F. Scott Fitzgerald: Complete Works
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F. Scott Fitzgerald
F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896–1940) is regarded as one of the greatest American authors of the 20th century. His short stories and novels are set in the American ‘Jazz Age’ of the Roaring Twenties and include This Side of Paradise, The Beautiful and Damned, Tender Is the Night, The Great Gatsby, The Last Tycoon, and Tales of the Jazz Age.
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F. Scott Fitzgerald - F. Scott Fitzgerald
F. Scott Fitzgerald
COMPLETE WORKS
W
Wisehouse Classics
The distribution of this edition is only permitted for non-US territories.
© 2020 Wisehouse Publishing | Sweden
All rights reserved without exception.
ISBN 978-91-7637-775-8
Table of Contents
Cover
Title-Page
Copyright
STORIES 1909–17
~Reade, Substitute Right Half
~A Debt of Honor
~The Room with the Green Blinds
I.
II.
III.
~A Luckless Santa Claus
~Pain and the Scientist
~The Trail of the Duke
~Shadow Laurels
~The Ordeal
I
II
~The Debutante
~The Spire and the Gargoyle
I
II
III
~Babes in the Woods
I
II
~Sentiment—and the Use of Rouge
I
II
III
~The Pierian Springs and the Last Straw
THIS SIDE OF PARADISE
~BOOK ONE
~~Chapter 1
Amory, Son of Beatrice
A Kiss for Amory
Snapshots of the Young Egotist
Code of the Young Egotist
Preparatory to the Great Adventure
The Egotist Down
Incident of the Well-Meaning Professor
Incident of the Wonderful Girl
Heroic in General Tone
The Philosophy of the Slicker
~~Chapter 2
Spires and Gargoyles
A Damp Symbolic Interlude
Historical
Ha-Ha Hortense!
Petting
Descriptive
Isabelle
Babes in the Woods
Carnival
Under the Arc-Light
Crescendo!
~~Chapter 3
The Egotist Considers
The Superman Grows Careless
Aftermath
Financial
First Appearance of the Term Personage
The Devil
In the Alley
At the Window
~~Chapter 4
Narcissus Off Duty
Amory Writes a Poem
Still Calm
Clara
St. Cecilia
Amory is Resentful
The End of Many Things
Interlude
Embarking at Night
~BOOK TWO
~~Chapter 1
The Débutante
Several Hours Later
Kismet
A Little Interlude
Bitter Sweet
Aquatic Incident
Five Weeks Later
~~Chapter 2
Experiments in Convalescence
Still Alcoholic
Amory on the Labor Question
A Little Lull
Temperature Normal
Restlessness
Tom the Censor
Looking Backward
Another Ending
~~Chapter 3
Young Irony
September
The End of Summer
A Poem that Eleanor Sent Amory Several Years Later
A Poem Amory Sent to Eleanor and Which He Called Summer Storm
~~Chapter 4
The Supercilious Sacrifice
The Collapse of Several Pillars
~~Chapter 5
The Egotist Becomes a Personage
In the Drooping Hours.
Still Weeding.
Monsignor.
The Big Man with Goggles.
Amory Coins a Phrase.
Going Faster.
The Little Man Gets His.
Out of the Fire, Out of the Little Room
.
FLAPPERS AND PHILOSOPHERS
~The Offshore Pirate
II
III
IV
V
VI
~The Ice Palace
II
III
IV
V
VI
~Head and Shoulders
II
III
IV
V
~The Cut-Glass Bowl
II
III
IV
~Bernice Bobs Her Hair
II
III
IV
V
VI
~Benediction
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
~Dalyrimple Goes Wrong
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
~The Four Fists
II
III
IV
STORIES 1920–25
~Myra Meets his Family
II
III
IV
V
~The Smilers
I
II
III
IV
V
~The Popular Girl
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
~Two for A Cent
~Dice, Brassknuckles & Guitar
II
III
IV
~Diamond Dick [and the First Law of Woman]
~The Third Casket
II
III
~The Unspeakable Egg
II
III
IV
~John Jackson’s Arcady
II
III
IV
V
~The Pusher-in-the-Face
~Love in the Night
II
III
IV
V
~One of my Oldest Friends
~A Penny Spent
II
III
IV
~Not in the Guidebook
II
III
IV
V
THE BEAUTIFUL AND DAMNED
~BOOK ONE
~~Chapter I
Anthony Patch
A Worthy Man and His Gifted Son
Past and Person of the Hero
The Reproachless Apartment
Nor Does he Spin
Afternoon
Three Men
Night
A Flash-Back in Paradise
~~Chapter II
Portrait of a Siren
A Lady’s Legs
Turbulence
The Beautiful Lady
Dissatisfaction
Admiration
~~Chapter III
The Connoisseur of Kisses
Two Young Women
Deplorable End of the Chevalier O’Keefe
Signlight and Moonlight
Magic
Black Magic
Panic
Wisdom
The Interval
Two Encounters
Weakness
Serenade
~BOOK TWO
~~Chapter I
The Radiant Hour
Heyday
Three Digressions
The Diary
Breath of the Cave
Morning
The Ushers
Anthony
Gloria
Con Amore
Gloria and General Lee
Sentiment
The Gray House
The Soul of Gloria
The End of a Chapter
~~Chapter II
Symposium
Nietzschean Incident
The Practical Men
The Triumph of Lethargy
Winter
Destiny
The Sinister Summer
In Darkness
~~Chapter III
The Broken Lute
Retrospect
Panic
The Apartment
The Kitten
The Passing of an American Moralist
Next Day
The Winter of Discontent
The Broken Lute
~BOOK THREE.
