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 Had the question been put in any other form, the boy would have melted. But he read the words as holding accusation instead of sympathy and they rasped along an old wound. His spine stiffened.

"You haven't heard me complain," he said.

"Oh!" The man drew back, baffled, helpless, thwarted. His expression said plainly, "I can't understand you," but Bert was not looking at his face. The boy himself was conscious, the next moment, that his reply had been foolish and headstrong. The right word then would have saved them both. Neither seemed able to say it.

The day after Christmas. The Shoppers' Service reopened. The Christmas school vacation meant no classes, and at nine o'clock Bert came down to Washington Avenue. Sam was in the rear of the store cleaning one of the burners of the gas stove. A newspaper lay on the counter opened at the help wanted page. Two of the ads, calling for the services of an experienced clerk, had been checked in lead pencil. Bert was standing with the newspaper in his hand when Sam emerged from the kitchen.

"Running away?" the boy demanded bitterly.

Sam took the question calmly. "You know where we stand."

"I'm going to stick it out to the finish."

"That's all you can do," Sam observed practically.

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 "There's Clud's note to meet."

"Oh, I suppose I'll be around until then; jobs don't grow on bushes." The clerk through force of habit, began to dust the counter even though he knew there was little likelihood of any one coming in and demanding attention. "There's more than Clud to think of. You've forgotten something."

"Forgotten what?"

"The lease on this store. We hired it for a year. Even if we close up the rent has to be paid every month until the lease runs out."

The newspaper dropped from Bert's hands. His mind made a half-blind but wholly accurate calculation. After January the lease would have six months to run, and at $22.50 a month that meant $135. Added to the $175 due on Old Man Clud's note the firm would face an indebtedness of $310.

"How are we going to pay it?" Bert asked with an effort.

Instead of answering Sam took a penknife from his pocket and cut the two ads from the newspaper. Later Bert saw him writing letters at one of the tables.

Early January ushered in mid-year examinations. The goodly promise with which Bert had started the term had not been fulfilled. Business worries had played havoc with his lessons; and the examination papers wrought destruction to what was left of his peace of mind. When the ordeal

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 was over, he hoped for the best but feared the worst.

Sam's days were now given over to an intensive search for another job. Right and left the props were being kicked out from under the business. Customers were beginning to give up the Service, and Sam made no attempt to fill their places. And so January ran on toward the fatal eighteenth.

The sixteenth fell on a Saturday. The cold wave had broken, a south wind had brought a warm rain, and the hard snow that had lain in the streets piled high near the curb ran in dirt-colored torrents toward corner catch basins. It was the last Saturday. The Shoppers' Service would be in existence, and Bert lay late in bed watching the rain blow in gusts across the windowpanes. His father, too, seemed in no hurry to be off that morning, and was still at home when the postman's whistle blew at the door. The whistle aroused the boy and he began to dress.

"Bert!" His father's voice came up sharply from the lower hall.

"Yes, sir."

"Get down here at once."

The summons admitted of no delay. Bert drew on a bath robe and descended the stairs. Mr. Quinby, a letter in his hand, was pacing the dining room with wrathful steps.

"I have a notice here from your school," he said grimly.

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 Bert gulped.

"You failed in four examination subjects. Is there to be no limit to the trouble you cause me? Have you no sense of responsibility? Other fellows, at your age, are reporting at seven o'clock each morning to a factory and putting in a day of hard work. I give you four years of high school, and you throw it away. I've submitted to your whims and fancies long enough. This is the end. You're going to quit this so-called business of yours and you're going to quit it at once. I give you five days to wind up your affairs with Sam Sickles and get out. After that you'll either do your school work or you'll leave school and do real work. I won't put up with having you waste your time and my money. That's final."

To Bert it was better than final—it was salvation. Now. The Shoppers' Service could close its doors without an open confession of failure. Now he could quit and still save his face. The news was so good that later, as he dressed, he began to whistle and abruptly choked off the melody. He had a fear that it would sound distinctly out of place to his father.

The jeweler's big clock stood at eleven as he came sloshing through Washington Avenue in the rain. The store was locked. That was surprising. He opened the door and passed inside. A note lay open on the counter:

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Bert sank into a chair. The note, to his mind, could mean only one thing. Sam had already departed from Springham and had left him to assume the firm's debts;

How long he sat there sunk in gloom he did not know. The door opened. He heard a cough, a sound as of a strangling breath, and then another cough. He swung around.

"My friend," Old Man Clud wheezed, "I envy you your excellent health. A little hot coffee, if I may trouble you. These damp days chill me to the marrow."

Bert, in silence, prepared the drink.

"Excellent," said the lender of money, and smacked his lips. "Springham should be delighted to support an establishment that provides such truly splendid coffee. A gift for the gods, I assure you. And might I ask how your enterprise has been coming on?"

Bert was wiser than he had been at Thanksgiving. "It hasn't been coming on," he said bluntly, "and you know it."

Old Man Clud peered at him with sharp eyes. "Softly! Softly! I have regarded you highly as a young man who knew his place and wagged a civil tongue. And if I have kept my own tabulations, is that to my discredit? Consider! Some

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 of my money is invested in this business. Is it not natural for me to have some curiosity as to how I was to be paid? And that brings us to a matter that will soon be pressing for attention. Monday the note I hold falls due. May I inquire if you are prepared to meet it?"

"Not . . . not in full," Bert found himself saying. The voice did not seem to be his.

Old Man Clud showed neither surprise nor consternation. "The fortunes of business, my friend. Man cannot always order things as he would have them. And we, who lend money, must take that fact into consideration. Where there is a willingness to pay, there must be a willingness, on our part, to give the debtor needed time. We might be compared to doctors: the doctor ministers to the sick body, we minister to a sick business. Is it not a just comparison? Come, come; there is nothing to worry about. You will find me easy to deal with. How much, might I ask, do you feel that you can pay me on Monday?"

"About $100."

"That would leave a $75 balance. A trifle. Another little note that nobody knows about but you and me, and the thing is done."

"For how much?"

"The note? A fair question, but bear with me a moment. When first you came we agreed upon a slight bonus. It was necessary, because your outlook was uncertain. The fact that you cannot

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 pay as you agreed to pay makes the second note even more uncertain. It raises a question of your ability. . . ."

"How much?" Bert cut in.

"There, there!" the man wheezed soothingly. "I do not mean to criticize you. I have always spoken of you favorably. But business is business and. . . ."

"Mr. Clud, what note must I sign?"

The man leaned across the table. "I must insist upon a note for $125."

The thing was robbery—extortion. Bert sprang to his feet. "I won't sign it."

The man spread his hands in a smooth gesture of benevolence. "Then I must ask you to pay me in full."

"I can't. I've told you that. I'll give you $100, and you can auction off the goods here for the balance."

"My friend, the goods here do not interest me in the least. At auction they would not bring so much as a pocketful of silver coins. Believe me, I have had experience in such things and I know."

"Then all you get is $100. I haven't the money and you can't get it. That's all."

Old Man Clud stood up, and not an ounce of fat on his pale, hairless face gave any hint that he was disturbed. "Oh, but that is not all. You misjudge my astuteness. Did it never occur to you that I would not lend my money to one of your age

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 unless I knew of a certainty that there was a means by which I could get it back? Your father happens to be one of Springham's leading merchants. He has a reputation to sustain and protect. Is it not possible that he would rather pay the note, were it called to his attention, than to have his son known through the town as one who had defaulted on a business promise involving credit?"

Bert, of a sudden, went cold.

"If you are of a mind to be reasonable, you will find it wise to continue to do business with me. Do not act rashly. Take time to think. Either you pay me in full, or else pay me $100 cash and give me your note for $125 . . . or I go to your father. See, I hold the door open for you to save yourself from an embarrassing position. And now, my friend, I will bid you good day. I will be in on the eighteenth for your answer."

He was gone, and Bert stood there staring straight ahead. The threat to tell his father had left him with a still and icy calm more dangerous than anger. Sam had run away and left him to face all this alone! His lips twitched. Absently he carried the cup and saucer behind the counter and began to wash them. And then the door opened and Sam came in, carrying a traveling bag.

A cry broke from Bert. "You haven't gone! I thought you had left me to buck everything."

"Well, I will be gone soon," Sam said hurriedly. "There's ten dollars coming to me for this week.

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 That's what I came in to get. I'm going away on the one o'clock train."

"Ten dollars! We need every dollar to square things."

"Ten dollars! You heard me. I've worked this week, and I've earned it."

"But how about the lease? We've got to go on paying $22.50 a month for six more months."

"They won't collect it from me," Sam said, with conviction. "Springham won't see me again after one o'clock. I think I've lost enough fooling around here since August."

"Are you leaving me to pay it all?" The cup was in Bert's hand and he was drying it without being conscious of the act.

"I'm not asking you to pay anything, am I? All I know is that this business has got all it's going to get out of me."

"How about Old Man Clud's note?" Bert de manded desperately. "He was in here a little while ago. He says he'll go to my father. You've got to pay half of that now. It comes due Monday. This is a partnership."

A look of sly craft came down like a veil over Sam's features. "Partnership? Yes; in some things. But not on that note."

"Why not?"

"Because that's not a partnership note. You signed it alone. That makes it a personal note. I have nothing to do with it. Just the same I'll do

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 something for you. I didn't think you'd give me that ten dollars; I came in on a chance. Keep the ten dollars and put it toward the note money. That's as far as I'll go."

