage so as to form a comfortable bed. We see, too, that the general mode of nesting is characteristic of whole families differing widely in size, form, and colours. Thus, all the kingfishers and their allies in every part of the world nest


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 in holes, usually in banks, but sometimes in trees. The motmots and the puff-birds (Bucconidae) build in similar places; while the toucans, barbets, trogons, woodpeckers, and parrots all make their nests in hollow trees. This habit, pervading all the members of extensive families, must therefore be extremely ancient, more especially as it evidently depends in some degree on the structure of the birds, the bills, and especially the feet, of all these groups being unfitted for the construction of woven arboreal nests. But in all these families the colour varies greatly from species to species, being constant only in the one character of the similarity of the sexes, or, at all events, in their being equally conspicuous even though differently coloured.

When I first put forward this view of the connection between the mode of nesting and the coloration of female birds, I expressed the law in somewhat different terms, which gave rise to some misunderstanding, and led to numerous criticisms and objections. Several cases were brought forward in which the females were far less brilliant than the males, although the nest was covered. This is the case with the Maluridae, or superb warblers of Australia, in which the males are very brilliant during the pairing season and the females quite plain, yet they build domed nests. Here, there can be little doubt, the covered nest is a protection from rain or from some special enemies to the eggs; while the birds themselves are protectively coloured in both sexes, except for a short time during the breeding season when the male acquires brilliant colours; and this is probably connected with the fact of their inhabiting the open plains and thin scrub of Australia, where protective colours are as generally advantageous as they are in our north-temperate zones.

As I have now stated the law, I do not think there are any exceptions to it, while there are an overwhelming number of cases which give it a strong support. It has been objected that the domed nests of many birds are as conspicuous as the birds themselves would be, and would, therefore, be of no use as a protection to the birds and young. But, as a matter of fact, they do protect from attack, for hawks or crows do not pluck such nests to pieces, as in doing so they would be