~~Chapter I
A Matter of Civilization
Dot
The Man-at-Arms
An Impressive Occasion
Defeat
The Catastrophe
Nightmare
The False Armistice
~~Chapter II
A Matter of Aesthetics
The Wiles of Captain Collins
Gallantry
Gloria Alone
Discomfiture of the Generals
Another Winter
Further Adventures with Heart Talks
Odi Profanum Vulgus
The Movies
The Test
~~Chapter III
No Matter!
Richard Caramel
The Beating
The Encounter
Together with the Sparrows
TALES OF THE JAZZ AGE
~A Table of Contents
~My Last Flappers
~The Jelly-Bean
II
III
IV
~The Camel’s Back
II
III
IV
V
~May Day
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
~Porcelain and Pink
~Fantasies
~The Diamond As Big As the Ritz
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
~The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
~Tarquin of Cheapside
II
III
~O Russet Witch!
II
III
IV
~Unclassified Masterpieces
~The Lees of Happiness
II
III
IV
V
VI
~Mr. Icky
~Jemina, the Mountain Girl
~A Wild Thing
~A Mountain Feud
~The Birth of Love
~A Mountain Battle
~As One
THE VEGETABLE
Act I
Act II
Act III
THE GREAT GATSBY
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
ALL THE SAD YOUNG MEN
~The Rich Boy
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
~Winter Dreams
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
~The Baby Party
~Absolution
I
II
III
IV
V
~Rags Martin-Jones and the Pr-nce of W-les
I
II
III
IV
V
~The Adjuster
II
III
IV
V
~Hot and Cold Blood
II
III
IV
~The Sensible Thing
I
II
III
IV
~Gretchen’s Forty Winks
I
II
III
IV
STORIES 1926–34
~Presumption
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
~The Adolescent Marriage
II
III
IV
~The Dance
~Your Way and Mine
~Jacob’s Ladder
II
III
IV
V
VI
~The Love Boat
II
III
IV
~The Bowl
II
III
IV
V
VI
~Magnetism
I
II
III
IV
~A Night at the Fair
I
II
III
IV
~Outside the Cabinet-Maker’s
~Forging Ahead
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
~Basil and Cleopatra
II
III
IV
~The Rough Crossing
I
II
III
IV
~At Your Age
II
III
IV
~The Swimmers
II
III
IV
~The Bridal Party
II
III
~One Trip Abroad
II
III
IV
~A Snobbish Story
II
III
IV
~The Hotel Child
II
III
IV
~Indecision
II
III
IV
~A New Leaf
II
III
IV
~Emotional Bankruptcy
II
III
~Between Three and Four
II
III
IV
V
~A Change of Class
II
III
IV
~A Freeze-Out
II
III
IV
~Six of One—
~Diagnosis
II
III
IV
~Flight and Pursuit
II
III
IV
V
~The Rubber Check
II
III
IV
~On Schedule
II
III
IV
~What a Handsome Pair!
II
III
IV
~More than just a House
II
III
~I Got Shoes
~The Family Bus
II.
III.
~No Flowers
II.
III.
~New Types
II.
III.
IV.
V.
~In the Darkest Hour
~Her Last Case
II.
III.
IV.