He swung the handbag out of the way of his knees and turned to go. The ice in Bert was beginning to change to the rage of one who finds himself miserably tricked, deftly hoodwinked, shamelessly swindled.

"You had that in your mind all the time," he said thickly.

"I didn't. I ran across that in the book the other night in the chapter on partnership agreements. You ought to read up more about business."

"But you know it was understood that we were to pay that note!"

"Show it to me in writing. Youcan't. In business nothing counts but written agreements unless you have witnesses to a verbal contract."

"You mean . . ." Bert found the words choking in his throat. "You mean you're going to play the skunk and skin out of this?"

"What a sucker I'd be," Sam said in scorn, "to hand over money when I don't have to. You want to wake up. It isn't my fault you left me out of that note, but I'd be a fool not to take advantage of it. Well, I've got to hustle along or I'll miss my train."

Something violent broke loose in Bert at the

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 cold-blooded treachery. The cup was still in his hand. Without a clear realization of what he did, without a thought as to consequences, he hurled it at the head going through the doorway.

The cup found its mark. Sam's hat flew upward, and the bag dropped from his hand. His knees sagged, his step stumbled. A moment he stood swaying; then he sprawled forward and lay on his face out in Washington Avenue in the rain.

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MOMENT after throwing the cup Bert would have given all he possessed in the world to have stopped it in its flight. With Sam lying in the street, sanity came back and drove the violence from his blood. There was a rear door to the store. . . another boy might have run. But through a trembling fear was fast overwhelming him he held his ground. There was in him, in some ways, what Tom Woods would have called "the courage to take his medicine."

A moment before Sam staggered out through the doorway, Washington Avenue was a deserted, rain-swept thoroughfare; a moment later a crowd was beginning to gather. They came running, giving tongue to a weird, low murmur of excitement. Bert heard voices: "What happened to him? His head is cut. Who hit him? Stand back, there, and give him air!" There was a sudden movement at one edge of the crowd, and it broke and fell away. Policeman Glynn pushed his way through.

Bert, forcing himself to move, went down to the door. Had he hurt Sam badly? It didn't seem

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 possible that a cup could do much damage. The door was still open. He laid one hand on the knob, and clutched it, and stood there at the edge of the gathering.

The coming of the policeman had brought order out of confusion. Two men bent down and lifted the clerk to his feet. His eyes opened, and he came back to consciousness, and struggled to find his balance. Bert, from his heart, breathed a prayer of relief.

"What happened to you?" Policeman Glynn asked. "Did you fall?"

"I was hit," Sam said weakly.

"By what?"

"I don't know."

"Who hit you?"

Sam's eyes roved about the circle of faces. "He did," he said, and pointed to Bert in the doorway.

"You," said Policeman Glynn, and shook his head. "Bad business. I always thought you were one of the nice, easy lads who would never give a peep of trouble. I'll have to take you in if this gentleman's going to make a complaint."

Sam was rapidly recovering. "You can bet I'm going to make a complaint. He assaulted me. I hadn't done anything to him. I was walking out and he hit me with something."

The policeman stooped and picked up half of the cup. "This it?" he asked Bert. The boy

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 nodded, and the officer stuck the fragment in his pocket and began to give businesslike directions. "You get to a doctor and have your head looked after. It may need a bandage. After that come down to the station and sign a complaint."

Half a dozen sympathetic voices in the crowd spoke up and offered to take Sam to Dr. Elman's office. When he moved off, walking a bit unsteadily, a few of the bystanders went with him. The majority remained to watch the next act of the drama. Arrests were few and far between in peaceful Springham. They did not want to miss this one.

Policeman Glynn beckoned to Bert. "You'll have to come with me."

Bert got his hat and coat and locked the door. As he stepped away he saw Bill Harrison on the outside of the crowd. Bill swung around and hobbled away as fast as he could on his crutch.

The distance to the police station in the municipal building was four blocks, and the group that followed policeman and prisoner grew as it went along. At the second corner Peg Scudder joined the escort. Clamoring voices told him the nature of the trouble. Peg made haste to come abreast of Bert.

"So you beaned him with a cup, did you?"

Bert made no answer.

"Blast me, but I didn't think you had spunk enough for such a trick. What did he do, give you

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 some fresh lip? Why didn't you bend a chair over his knob? That would have rattled him up some. My old man was a great hand at cleaning up a gang with a chair."

Bert's eyes besought the guardian of the law, and Policeman Glynn stuck his club persuasively into Peg's ribs.

"Run along," he commanded. "Nobody sent for you. When we want your advice we'll ask for it."

Peg made haste to drop back among the crowd. The incident was not without its effect on Bert. Bill Harrison had shunned him. Peg Scudder, town bully and loafer, drunkard and general noaccount, saw in his arrest a claim to brotherhood.

A vision of a barred cell came to Bert as he entered the municipal building. Policeman Glynn led him down a small corridor and turned in through a door to the left. A sergeant in uniform was behind a long high desk down at one end and along one wall was a board heavily tacked with circulars advertising the features and histories of criminals wanted in different parts of the country. Bert hastily turned his eyes away from the board.

The sergeant, writing in a big book, lifted his head. "What's the charge, Officer?"

"Assault and battery," said Policeman Glynn.

The words had a sinister sound. Bert hung his head; but not before the sergeant had peered over the top of the high desk and had noted him.

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 "Are you Mr. Quinby's boy? Nice mess you've got yourself into. What was it, street fight?"

"He let go a cup at that fellow who was running the store with him," said the policeman. "Somebody took the lad to Dr. Elman's to get fixed up."

The sergeant reached for a telephone and gave a number. "Dr. Elman? Sergeant Rockwell speaking. How is that fellow who came in to get his head dressed? Doesn't amount to much? Thank you."

"You're a lucky boy," Policeman Glynn said in an undertone.

The sergeant caught the words. "Lucky is right. Suppose you had fractured his skull? That would be nice, wouldn't it? How now, Officer? Is that fellow going to come over from the doctor's office and sign a complaint? All right. Here, Quinby; sit over there on that bench. How about Mr. Quinby, Officer? Does he know anything about this? You'd better go down and tell him."

Bert wet his lips, and walked over to the bench and sat down. His father! A cell lost its terror. He would rather go to a cell than face the meeting that must soon come.

By and by there was a shuffle of feet along the corridor. He steeled himself. But it was Sam, his head bandaged, accompanied by two of the men who had gone with him to Dr. Elman's. The clerk signed a paper. Bert knew it was the com-

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 plaint. There was some talk up at the big desk; he did not hear it. Then Sam went out without looking at him, and he was left alone upon his bench.

A clock on the wall ticked with noisy emphasis. He shifted his position. A shadow seemed to fall across the floor. He looked up. His father, stern and rigid, stood before him.

"Arrested," Mr. Quinby said as though talking to himself. "You've done it this time, haven't you? One thing after another, and now this. A prisoner in a police station. They tell me Sam was lying senseless in the street. Did you do it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Carted through the streets by a policeman with the rabble of the town following." Abruptly the man walked over to the desk and spoke to Sergeant Rockwell. Justice of the Peace Manning, it developed, would sit at eight o'clock that night, and the case would then go to a hearing.

"I'll release him in your custody, Mr. Quinby," the sergeant offered, "if you'll have him here again at that hour."

"Let him stay here," Mr. Quinby said shortly, "and learn his lesson." On the way out he paused an instant before his son. "A nice story to take home to your mother, isn't it?"

There came to Bert, as the minutes passed, the most lonesome feeling that can overwhelm either man or boy—the feeling of having been discarded

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 and deserted. Policeman Glynn came back, made a report at the desk, and paused beside the bench.

"Had any dinner?" he asked.

"No, sir."

"Got any money? I'll send you in a cup of coffee and a sandwich, and you can pay the man when he brings it."

Bert said he was not hungry. Something in Policeman Glynn's gruff bearing told him of the officer's unspoken sympathy. "Will . . . will they send me to jail?" he asked.

"Well, now, I'm not saying you don't deserve it, but I don't see the use of worrying a kid who's plainly sorry for what he's done. The Judge doesn't usually send boys to the county jail."

Some of the load left Bert's heart. The clock said half-past four, and the short winter twilight was turning to night. Three and a half more hours to wait! He fell to thinking of his mother, and for the first time felt the sting of a tear. So that the sergeant might not see this sign of emotion he turned his head away.

And then a familiar voice fell upon his ear.

"Good evening, Sergeant. Have you a boy here named Quin . . ."

Bert jumped to his feet. "Mr. Woods."

The Butterfly Man crossed the room with half a dozen quick strides. "Bert, old man, I'm sorry to see you in a fix like this. I didn't think things would go this far. Bill Harrison saw you ar-

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 rested, and legged it for a telephone to let me know. I was out at the time; he kept after me until I answered. I got the car and came right down."

So that was why Bill had stumped away. "I might have known he wasn't running away from me," Bert said.

"Who? Bill? Bill would never run out on a friend. Now, let's get at the bottom of this. Is Sam seriously hurt?"

"Only a cut on the head."

"That's good to begin with. How did it happen?"

Bert told him the story, beginning with the visit and the proposals of Old Man Clud, and ending with the attack on Sam.

The Butterfly Man's face was grave. "Sam was on his way out of the store?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you hit him from behind."

Bert sighed and, after a moment, dropped his head.