TENDER IS THE NIGHT
~BOOK I
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
~BOOK II
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
~BOOK III
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
TAPS AT REVEILLE
~The Scandal Detectives
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
~The Freshest Boy
I
II
III
IV
V
~He Thinks He’s Wonderful
I
II
III
IV
~The Captured Shadow
II
III
~The Perfect Life
I
II
III
IV
~First Blood
II
III
IV
~A Nice Quiet Place
II
III
IV
V
~A Woman with a Past
I
II
III
~Crazy Sunday
I
II
III
IV
V
~Two Wrongs
I
II
III
IV
~The Night at Chancellorsville
~The Last of the Belles
I
II
III
~Majesty
II
III
IV
~Family in the Wind
II
III
IV
~A Short Trip Home
II
III
~One Interne
II
III
~The Fiend
~Babylon Revisited
II
III
IV
V
STORIES 1935–40
~Shaggy’s Morning.
~The Intimate Strangers
~The Passionate Eskimo
~Zone of Accident
II
III
~Fate in Her Hands
~Too Cute for Words
II
III
IV
V
~Image on the Heart
~Three Acts of Music
II
III
~The Ants at Princeton
~Inside the House
II
III
IV
V
VI
~An Author’s Mother
~Afternoon of an Author
II
~I Didn’t Get Over
~Send Me In, Coach
~An Alcoholic Case
I
II
~Trouble
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
~The Honor of the Goon
II
~The Long Way Out
II
~The Guest in Room Nineteen
~In the Holidays
~Financing Finnegan
II
III
~Design in Plaster
~The Lost Decade
~Strange Sanctuary
~The End of Hate
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
THE LOVE OF THE LAST TYCOON
Chapter I
Episodes 4 and 5
Episode 6
Episode 7
Episode 8
Episode 9
Episode 10
For Episode 11
Episode 11
Episode 12
Episode 13
13 (continued)
Section 14
Section 14 (2nd part)
Section 14 (Part iii)
Section 15 (first part)
15 (second part)
Episode 16, First Part
Episode 16 (Part 2)
Episode 17
STORIES 1941–
~On an Ocean Wave
II
III
~The Woman from 21
~Three Hours Between Planes
~The Broadcast We almost Heard last September
~News of Paris—Fifteen Years Ago
~Discard [Director’s Special]
~The World’s Fair
~Last Kiss
II
III
IV
V
~That Kind of Party
II
III
IV
~Dearly Beloved
~Lo, the Poor Peacock!
II
III
VI
VII
VIII
IX
~On Your Own
II
~A Full Life
II
III
THE PAT HOBBY STORIES
~Pat Hobby’s Christmas Wish
II
III
~A Man in the Way
II
~Boil Some Water—Lots of It
~Teamed with Genius
II
~Pat Hobby and Orson Welles
II
III
~Pat Hobby’s Secret
II
III
~Pat Hobby, Putative Father
II
III
IV
~The Homes of the Stars
~Pat Hobby Does His Bit
II
III
IV
~Pat Hobby’s Preview.
II.
III.
~No Harm Trying.
II.
III.
IV.
~A Patriotic Short.
~On the Trail of Pat Hobby
II
III
~Fun in an Artist’s Studio
II
~Two Old-Timers
~Mightier Than the Sword
II
~Pat Hobby’s College Days
II
III
IV
V
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS
~ESSAYS AND ARTICLES
Who’s Who—and Why
Three Cities
What I Think and Feel at 25
How I Would Sell my Book if I Were a Bookseller
10 Best Books I Have Read
Imagination—And a few Mothers
Why Blame It on the Poor Kiss if the Girl Veteran of Many Petting Parties Is Prone to Affairs After Marriage?
Does a Moment of Revolt Come Some Time to Every Married Man?
What Kind of Husbands Do Jimmies
Make?
How to Live on $36,000 a Year
Wait Till You Have Children of Your Own!
How to Live on Practically Nothing a Year
What Became of Our Flappers and Sheiks?
How to Waste Material
Princeton
Ten Years in the Advertising Business
A Short Autobiography
Girls Believe in Girls
Echoes of the Jazz Age
My Lost City
One Hundred False Starts
Ring.
Introduction to The Great Gatsby
Sleeping and Waking
The Crack-Up
Pasting It Together
Handle with Care
Author’s House
Afternoon of an Author
Early Success
Foreword
My Generation
~POEMS
Clay Feet
First Love
Football
For A Long Illness
Fragment
Marching Streets (1919 version)
Marching Streets (1945 version)
Oh, Sister, Can You Spare your Heart
Lamp in the Window
Oh Misseldine’s
Princeton—The Last Day
The Staying Up all Night
Thousand-and-First Ship
Our April Letter
Sad Catastrophe
One Southern Girl
To Boath
The Pope at Confession
Rain Before Dawn.