"There, there!" the man said gently. "Forgive me, Bert; but hitting from behind always has a bad ring. I guess you didn't think."

"I didn't think of anything," the boy answered, "except that he was walking out free and leaving me to face everything. It made me wild, and I threw what was in my hand."

"Does your father know?"

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 A nod.

"Has he been in to see you?"

Another nod.

"Wouldn't they let him give bail for you until you have a hearing?"

"He said I could stay here and learn my lesson." Something sullen crept into his words, and their purport was to accuse his father of a grievous crime. Up to this point he had been a penitent, sorry for what he had done, a-tremble as to the outcome, accepting his father's action as no more than he could expect. But Tom Woods' presence, the fact that the man had ridden far to reach him, made the contrast of his father's desertion a bitter and resentful pill. Self-pity, always quick to flower in a boy, pictured him as a martyr to outrageous fortune.

The Butterfly Man, apparently, paid no heed. He fumbled through his pockets and found his pipe and tobacco.

"Bert?" he asked quietly, "did it ever dawn on you that it might be a mighty good thing for you to learn the lesson? You've been hit pretty hard, but you had it coming to you. You've been riding on the edge of a volcano, and at last the volcano has spat fire and you're looking for someone to bind your wounds and tell you you're a poor, abused lamb. This is no time for honey and molasses; this is a time for plain, straight talk. You've been up to your eyes in trouble for months.

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 Why? You think because luck was against you. That's only half the story. You've been in trouble because you threw your father overboard. You're sitting in a police station to-night with a charge over your head because you told the captain of the ship he didn't know the landmarks. You took the wheel and tried to be your own pilot, and you've landed on the rocks."

Coming from Tom Woods, staunch friend and whimsical comrade, the attack was staggering. Bert's confidence of consolation gave way to dismay. Shaken and jarred, he could only stare and try in his bewilderment to reason what had happened. "You're turning against me, too," he said miserably.

"Bosh!" said Tom Woods. "That's baby talk. Nobody went out and dug a hole for you and invited you to fall in. You dug the hole yourself. And you've been a long time digging it. Let's go back to the beginning. When you and Sam started out together, what was in your mind? You saw success. For whom? For yourself. You were going to show people what a great fellow you were. And what were your father's thoughts when he started his business? Did you ever stop to think about that? He was looking years ahead. He was seeing the day when, instead of battling the world for a foothold, you'd find a pinnacle waiting, a tower of success built by his hands all ready for you. Every time he looked

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 at his sign he was thinking of the day when it would read 'Quinby and Son' and he and you would be in there working, planning and achieving together. What did that mean to you? Nothing. You thought so little of it that you wouldn't put your shoulder to the wheel and push when you were needed. He had to fire you and hire an outsider in your place. Did you ever stop to think how he must have felt about that? Sam's desertion angered you so much that you knocked him senseless. Yet you deserted your father. What right have you to whine if he deserts you now?"

Bert, smarting, was stung to angry speech. "Is this what you came to Springham for?"

"You came to me for advice several times. Are you one of those soft fellows that wants only talk that runs their way? Buck up and do some straight thinking. You've come to a point where you've got to think straight. You brought me your troubles; and yet I might move away from here to-morrow and in six weeks forget all about you. You pinned your faith on Sam, and Sam played you for a fool. And the one man who'll be with you all his life, who'll always make your troubles his, who'd risk his life to-morrow to drag you out of danger, was never consulted. That man was your father. In all the world what other man will you find who'll care for you as he cares? And what kind of consideration have you given him?"

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 The boy was silent.

"Who would have a greater desire to see yo succeed? Yet, when Sam broached this service idea, what did you do? One question, one request for advice, and your father could have saved you all the worry you've been through. Of course he knew you were riding toward disaster. I knew it. Even Bill Harrison knew it. But then it was too late. You had closed the door and had shut out your best friend. You told him he wasn't wanted. You ordered him out of your affairs. You told him, in effect, that you valued the judgment of Sam more than all the counsel he could give you. And now you find that Sam's judgment was just about the rottenest egg in the basket. Don't you wish you had gone to your father at the start?"

The boy's lips quivered.

"That wasn't the only time you threw him down, Bert. The day I stepped in to see the store I read a quick finish. What would happen then I didn't know, but I knew you'd need somebody strong enough for you to lean on. I made you promise to go to your father if anything queer turned up. Instead you pushed him aside again and went to Clud. One suggestion then of what was in your mind and he'd have moved heaven and earth to have saved you from the hands of that shark. Ignoring him completely, turning your back upon the salvation he could have brought you, you went out and contracted a debt

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 that he might be called upon to pay. If you had asked him, out of his wisdom he could have steered you into safe channels. You should have asked him. But you didn't do it. You cast aside his protecting arm, and to-night Clud has you in his clutches. To-night you're waiting to stand trial in a police court. To-night your father's at home eating out his heart in grief and disappointment. Don't you wish now that you had gone to him at the start?"

"Yes," said the boy in a shaky whisper.

"Then you've got to go to him the first chance you get and make a manful confession that you've been a fool. You've got to square things and stand right in his eyes. You've got to make him feel that all through the future he'll be able to depend upon you."

"He . . . he'll think I'm saying it just because. . . ."

"Bert," the Butterfly Man broke in gently, "you don't know much about fathers."

"I guess," the boy faltered, "I don't know much about anything."

"If you know that much," Tom Woods said with a return of his old humor, "you're beginning to know a lot. How old are you?"

Bert told him.

"You're in luck. I was thirty before I realized I didn't know anything, and then there was nobody to goto. My dad was gone. Yours is still here.

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 Think that over. I've got an errand or two that will keep me busy for a while."

"You'll be here when. . . ."

"When you face the scratch? Yes; I'll be here. I want to see how certain things are going to break."

Out in Washington Avenue the man turned down the street as though he knew exactly where he was going. He made one pause. . . at a men's furnishing store temporarily in charge of a placid, uninspiring, but dependable clerk. Ten minutes later he mounted a stoop and rang the of a house. A woman opened the door.

"Mrs. Quinby?" he asked.

"Yes." It was plain that she wondered who he might be.

"We are both interested," he said gravely, "in a very fine boy who finds himself in trouble. My name is Thomas Woods. May I come in?"

She held the door wide for him in quick welcome, for his praise of Bert had reached her troubled heart. Up the hall, near the dining room doorway, a harassed man stood and surveyed him.

"Tom Woods! Are you the man who deals in butterflies?"

"Yes. Rather queer business, isn't it?"

"Rather," Mr. Quinby agreed coldly. "Bert has spent quite a bit of time out at your place. Were you one of those who encouraged him in the mad things he's done?"

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 "Don't you think," Tom Woods said, "that you're a little bit late asking that question? You don't know me from the King of Denmark. If I walked into your store to-night and requested you to sell me a suit of clothes on credit, what would you do?"

"I'd demand references. I'd want to know something about you."

"Exactly. But you permitted Bert to stay over night at my place and never inquired what caliber of man I was. I couldn't have one of your suits, but I could have your boy. Isn't it rather late to probe into what my influence over him has been?"

A flush of anger was rising in Mr. Quinby's cheeks. "Do you know anything about what caused this thing to-day?"

"Yes; do you?"

"No."

"You saw him at the police station."

"He didn't tell me. He reserves his confidences for those outside the family."

"Did you," Tom Woods said sharply, "bother to ask him? Great Christopher, don't you know your own son? Is there anything about him that would stamp him as a thug? Something must have happened to fire him enough to commit an assault. What was it? You don't know? You didn't even take the trouble to get his side of the story. You've condemned him without a hearing."

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 "Mary." Mr. Quinby's voice was of ice. "Will you please open the door for the gentleman? He wants to go."

"Just a moment," Tom Woods said quietly. "I do not want to go, but I will go if you insist. I have nothing to gain by this interview. I have always thought that the greatest tragedy in the world is for mothers and daughters, fathers and sons, to drift apart. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred it's such a ghastly, unnecessary blunder. Bert, without meaning to, has let me read a lot between the lines. I knew that you and he were pulling in opposite directions. Often, when the chance arose, I asked him to come to you. He didn't; and the fact that he didn't means that there was something wrong. Who was wrong, you or he? Do you want this thing to goon? My liking for the boy is sincere. There's wonderful stuff in him. I want to see him what he ought to be—his father's pal. But if his father objects to hearing me I can only go my way and wonder why men are sometimes so blind in dealing with the persons they love the most."

All the time he had been speaking Mrs. Quinby's eyes had never left his face. Still looking at him she went down the hall and put out a hand and found her husband's arm.

"Harry!" she said. "He is Bert's friend."

"Stay," said Mr. Quinby after a moment of silence, and led the way into the dining room.

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 There he sat and stared with fixed gaze across the table.

"How did this thing happen?" he asked at last.

"The business had failed," Tom Woods answered. "They were at the end of their rope. Last November they were up against the wall; but Sam said that the Christmas season would put them on their feet and Bert believed him. All they needed, Sam said, was money to tide them over. Bert went out and got the money; but instead of borrowing in the name of the firm, he unthinkingly borrowed in his own name. To-day Sam refused to bear his share of the loss. Sam was on his way out of the store to take a train for the city when Bert, furious at the treachery, threw what he had in his hand. It happened to be a cup."

"You said Bert borrowed money. Whom did he borrow it from?"

"Clud."