~PROSE PARODY AND HUMOR
Little Minnie McCloskey
The Old Frontiersman
The Diary of A Sophomore
The Prince of Pests
Cedric the Stoker
This Is a Magazine
Reminiscenses of Donald Stewart
Some Stories They Like to Tell Again
The most Disgraceful Thing I ever Did
Salesmanship in the Champs-Elysées
The True Story of Appomattox
A Book of One’s Own
The Pampered Men
~REVIEWS
Penrod and Sam
David Blaize
The Celt and the World
Verses in Peace and War
God, the Invisible King
The Baltimore Anti-Christ
Three Soldiers
Poor Old Marriage
Aldous Huxley’s Crome Yellow
Tarkington’s Gentle Julia
Margey Wins the Game
Homage to the Victorians
A Rugged Novel
Sherwood Anderson on the Marriage Question
Minnesota’s Capital in the Rôle of Main Street
Under Fire
F. Scott Fitzgerald is Bored by Efforts at Realism in ‘Lit’
~PUBLIC LETTERS AND STATEMENTS
The Claims of the Lit
Self-Interview
Contemporary Writers and their Work
What I was Advised to Do—and Didn’t
The Credo of F. Scott Fitzgerald
Confessions
Censorship or Not
In Literary New York
Fitzgerald Sets Things Right about his College
Unfortunate Tradition
False and Extremely Unwise Tradition
Confused Romanticism
An Open Letter to Fritz Crisler
Comments on Stories
Anonymous ’17
My Ten Favorite Plays
To Harvey H. Smith
~INTRODUCTIONS AND BLURBS
[Blurb for John Cournos’ Babel]
Cast Down the Laurel
Colonial and Historic Homes of Maryland
What Makes Sammy Run?
The Day of the Locust
Stories 1909–17.
Reade, Substitute Right Half.
St. Paul Academy Now and Then (February 1910)
Hold! Hold! Hold!
The slogan thundered up the field to where the battered Crimson warriors trotted wearily into their places again. The Blues’ attack this time came straight at center and was good for a gain of seven yards.
Second down, three!
yelled the referee, and again the attack came straight at center. This time there was no withstanding the rush and the huge Hilton full-back crushed through the Crimson line again and, shaking off his many tacklers, staggered on toward the Warrentown goal.
The midget Warrentown quarter-back ran nimbly up the field and, dodging the interference, shot in straight at the full-back’s knees, throwing him to the ground. The teams sprang back into line again, but Hearst, the Crimson right tackle, lay still upon the ground. The right half was shifted to tackle and Berl, the captain, trotted over to the sidelines to ask the advice of the coaches.
Who have we got for half, sir?
he inquired of the head coach.
Suppose you try Reade,
answered the coach, and calling to one of the figures on the pile of straw, which served as a seat for the substitutes, he beckoned to him. Pulling off his sweater, a light-haired stripling trotted over to the coach.
Pretty light,
said Berl as he surveyed the form before him.
I guess that’s all we have, though,
answered the coach. Reade was plainly nervous as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and fidgeted with the end of his jersey.
Oh, I guess he’ll do,
said Berl. Come on, kid,
and they trotted off on the field.
The teams quickly lined up and the Hilton quarter gave the signal 6-8-7G.
The play came between guard and tackle, but before the full-back could get started a lithe form shot out from the Warrentown line and brought him heavily to the ground.
Good work, Reade,
said Berl, as Reade trotted back into his place, and blushing at the compliment he crouched low in the line and waited for the play. The center snapped the ball to quarter, who, turning, was about to give it to the half. The ball slipped from his grasp and he reached for it, but too late. Reade had slipped in between the end and tackle and dropped on the ball.
Good one, Reade,
shouted Mirdle, the Warrentown quarter, as he came racing up, crying signals as he ran. Signal 48-10G-37.
It was Reade around left end, but the pass was bad and the quarter dropped the ball. Reade scooped it up on a run and raced around left end. In the delay which had been caused by the fumble Reade’s interference had been broken up and he must shift for himself. Even as he rounded the end he was thrown with a thud by the Blues’ full-back. He had gained but a yard. Never mind, Reade,
said the quarter. My fault.
The ball was snapped, but again the pass was bad and a Hilton lineman fell on the ball.