"Clud!" Mr. Quinby sprang to his feet. "I told him not to go near Clud. I warned him. And instead of listening to me. . . . It's been that way for months. He's ignored every word I've spoken to him and done as he pleased. I wash my hands of him. Let him take his medicine. Next time, perhaps, he'll heed my words."

"Next time?" The Butterfly Man shook his head. "If you desert him now there may never

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 be a next time. If you fail him now, he may never seek you out again. Can't you see that to-night, sitting in that police station among the utter ruin of his hopes, he's at a crossroads of his life?"

"I see it," said Mrs. Quinby.

Mr. Quinby, after a moment, sighed and sat down. "It seems," he said bitterly, "that a father is not supposed to have any feelings."

"Feelings?" Tom Woods leaned across the table. "He must have feeling and understanding, sympathy and wisdom, patience and faith. There isn't a bigger job in the world than being a father, and there isn't a job that is so often slighted. If a man has a business that's going bad he'll sit up all night with it, plan and scheme for ways and means to put it on its feet, stick to it through years of discouragement, and call no effort too great that offers a chance for success. But let his boy kick over the traces and his patience evaporates, his faith wabbles, his sympathy dies, his understanding clouds, and he says, 'I wash my hands of you.' He doesn't say this to his business; yet if his business failed he might resurrect it. But failure with his son might be failure forever.

"Great Christopher! what have you been thinking of? Father and son live in different worlds. The man sees life through the dearly-bought wisdom of experience; the boy sees only a fairyland in which everything is honest, and true, and pos-

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 sible. The father expects the boy to come over to his world, and the boy can't do it. It is the father who must go to the boy's world. He must make himself part of it and try to understand it. And yet how many do it? Did you?"

"Didn't I?" Mr. Quinby asked.

"You did not. Were you ever a boy? Can't you go back to your own boyhood and marvel at some of the wild ideas that came to you? This idea of business came to Bert, and he followed it. And what then? Did you stop to think that, after all, his was only a boy's brain? No; you expected him to see the situation just as you saw it. Instead of sitting down with an air of man to man and showing him in black and white, with pencil and paper, how impossible it all was, you adopted an air of injured dignity and drove him into a shell of silence and distrust. Even after he was committed to the plan, after the store was open, he was still your son—the most precious thing you own in the world. A chasm had formed between you. Did you try to bridge it? No. You never went into his place, never showed any interest in it, never gave any sign of good will, never prepared for the day when, the timbers of the crazy, flimsy, mistaken structure down about his ears, he would be glad to come to you as to a haven.

"And when the day of disaster came, he didn't come to you. You had predicted failure, and had

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 sat back and had waited for it so that you could prove to him that you had known what was best. A man matching his wisdom against that of a boy! Put yourself in his place. Failure was the last thing he wanted to own up to. You had fashioned things in his mind so that he felt he could not come to you with a manly admission that he had made a mistake, but had to come with none of his pride left. He was too sensitive, stubborn and high-spirited for that. He took a chance on winning out and went to Clud, and Clud squeezed him. When the crash came he found that Clud had used him for an easy mark, and that Sam had played him false. And to-night, sitting alone in the police station, he hasn't even got you.

"You should be there with him. Did you ever read the parable of the Prodigal Son? It's a father's job to stand by, to help a boy over the rough places, to follow him afar if he wanders, to keep a guiding hand on the elbow even when the elbow is pulled away, to bind up his wounds when he's hurt. Of course he's going to make mistakes. He's going to aggravate you and get your blood boiling; and there will be times you'll feel that you'd like to beat sense into him with a club, and that you've failed at every turn, and that the whole game isn't worth the candle. A tough job? Yes. A thankless job? Often. But you've got to stay with it until some day you lead him to sanity and wisdom, until some day you can take

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 your hand away and let him walk alone secure in the knowledge that his head is level and his thinking straight. That is the hour of reward, for in that hour he knows what your help has meant.

"And you talk of washing your hands of him. Have you ever heard boys say 'My old man has no use for me?' Great Christopher, man, suppose he washes his hands of you?"

The room fell into silence. A heightened color had come into Mrs. Quinby's cheeks. Her lips were moving without sound. When her husband glanced at her, a look of thoughtfulness deepened on his face.

"When does that Clud note fall due?" he asked at last.

"Monday," Tom Woods told him.

"Has Clud been to see Bert?"

"To-day."

"Did Clud threaten him?"

"Yes."

Mr. Quinby's hands opened and closed as though they itched to crush something. "How big is the note?"

"One hundred and seventy-five dollars."

The man took a check book from his pocket and wrote out a check for the amount. "Woods?" he asked, "will you do me a favor? Will you see that Clud gets this? If I go into his office, I'm liable to do him harm." He arose, leaned over his wife's shoulder, and kissed her on the

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 cheek. "Everything's all right," he said; "I'm going to Bert."

"Good luck," said the Butterfly Man.

Mr. Quinby smiled an uncertain smile. "Thanks to you," he said, "I think it will be good luck . . . now."

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T would have been an insult to the hair-splitting technicalities of law to have called Justice of the Peace Manning a judge. Yet "Judge" was the title Springham gave him. However, the town suffered no illusions. It never believed that he knew much law, and still less did he believe it himself. A dignified jurist, sitting on the bench of a county or a district court, would have been amazed at his processes. He was not above eating an apple while a case was undergoing trial, and often he sat in his shirt sleeves and called complainants and defendants by their given names. Occasionally, when pompous lawyers from the city came before him to defend some one who had enough money to engage highpriced legal talent, the visiting lights gnashed their teeth and groaned in impotent fury at the way he swept aside legal formalities and got down to bedrock. For Judge Manning was interested only in getting at the truth, and it made no difference to him how he got at it. Springham was satisfied with his methods, and reëlected him time and again with monotonous regularity.

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 At half-past seven the judge came to the municipal building and entered the room, across the hall from the police station, where he held court. He was followed by a motley collection of idlers, loiterers and curiosity seekers, eager for whatever excitement the night's trials might produce. Peg Scudder brought up the rear, wet from the rain but apparently unmindful of discomfort. He saw Bert on his bench, put his tawny head in through the doorway, took note of the sergeant, and withdrew across the hall to the court room.

Bert's heart began to throb with apprehension. In another half-hour the charge against him would be read, and he would have to face it. The Butterfly Man had said that he would be back. The boy glanced at the clock. Twenty-five of eight! A nervous dread shook him. Suppose Tom Woods was delayed.

The sergeant, gathering up a batch of papers, stepped across the hallway to the court room and left him alone. He was cramped from his long confinement on the bench, and the tremor in his nerves made him restless. The windows at the front end of the station looked down upon the street, and he walked the length of the room and stood gazing at the wet pavement. At any other time he might have thought the dripping January scene dreary; but now the outdoors represented a freedom from which the law had torn him and held him pending judgment.

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 A man, shielded under an umbrella, came down the street and mounted the municipal building steps.

"Tom Woods," Bert said in relief. Then the umbrella came down and revealed his father's face.

This time all fear of meeting his father was engulfed by a more powerful emotion. A feeling that he had never known before—a desire to tell his faults in a torrent of words and throw himself upon his father's strength and mercy, swept over him. He was already halfway down the room toward the door when Mr. Quinby came into the station.

"Dad!" he said. "Dad, I. . . ."

"There, Bert." His father had him by the hand. "Everything's going to be straightened out. Iknow. We're going to wipe the slate clean and start afresh, and nothing like this will ever happen again."

He had not expected to be met like this; but the Butterfly Man had said, "You don't know fathers." The comfort of it ran through him and gave him strength.

"Being arrested is only part of it, Dad. You don't know it all. I went to Mr. Clud. . . ."

"And borrowed $175. I know all about that. You can forget Clud. He's been paid. That's done."

"You paid him," Bert said, and stared as

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 though seeing his father in a light that had never shone over him before.

"Are you surprised?" the man asked. "Did you think I'd leave you in a trap like that and not come to your aid? We must have gone far off the road, Bert, to have come to such a pass."

"I was the one who got off the road," the boy protested miserably. "It was all my fault. I should have gone to you. . . ."

"It was both our faults. We saw things from different angles. I probably expected too much from you; you didn't have the courage' to expect enough from me, and I couldn't have given it to you, probably, because I didn't understand. To-morrow, the next day, every day, I want you to know that you can always come to me if you need help or advice."

"And if I begin to make a fool of myself," Bert choked, "you just grab me and put me right."

"I'll try to," said Mr. Quinby. "With Clud out of the way, how do you stand? Any other debts?"

"Oh!" Bert had forgotten, and dismay seized him. "We signed a year's lease on the store and it had six more months to run."

"At how much a month?"

"Twenty-two dollars and a half."

"That makes $135." The man winced a bit and then, remembering, caught himself. "We'll charge it up to experience. I've learned some-

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 thing to-day, and so have you. It's cheap at the price."

Bert, speaking with respect and finality, refused to recognize any such bargain. "You pulled me out," he said, "but it isn't fair to make you stand it all. I've got to pay you back. I'll come to the store on Saturdays and help around. I'll work there all during vacation. Whatever I'm worth can go toward Mr. Clud and the lease money."

"It isn't necessary, Bert. I told you a moment ago some things are cheap at the price. I'm not a Clud."

"It was my mistake," Bert said with a new gravity, "and I ought to make good."

"Half, then," Mr. Quinby said suddenly. "This is a partnership, and I demand a partner's right. We'll split it."

Partnership! Bert thrilled. That was different. Quinby and Son! "Half, then," he agreed.

At that moment Sergeant Rockwell appeared in the doorway and told them that Judge Manning was ready to hold court.

Walking side by side, father and son crossed the hall. Bert was conscious of a sea of faces staring at him from the spectators' benches. Then the mass of faces faded out and only two remained—Bill Harrison, back toward the rear, plainly concerned, and Tom Woods in about the middle of the court room. The Butterfly Man

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 gave him a quick, almost imperceptible, nod of encouragement.

Bert found a vacant place on the first bench and slid into a seat. Back of him arose a quick murmur of voices; his ears burned. Seated behind a high desk, Judge Manning held an animated discussion with Policeman Glynn. Promptly at eight o'clock the judge rapped sharply with a gavel, and as though by magic the murmur of voices ceased.

"This court," the judge announced, "is now in session."

The first case had to do with a man who had not cleaned snow and ice from his sidewalk.

"Any excuse?" the judge demanded.

The man had none.

"Two dollars fine. After this hire a boy to shovel your walk for seventy-five cents. It's cheaper, and may save somebody a broken leg. Next case, the State against Fred Ralston, charge reckless driving. Officer Glynn, you made the arrest. Be sworn."

Officer Glynn took oath to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Ralston, it appeared, had driven his automobile up on the sidewalk, and had narrowly missed hitting a woman and a child.

"Well, Fred," said the judge, "how about this? Was the road so narrow you couldn't see it?"

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 "No, Judge. A fellow called to me and I turned my head to see who he was. Next thing I knew I was climbing over the curb."

"How long have you been driving a car?"

"Two years."

"And don't know enough yet to watch the road? How long were you looking the other way?"

"Not more than five seconds."

"Then I'm afraid we'll have to make it two dollars a second. A fine of ten dollars may make you more careful in the future. Next case, Samuel Sickles against Herbert Quinby, charge assault and battery."

Bert stood up and found that his knees were seized with a strange fit of trembling. It was only a few steps from his bench to the railing in front of the judge's desk, but the distance seemed to sap him and to leave him weak. A sweat broke out along his forehead; the shuffling of the spectators seemed to come to his ears as from a great distance. And then he felt an arm pressed against his—his father's arm.

Judge Manning stared down from his seat of power and looked at the complaint in doubt. "How about this, Harry," he said. "You're not mentioned in these papers. Are you mixed up in this case?"

"No, your Honor," Mr. Quinby answered. "My boy is in trouble and I'm here to see him through it."

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 "Well, where's the complainant? Samuel Sickles!"

No answer.

"Sickles, step forward."

But no one came forward in answer to the summons.

Judge Manning ran an irritable hand through his straggly wisp of beard. "Who took this complaint? You, Sergeant? Did the complainant know he was to be here at eight o'clock? Did you tell him?"

"I told him the time," Sergeant Rockwell answered, "and he repeated it after me."

"Judge," piped a voice; "he won't be here to-night. He's gone away."

The judge adjusted his glasses and peered down the court room. "Who said that? Stand up and let me get a look at you."

A man stood up, a bit abashed by this sudden prominence into which he had been thrust.

"Oh! It's you, Dave Webb. What do you know about this Sickles?"

"Judge, I was at the station and saw him get on the 7:09 train for the city. He was carrying two suit cases."

Judge Manning slapped the desk with a show of impatience. "What do people mean by making complaints and not coming here when they're wanted? You're sure you know this Sickles, Dave?"

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 "Yes, Judge. I bought things in Mr. Quinby's store when he was clerking there."

In any formal court of law a scene such as this would have been impossible. But Springham was used to Judge Manning's methods. Arraignments in his court were something of family affairs, and information was accepted from whatever source it could be obtained. The judge leaned forward and surveyed the boy who stood before the bar of justice.

"Bert, this fellow was a partner of yours, wasn't he?"

"Yes, sir." The surprising turn of events had bewildered the boy. "We were in business together."

"And you had a row. Huh! Strikes me that a lad of your age could be better employed helping his father than in trying to go it on his own. The complainant not having appeared there is nothing for me to do but to dismiss the case."

"Come, Bert," said his father.

It was the man who led the way from the court room. Bert's hand clung to his sleeve. Free! It seemed too much of a miracle to be true. Every worry swept aside! A wave of intoxicating relief ran through his veins. His father pushed open the municipal building door, and the night air, rain-soaked and fresh, came gratefully to his nostrils. Never had he Known that the outdoors could smell so sweet.

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 The Butterfly Man came hurrying out after them. "Bert," he said, "I'm glad it turned out this way for your sake. I imagine Sam got thinking it over, figured he'd cut a sorry figure when the whole story came out, and decided to drop the complaint. As a matter of fact the person who should have had to face trial to-night is Clud."

"Did you see him?" Mr. Quinby asked.

The Butterfly Man's eyelids drooped a bit. "I saw him. I doubt if he has a soul, but if he has I think I blistered it. I had him squirming, anyway."

Bert, astounded, stared at his father. "Do you know Mr. Woods?"

"Know him?" Mr. Quinby smiled. "We're old friends. In fact I think he's coming to Springham in a couple of Sundays to have dinner with us."

"Glad to," the Butterfly Man answered promptly. "By the way, Bert, does your mother burn what she cooks?"

"No, sir."

"That's fine. That will be a real treat. I'm getting so I burn my food every day. And then, in the spring, your father and your mother are coming out to see my collection of beauties."

"They'll see something worth while," Bert said loyally. Yet he was puzzled. There was something queer some place. Of course, if his father said Mr. Woods was an old friend. . . . He

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 shook his head. The problem was too deep for him. He was content to accept the situation as it stood.

Five minutes later the Butterfly Man was on his way back to the cabin, and Bert and his father went on to the store. Mr. Quinby telephoned home the result of the trial. He was at the instrument a long time, and when he came away he was humming under his breath. It was a long time since Bert had heard him sing to himself.

"You know," he said, "I'm hungry. I didn't have any supper to-night."

The mention of food made Bert conscious of an internal hollow. "Gosh! I haven't eaten since morning."

"You haven't? Why. . . . Oh! Too worried to eat. Wait around a few minutes. I haven't been in here much this afternoon; I want to see how things have been running. We'll go up the street to the chop house and have a bite . . . sort of party all our own."

The boy walked down toward the front of the store. Bill Harrison's face was pressed against the window, and the hand not needed for the crutch waved a frantic summons. Bert hurried out to him.

"It was all right, wasn't it," Bill asked, "to send for Tom Woods?"

"It was the best thing that ever happened," Bert told him. "I don't know what would have

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 popped if he hadn't come. He made me see things."

"Oh, Tom Woods can always do that. I was on my way to the store to tell you something when I saw Sam come tumbling out."

"What were you going to tell me?"

"I've sold one."

"Sold one? One what?"

"A drawing. I sent a butterfly picture to a little nature magazine and this morning the editor sent me a check for a dollar. He wants me to send him some more."

Bill's face was radiant with happiness. His door had opened and had given him a glimpse of a promised land. Bert was no less pleased and thrilled.

"That makes you a real artist, doesn't it, Bill?"

"Well. . . ." Bill's voice came down to its humorous drawl. "I wouldn't say exactly that." All at once the drawl was gone. "But I'm coming," he said; "I'm coming."

The words, the tone in which they were uttered, had a heroic ring. After Bill had left Bert stood there on Washington Avenue unaware that the rain had ceased and that the storm was over. Coming! That was it. Working in the right channels, gaining a step each day, playing fair with those who had your interests at heart, winning a reputation as one who held his head and could not be stampeded.

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 Mr. Quinby came from the store. "Ready, Bert?"

"Coming," he said, with the same ring in his voice that had been in Bill's, and went forward, his head up, to meet his father.

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text:
The Raveled Sleeve

O,” SAID Carberry Stark, reflectively, lowering the revolver, “I don't think we had better settle it that way, after all.” The young man opposite stared at him with life coming back into his face.

Lucrezia Stark was very beautiful. Half Italian, born near the toe of the boot of Italy where the sun sinks into the stones of old palaces like a dye, her skin had the pallor and texture of a camellia-bud, her hair was black as the coat of a black stallion, her mouth young and wise. The knight in the Morte D'Arthur who, seeing a raven light upon a field of new-fallen snow, and blood upon that snow, swore never to quit his quest until he had found a woman with skin as white as that white, lips red as that red, hair black as that black, might, beholding Lucrezia, have called himself quits with God.

Those who are interested in such things as the beauty and pleasantness of women admitted enviously that Carberry Stark had never driven a better bargain in his life than when he married Lucrezia—and yet Stark was known as a man successful in bargains wherever bargains are made. Many mothers of marriageable daughters were careful to remark that, rich or not rich, they wouldn't have their darlings marry a man as old as Carberry Stark, and with his reputation—not for anything—and, nevertheless, regarded the aforesaid daughters with an arid eye when the announcement of the marriage appeared.

For one thing, Carberry Stark was a little man—a grim little man. They had called him, somewhat scoffingly, “The Pint-Size Plunger” when he first began—later the nickname had changed to “Hagenbeck” Stark; for, among the bigger, softer men who were his rivals, he moved with the unerring dominance of a skilful trainer disciplining a herd of performing elephants.

He had started out as a gambler—a faro-dealer said some—and now, though his counters were mines and railroads and the wheat of the world, he was still a gambler, though on a heroic scale. Two things he had preserved from the first, his emotionless stare in victory or defeat, and his boast that he had always given the other man at least an even chance. “But, hell,” as one of the men he had broken remarked disgustedly, “an even chance with Stark in the street is worth just about as much as an even chance with Houdini to get out of a pair of handcuffs. You don't know how he does it—all you know is you don't. Which was more or less true.

He must have made a rather scary husband. At least everybody said so—and everybody is so apt to be right. A beautiful young thing like Lucrezia—and that grim little man. “I'd just as soon marry a porcupine!” said Mrs. Trimble with a shiver—but then Mrs. Trimble had three marriageable daughters. Mrs. Trimble so seldom realized that a man may be able to hold a woman to him by other ties than those of money or youth. Nor had Mrs. Trimble ever studied Lucrezia's heredity.

Nevertheless, it may be admitted at once that, in marrying Lucrezia, for the first time in his life Carberry Stark had hardly given himself an even chance. A man who marries beauty twenty years younger than himself seldom does. No, we are not talking of the Warrens, whom you know, and whose home-life is so ideal in spite of Ted's being fifty and Elsie thirty, but of the usual thing. The gamble appealed to him, doubtless—unkind people said that he was born with a roulette-ball instead of a heart. But the gamble seemed to be going well enough, when Harvey Verity was shuffled into the pack.

Harvey was pleasant in his twenties—very pleasant indeed. When he rented the big place next to Starkwood on Long Island, he made an agreeable neighbor. He was blond and ruddy and tall—the best of the North in body as Lucrezia was the best of the South. Together, they made a striking couple. They were often together—for Harvey Verity Senior had once been a partner of Carberry Stark's.

The contrast to Carberry Stark was rather unfair: between the two of them, he faded to nothing but a grim little smile—the gnome that held the horses of the proper prince and princess. But if Stark felt that contrast, he never showed it—and always made Harvey a welcome guest in his dry way. Perhaps he had grown too sure of himself in the daily contest with Fate—men do. In any event that happened which was bound to happen, given the conditions. Harvey and Lucrezia from being thrown together fortuitously, became more and more drawn together—youth going to youth—and after not such a lengthy period, Harvey, at least, discovered himself in love with his neighbor's wife.

He made the usual mental gestures of a gentleman in his position—and Harvey was a gentleman, let it be said. He put her out of his mind and she came back—he tried to avoid meeting her; but, after all, they were friends as well as neighbors, and it is a little difficult to go to a man old enough to have begotten you and say, “Look here—I can't come over to dinner any more—I've fallen in love with your wife.” He tried to run away, but he didn't run very far or very long. In fact, he acted with a certain lack of originality that is rather common—and Harvey's kind of love feeds most easily upon just that kind of infirmly attempted resistance. He was not a deliberately dishonorable young man—but he did love Lucrezia. And, as the days passed, he loved her more and more.

His last attempt was to shut up his place in the country temporarily. But then the Starks invited him down for week-ends, and he fiddled with his principles and came. It was on one of these week-ends that the crisis came. A summer night, after dinner, on the porch, when Carberry had gone into his study for a moment to get some cigars, and the moon was a thin curved bangle pinned glitteringly to the sky—and Harvey was kissing Lucrezia and holding her in his arms.

It wasn't more than five minutes before Carberry came back, walking with a loud tread for so light a man, and when he appeared in the doorway his wife and his friend were composed and distant enough. But five minutes is quite long enough in which to make a girl a good many desperate promises, when one is young.

The rest of the evening wore out in talk chiefly sustained by an unusually loquacious Carberry. As soon as she could, Lucrezia announced that she was going to bed.

They bade her good night and sat smoking for a while in silence. After a time, Harvey knocked off his ash and said he thought he'd better go up too—he was staying the night.

“Want a-nightcap?” said Carberry, with casual hospitality. “Come into the study a minute—don't generally need a nightcap to put me to sleep—but this evening”

He left the sentence trailing, and rose. Harvey followed him unwillingly. He would have given a good deal to be able to refuse the proffered drink, but—could Carberry have seen? One never could be quite sure how much Carberry saw or didn't see with those cold marbles of eyes. And, thinking of that—and Lucrezia—Harvey didn't quite dare.

When they had reached the study—“Sit down,” said Carberry, with a friendly wave of his hand. Harvey hesitated, and sat. The next moment the door was locked behind them, the key in Carberry's pocket—and Harvey was looking into the black, round ring at the muzzle of a revolver that Carberry with catlike quickness had plucked from a drawer of his desk.

A little wheel somewhere inside of Harvey seemed to jolt and stop. “What the dev” he began hoarsely.

“Oh, hush!” said Carberry, dispassionately. “What's the use? The porch was well lighted—considering.”

“If you think” began Harvey again.

But, “I don't think. I know,” said Carberry, quite unmoved. “Don't be silly. I saw quite plainly.”

Harvey exhaled a long sigh. “All right, then,” he said, rather decently on the whole. “You saw. All right. If you want to shoot—go ahead.”

After a while, “Why don't you shoot then, damn you?” said Harvey, tormented a trifle beyond his powers, for the little black ring still pointed straight at his heart, and still Carberry had not replied. Another pause came, that seemed ages, while a clock ticked.

Then, “No,” said Carberry Stark reflectively, lowering the revolver. “I don't think we had better settle it that way after all.”

He laid the revolver carefully on the desk within easy reach, but no longer directly ominous, and sat down in the desk-chair opposite Harvey. “How long?” he said.

“Ever since I first saw your wife,” said Harvey, believing it thoroughly. “But”

“H'm,” said Carberry. 'Yes. I believe you. Yes.”

He leaned forward a little in his chair.

“You are—very much in love with Lucrezia?” he said, the words coming slowly. “Die for her I suppose—all that—yes?”

Harvey flushed. But the man had the right. “Yes,” he said.

“And—Lucrezia?” said Carberry, sketching a meaningless pattern in the air.

“Yes. She does,” said Harvey, firmly, though in his heart of hearts he was not quite sure. That moment on the porch—perhaps he had only swept her off her feet—she was young. Whether it would have been the same in the sunlight—how could he tell? But proverb admits the fairness of all things in love or war—and this was both.

“H'm,” said Carberry in a flat voice. “I wonder. If I were quite convinced....” He picked up the revolver again.

“That'll make a noise, you know,” said Harvey, oddly.

“Yes—it would make a noise,” said Carberry laying it down. “But, nevertheless, there is only one way out of this—unless you give me your word to leave for—Kamchatka—tomorrow—say”

He went on. “Understand—I do not intend to shoot you—if I shoot you—merely because I happened to—find you—kissing my wife. Life goes deeper than a single kiss—and that would be a little disproportionate, even for me. Besides—I don't quite believe you when you say she loves you—yet. We have been married some time, Verity—and I know Lucrezia. She has faults, but she can't conceal. If she loved you as you imply she does—she could not conceal it—from me at least. No. But I do think this—I think you could make her love you.” (He beat down Harvey's exultant exclamation with a motion of his hand.) “Yes, I think you could—in time. It is natural—you are young and personable—she is young—I am older—well But I do not intend you shall, Verity, while I live!” (And his voice rang sharp). “Lucrezia is mine while I live, Verity—and what I have I hold!”

He leaned forward again. “Will you give me your word to leave for—Kamchatka—tomorrow, Verity—with all that implies?”

Harvey looked at him steadily. “No,” he said.

“Then,” said Carberry, sighing, “there is only that one way out.”

He took the revolver and went to a closet in the wall. Harvey watched him, fascinated, as he mixed two glasses of whisky-and-soda, came back, and set them down on the table. Then he produced a little paper spill from his pocket, and quite openly divided its powdery contents between the two glasses. Then he pushed one over to Harvey. “Bottoms up!” he said.

Harvey took the glass with reluctant fingers. Carberry sighed. “No—it isn't poison,” he said. “I assure you it isn't. You are perfectly at liberty to exchange glasses with me if you wish.” Then, seeing Harvey still hesitated, “I assure you it isn't poison—but, of course, if you prefer—there is always the other alternative” and he tapped the revolver.

After an instant of furious thought, Harvey took up the glass and drank—gingerly at first, and then long, for he needed the liquor. He even felt a little ashamed of his suspicions—the powder in both glasses had been obviously the same and Carberry was sipping with every appearance of enjoyment.

“So,” said Carberry, when both glasses were drained to the bottom. “Now,” and from the drawer where the revolver had lain, he produced an ordinary hypodermic syringe and laid it on the desk.

“What's that?” said Harvey, clearing his throat.

“Death,” said Carberry, smiling. “A wise man always keeps easy death very close at hand. You see that colorless stuff in it? Yes—it's filled and ready. I always have it ready. There.”

“You mean to say” said Harvey, aghast.

“I mean to say,” said Carberry, picking his words, “that that is death. Employ it—and you die—quite painlessly—within a few hours. It also has the advantage that almost any ordinary doctor will diagnose heart disease. Now do you see?”

“No,” said Harvey, shivering.

“Well,” said Carberry, “you see—I always like to give a man an even chance. They called me 'Even Chance' once—out in the West. And I have always been somewhat proud of that reputation. The difficulty, Verity, between you and me, can only be solved by one of two things—your death or mine. Well—there is death—and here, as you perceive are we.”

“But I don't understand!” cried Harvey, desperately.

“You will,” said Carberry, sighing. “I could have shot you, Verity—and done it with as little compunction as when I have shot the head from a rattlesnake. But I prefer to give you an even chance for—life—and, well—Lucrezia—I suppose. I would have fought you with my bare hands till one of us died, had I been able. But you are twenty years younger and ten times stronger. I would be no match for you. With revolvers we would be equal—but there is the noise, as you say, and the scandal, too. I don't like noise. So I shall put this aside for a moment,” and he pushed the revolver a little away from him.

“Now. This desk is wide as you perceive—very wide. I take death” and he picked up the syringe, “and put it so, between us—quite out of reach of both of us, when we sit. It is midnight now. The drink I shared between us contained a sedative—a sleep-maker. It should act in an hour. Till then we sit—and wait. You see?”

“Yes,” said Harvey with dawning horror.

“You see. Good. We sit here—it is late—time to go to bed. We are both about equally tired. You have been out playing golf—I've been working hard. The normal need of our bodies for sleep has been a good deal increased by the action of the sedative. But we sit here—and wait—and try to keep from going to sleep—till the body of one of us rebels and he can try no longer. Then—the other—the winner” and with his hands he made the gesture of one inserting the needle of a syringe into a sleeping companion's arm. “That's all.”

“Look here, though” said Harvey, defiantly, but Carberry went on.

“Neat, isn't it? No noise—no fuss. One of us simply dies of—heart disease—in his chair. The survivor unlocks the door, carries whoever dies upstairs to his room, if he so prefers, and goes to bed himself with a clear conscience. You can see the simplicity of the explanations. An even chance” he mused. “Yes—even better than an even chance for you—for I am older and accustomed to going to bed at eleven.”

“But—God, man” said Harvey frantically, and stopped, for Carberry's eyes had again traveled lovingly toward the revolver.

“You accept?” said Carberry.

“What else can I do?” said Harvey bitterly.

Carberry nodded. “Sensible man. Oh, one moment” he paused. “I keep the revolver here—within reach. You're young and impetuous, you know—it's merely in case you should get tired waiting and grab”

“And what guarantee have I that you won't grab?”

“Merely my word,” said Carberry with his face like steel.

He glanced at the clock. “Twelve-fifteen. Our vigil commences. By one, we shall be sleepy—by two—ah well—I have often wondered just how long a man could go without sleep—sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care—you know the quotation—tired nature's bath—all the rest of it”

“Talking to keep yourself awake?” said Harvey sneeringly.

“That might work both ways. No. From now on, I keep silence—more or less. One last word—should I be the one to fall asleep—I should wait at least five minutes if I were you before you—give me the coup-de-grace. The action of the sedative can be resisted, but once the brain has succumbed to it for five full minutes—well”

He fell silent and there was no sound in the room but the tick of the clock. Harvey sank back in his chair, then, remembering, sat up stiff. He thought he saw a smile cross Carberry's face and vanish.

Keep awake. Keep awake. For how long?

It was all so unreal, this. So damned unreal.

Carberry sat in his chair, like a mummy of himself, without stirring. But his eyes were open. Harvey tried to read those depths, but he could read nothing.

Keep awake. Think of things to keep awake. Quotations or something.

Sleep. Sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care. Sleep that—no, no—mustn't think of that now.

But how long?

Twelve-thirty now.

He lost himself in thoughts of Lucrezia. Yes, he loved Lucrezia. Lucrezia was marvelous. The rise of her throat—the play of her fragile hands. Worth starving for—worth dying for—killing for. Even if he came to her—by this—he would not repent. She was wonderful. Wonderful.

And then, when you came to think of it, it was logical enough, this. After all—in older times—such a situation could only have been settled by combat to the death. A different kind of combat, true—perhaps an easier kind than this deadly duel of silences—but in its essentials the same. Only men had grown too civilized, of late, to duel for the women they loved. Well, he was not too civilized.

He had been willing to take any other way out that did not mean giving up all hope of Lucrezia forever, hadn't he? If this duel was strange and ghastly—Carberry had planned it—not he. Forced into it now, he would win; he would outlast Carberry, He was stronger than Carberry—must be—he must outlast him. If he didn't—he quivered, almost feeling the sting of that needle in his wrist.

Lucrezia—Lucrezia

One o'clock.

But it was more than even Lucrezia now—it was life—naked life itself, he realized with a jerk. That hadn't seemed real before—but, now, minute by minute, with each tick of the clock as his eyes crawled back and back to that stiff, unsleeping enemy, across the desk from him, it grew more and more terribly real. God—if he fell asleep—for five minutes only—he would never wake from that sleep—he would be dead—dead as that crushed mosquito on the blotter—and he had never felt more alive—more desirous of life. He shuddered, seeing himself stretched out upon a bed with his eyes closed stiffly and his loose hands colder than wax—forever—no! He had not meant to kill Carberry at first, not really meant it, even if he won—but now—he must kill Carberry or perish. He must kill Carberry. Fear drove the fact into his brain like a nail. His eyelids drooped for an instant—he felt drowsy—God—and he pressed his nails into his hands. There—that was better—much better.

Two o'clock.

He stole a glance at Carberry. Carberry had hardly moved his position in the last two hours, but his eyes were wide and alert. Damn him! What was he made of—rubber and steel? For a moment the horrible suspicion came to Harvey that Carberry had not played fair with the sedative—but no, he had seen him measure it out into both the glasses himself.

It wasn't fair, all the same. Carberry might talk—but everybody knew that a man of Carberry's age could do with less sleep. Much less sleep. And he, Harvey, was tired—very tired—the eighteen holes of golf—the good dinner—the whisky-and-soda—the drug. He needed sleep—needed it. His body clamored for sleep. Clamored—and was beaten down.

He was biting his fingers. As long as it still hurt when he bit his fingers—he was all right.

The syringe glittered on the desk. Damnable little machine that winked at him like an eye—like Death's pale eye—whenever the light struck it. But, thank God, the lights were on!

Sleep. Deep sleep. Deep sweet sleep. Sleep that knits up the—no!

Three o'clock. His heavy eyes rested on Carberry anew. Ah-h-h-h!

Carberry's face had changed—grown quieter. His eyes were still open but his breathing came softer, deeper; his hands were relaxing. Harvey glared at him—made his eyes move away—glared again—his lips going back.

The parchment eyelids of Carberry fluttered—steadied—fluttered again—again. The hands grew limper. Slowly, as if pressed together by an inexorable weight, the eyelids drooped—were closing—recovered again—were closing—definitely—were closed

“No, not quite yet!' said Carberry, tapping the revolver. Harvey, rising out of his chair with gradual, terrible stealth, fell back into it again, shaken all over—his nerves jangling like broken glass threads. Carberry smiled.

The man was a devil. And yet—he must last him out.

Pretty soon, dawn would come—a blue blur at the window. Then things mightn't be so bad. But till then—till then.

Pretty soon. In—three hours? Oh Lord God, sooner than that! Oh, let it be sooner than that! Pretty soon—pretty soon.

Think of Lucrezia. Fight it off by thinking of Lucrezia. But how?

Lucrezia was a pretty woman—a pretty woman. Her hair was black, yes—and her lips very red and sweet. He loved her, yes. But what was Lucrezia—what was any woman on God's earth—to this warm tide that rose from the floor, slowly, resistlessly—this warm and comfortable tide that soaked through muscle and will till they were soft—and at rest—and soft—and soft? What mattered Lucrezia—what mattered even death—as long as one could let go for an instant and rest—rest on feathers—on down—on the fleece of a cloud—on warm and buoyant air? Sleep was all that mattered—dear sleep—comfortable sleep—or not even that, but just sleep. Sleep. Slee

His head jerked up from his breast with a wrench like the parting of body and soul—his staring eyes saw Carberry's hand half way across the desk to the syringe. As he stared, the hand withdrew. A dry, tearing sob came into his throat. “Oh God!” he said.

“Getting sick of it?” said Carberry, equably. “Lots of time, you know, still.” His voice was natural enough, but to Harvey it sounded like a record played on a bad phonograph, far away. He glared at the grinning clock face on the mantel. Four-twenty-three.

From then on it was not Harvey but a red-eyed animal that made strange little sucking noises in its throat, and kept rasping one hand with a ring on the other hand till the blood came that watched the clock from Harvey's side of the desk. A desperate but stubborn animal whose head rolled on its shoulders like a drunken man's; the every pore of whose body ached for sleep—but whose eyes kept open—open—in a fixed and dreadful stare. Lucrezia was gone from its mind as if she had never existed—everything had gone from its mind but a single desire and a single fear.

It moaned, occasionally, in the depths of its torment, and when it moaned, Carberry observed it with a slight curl of humor to his mouth. Once he yawned, elaborately, and the animal was torn with unspeakable anguish. But he did not yawn more than once—there was too much danger in yawning—for it was nearly six o'clock now, and Carberry, having played quite fair with the sedative, was very near the breaking-point himself.

The dawn had come in through the window unnoticed by either. It was light—and then, soon, it was morning—and there were noises of people stirring in the house. But still Carberry watched and the red-eyed animal fought ferociously and with agony its losing fight. When sleep overcame it at last, it was as crushing as the blow of a mallet, and as sudden. The head dropped abruptly—the limbs sprawled—the fight was lost.

Carberry waited until he was entirely sure. Then he yawned again, for he could now, and stretched his arms. His own weariness had come upon him, now, in the instant of triumph—come upon him well-nigh overpoweringly—but he gestured, and put it by. He rose and switched off the electric lights. His legs were lead and he walked like a marionette, but he could walk. He unlocked the door softly with the key that had lain in his pocket. Then he tiptoed around the desk and stood for a moment looking down at Harvey with a small and secret smile.

A step came along the hall toward the study—a step that Carberry knew. His smile broadened and, bending down, he pricked the sprawling, defeated body of the red-eyed animal lightly and swiftly upon the wrist with an innocuous pin, jumped back, and stood waiting.

The animal leaped awake—and up—and to its feet—and was a man again—but a man with blind, unseemly fear bitten into his face and his nerve as utterly broken to bits as ground corn.

“Oh, God—God—God—God—God,” the man muttered incoherently. Then his eyes flew to the table, where the syringe lay unused, and then back to Carberry, who, smilingly, extended the pin for his inspection.

“Oh!” said the man in a horrible voice, and slumping back into his chair began to weep. At which moment, Lucrezia pushed open the door and entered the room, smiling, dressed for the morning.

The man in the chair saw her. She came forward, stretching out her hand as if to greet him, and Carberry could see the terror rise in his eyes like a ghost. It rose and possessed his eyes. And then, for the first time within the last few hours Carberry Stark was able to grant Harvey a definite admiration, for in spite of the terror in his eyes, he did not run. Instead a shadow almost like the shadow of a very painful mirth seemed to cross his face for an instant—he rose slowly, mastering himself, and bowed to Lucrezia with a new and astonishing dignity. For an instant his lips seemed about to frame a sentence—Carberry was never sure whether it would have been merely “Good-by,” or as one speaks of a jewel one can never possess, “Too high.” But the sentence was never spoken, for Harvey's lips closed down upon it like a trap. Then, still with that novel and hard-won dignity upon him, he walked silently past the amazed Lucrezia and out of the door.

“What is the matter with Harvey?” said Lucrezia, intensely puzzled. “Why—he still has on his dinner clothes—and he said he was staying to breakfast. He's coming back, of course?”

“No, my dear,” said Carberry taking her hand, “I think he is—cured—of week-ends in the country. At least—I am quite sure—he is not coming back.”

They looked at each other steadily for a long instant. Her eyes were as dark and deep as pools in a dark forest. Then she smiled.

“I must be silly, I think, Carberry,” she said, “For—in spite of anything—and what so many of our friends seem to take such pleasure in saying—I think you are the only man I shall ever really love. In fact—I'm quite sure of it—Carberry.”

“My dear!” said Carberry Stark, and kissed her hand. But she turned away a little and there was trouble in her face.

“But I—I'm sorry, Carberry—and yes—ashamed!”

“What fools people are! They talk of youth calling to youth—everybody—they kept on talking—it was stupid, stupid to listen to them—but, oh, Carberry!—after a while—I did get wondering And Harvey was nice—and—well—oh I am ashamed—but I thought I'd—see”

“And was there anything in it?”

She could laugh now, wholeheartedly. “Carberry dear! Of course there wasn't! Not even for a minute! Oh what fools people are! They talk of youth—as if it wasn't strength—real strength—the kind of strength you have—the kind of strength that mere youth and muscles can't touch—that matters to a woman! At least,” she added, consideringly, “to my kind of woman!”

“You do come from the South, Lucrezia,” said Carberry, reflectively. “Well—I have always told you—that what I have, I hold.”

She turned on him, flashing.

“Do you think that any man who couldn't do that could ever have held me?”

“No,” said Carberry, quietly. “But”

“But you can hold me. Yes. And you always will. Youth! Youth indeed—that for youth!” she flung out her hands in a foreign gesture. “You see, Carberry—your kind of strength—to a woman—can't grow old!”

He took her in his arms then and the eyes she raised to his were the eyes of a girl with her first lover. Then, after a moment, they parted and he spoke in a different tone.

“I think—after breakfasting with you—I shall go to my room for a little nap, dear—if you don't mind. You see—Mr. Verity and I sat up rather late—talking—and—old or young, dear—it has been a trying night.”

“Of course, dear—just as you wish,” said Lucrezia, absently, tidying up his desk. “But, Carberry dear—what is that horrid old syringe we had to use when you were so ill doing here on your desk?”

“Merely an experiment, my dear—a new way of watering your roses,” said Carberry Stark, and, picking up the syringe, he stepped to the window, opened it, and sprayed the distilled water that the syringe contained on the bed of Jacqueminot roses under the window.

title: The Raveled Sleeve


text: Talk:The Raveled Sleeve

title: Talk:The Raveled Sleeve


text: Quinby and Son

title: Quinby and Son


text: Quinby and Son/Chapter 1

title: Quinby and Son/Chapter 1


text:
Page:History of the Literature of the Scandinavian North.djvu/67

Rh right when he says: "When we take into consideration his (lesser) Islendingabók and the probable character of his Landnamabók (in its original form) we are forced to the conclusion that this work on the kings of Norway was a brief one, and that its chief purpose was to present a chronological table of events, in order that it in the same manner as his (lesser) Islendingabók for the Icelandic sagas might serve as a guide to a critical study of the history of the Norwegian kings." To the same original greater Islendingabók belonged also a third historical work, namely, the "Kristnisaga," on the introduction of Christianity in Iceland, and on later historical events in that island down to the year 1121. But this work is now extant in a form quite different from the original, the matter pertaining to church history, which in Are's work was mixed up with facts of general or secular history, having been separated, remodelled and having received various additions that are not from Are. A somewhat older contemporary of Are, the priest Sæmund Sigfusson (born 1056, died 1133), the same person who without a scrap of evidence has been called the author and compiler of the Elder Edda, contributed much toward giving a firm foundation to history by fixing the chronology of each reign of the rulers of Norway from Harald Fairhair to Magnus the Good (850-1047), and in the sagas he is frequently mentioned as authority in this respect. Sæmund does not appear to have written any great work himself, at least there is none extant. Through his great grandson, Jon Loptsson, his learning was handed down to Snorre Sturleson, and the bulk of what this greatest of all old sagamen has preserved for us doubtless comes by way of Jon Loptsson from Sæmund.

Worthy of mention here is also (Sagas of the Bishops), a series of narratives of the lives and works of the first Icelandic bishops, to which are added various collections of legends.


text: Quinby and Son/Chapter 2

title: Quinby and Son/Chapter 2


text:
Page:The Works of H G Wells Volume 11.pdf/87

 now I am not sure that you will fail At one time I should have defied you, but now I am not sure I have sat here through some dreary and dreadful days, and lain awake through some interminable nights; I have thought of many things that men in their days of prosperity are apt to dismiss from their minds; and I am no longer sure of the goodness of the world without us or in the plan of Fate. Perhaps it is only in us within our hearts that the light of God flickers—and flickers insecurely. Where we had thought a God, somehow akin to ourselves, ruled in the universe, it may be there is nothing but black emptiness and a coldness worse than cruelty."

Mr. Dad was about to interrupt, and restrained himself by a great effort.

"It is a commonplace of pietistic works that natural things are perfect things, and that the whole world of life, if it were not for the sinfulness of man would be perfect. Paley, you will remember, Sir Eliphaz, in his 'Evidences of Christianity,' from which we have both suffered, declares that this earth is manifestly made for the happiness of the sentient beings living thereon. But I ask you to consider for a little and dispassionately, whether life through all its stages, up to and including man, is not rather a scheme of uneasiness, imperfect satisfaction, and positive miseries"


text: Quinby and Son/Chapter 3

title: Quinby and Son/Chapter 3


text: Quinby and Son/Chapter 4

title: Quinby and Son/Chapter 4


text: Quinby and Son/Chapter 5

title: Quinby and Son/Chapter 5


text: Quinby and Son/Chapter 6

title: Quinby and Son/Chapter 6


text: Quinby and Son/Chapter 7

title: Quinby and Son/Chapter 7


text: Quinby and Son/Chapter 8

title: Quinby and Son/Chapter 8


text: Quinby and Son/Chapter 9

title: Quinby and Son/Chapter 9


text: Quinby and Son/Chapter 10

title: Quinby and Son/Chapter 10


text: Quinby and Son/Chapter 11

title: Quinby and Son/Chapter 11


text:
Page:The Works of H G Wells Volume 11.pdf/88

"Aren't we getting a bit out of our depth in all this?" Mr. Dad burst out. "Put it at that—out of our depth What does this sort of carping and questioning amount to, Mr. Huss? Does it do us any good? Does it help us in the slightest degree? Why should we go into all this? Why can't we be humble and leave these deep questions to those who make a specialty of dealing with them? We don't know the ropes. We can't. Here are you and Mr. Farr, for instance, both of you whole-time schoolmasters so to speak; here's Sir Eliphaz toiling night and day to make simple cheap suitable homes for the masses, who probably won't say thank you to him when they see them; here's me an overworked engineer and understaffed most cruelly, not to speak of the most unfair and impossible labour demands, so that you never know where you are and what they won't ask you next. And in the midst of it all we are to start an argey-bargey about the goodness of God!

"We're busy men, Mr. Huss. What do we know of the world being a scheme of imperfect satisfaction and what all? Where does it come in? What's its practical value? Words it is, all words, and getting away from the plain and definite question we came to talk over and settle and have done with. Such talk, I will confess, makes me uncomfortable. Give me the Bible and the simple religion I learned at my mother's knee. That's good enough for me. Can't we just have faith and leave all these questions alone?