Then began a steady march up the field toward the Warrentown goal. Time and time again Reade slipped through the Hilton line and nailed the runner before he could get started. But slowly Hilton pushed down the field toward the Warrentown goal. When the Blues were on the Crimson’s ten-yard line their quarter-back made his only error of judgment during the game. He gave the signal for a forward pass. The ball was shot to the full-back, who turned to throw it to the right half. As the pigskin left his hand, Reade leaped upward and caught the ball. He stumbled for a moment, but, soon getting his balance, started out for the Hilton goal with a long string of Crimson and Blue men spread out behind him. He had a start of about five yards on his nearest opponent, but this distance was decreased to three before he had passed his own forty-five-yard line. He turned his head and looked back. His pursuer was breathing heavily and Reade saw what was coming. He was going to try a diving tackle. As the man’s body shot out straight for him he stepped out of the way and the man fell harmlessly past him, missing him by a foot.
From there to the goal line it was easy running, and as Reade laid the pigskin on the ground and rolled happily over beside it he could just hear another slogan echo down the field: One point—two points—three points—four points—five points. Reade! Reade! Reade!
A Debt of Honor.
St. Paul Academy Now and Then (March 1910)
Prayle !
Here.
Martin!
Absent.
Sanderson!
Here.
Carlton, for sentry duty!
Sick.
Any volunteers to take his place?
Me, me,
said Jack Sanderson eagerly.
All right,
said the captain and went on with the roll.
It was a very cold night. Jack never quite knew how it came about. He had been wounded in the hand the day before and his grey jacket was stained a bright red where he had been hit by a stray ball. And number six
was such a long post. From way up by the general’s tent to way down by the lake. He could feel a faintness stealing over him. He was very tired and it was getting very dark—very dark.
They found him there, sound alseep, in the morning, worn out by the fatigue of the march and the fight which had followed it. There was nothing the matter with him save the wounds, which were slight, and military rules were very strict. To the last day of his life, Jack always remembered the sorrow in his captain’s voice as he read aloud the dismal order.
Camp Bowling Green, C. S. A.
Jan. 15, 1863, U. S.
For falling asleep while in a position of trust at a sentry post, private John Sanderson is hereby condemned to be shot at sunrise on Jan. 16, 1863.
By order of
Robert E. Lee,
Lieutenant General Commanding.
Jack never forgot the dismal night and the march which followed it. They tied a hankerchief over his head and led him a little apart to a wall which bounded one side of the camp. Never had life seemed so sweet.
General Lee in his tent thought long and seriously upon the matter.
He is so awfully young and of good family too; but camp discipline must be enforced. Still it was not much of an offense for such a punishment. The lad was over-tired and wounded. By George, he shall go free if I risk my reputation. Sergeant, order private John Sanderson to be brought before me.
Very well, sir,
and saluting, the orderly left the tent.
Jack was brought in, supported by two soldiers, for a reaction had set in after his narrow escape from death.
Sir,
said General Lee sternly, on account of your extreme youth you will get off with a reprimand but see that it never happens again, for, if it should, I shall not be so lenient.
General,
answered Jack, drawing himself up to his full height; the Confederate States of America shall never have cause to regret that I was not shot.
And Jack was led away, still trembling, but happy in the knowledge of a newfound life.
Six weeks after with Lee’s army near Chancellorsville. The success of Fredericksburg had made possible this advance of the Confederate arms. The firing had just commenced when a courier rode up to General Jackson.
Colonel Barrows says, sir, that the enemy have possession of a small frame house on the outskirts of the woods and it overlooks our earthworks. Has he your permission to take it by assault?
My compliments to Colonel Barrows and say that I cannot spare more than twenty men but that he is welcome to charge with that number,
answered the general.
Yes, sir,
and the orderly, setting spurs to his horse, rode away.
Five minutes later a column of men from the 3rd Virginia burst out from the woods and ran toward the house. A galling fire broke out from the Federal lines and many a brave man fell, among whom was their leader, a young lieutenant. Jack Sanderson sprang to the front and waving his gun encouraged the men onward. Halfway between the Confederate lines and the house was a small mound, and behind this the men threw themselves to get a minute’s respite.
A minute later a figure sprang up and ran toward the house, and before the Union troops saw him he was halfway across the bullet-swept clearing. Then the Federal fire was directed at him. He staggered for a moment and placed his hand to his forehead. On he ran and reaching the house he quickly opened the door and went inside. A minute later a pillar of flame shot out of the windows of the house and almost immediately afterwards the Federal occupants were in full flight. A long cheer rolled along the Confederate lines and then the word was given to charge and they charged sweeping all before them. That night the searchers wended their way to the half-burned house. There on the floor, beside the mattress he had set on fire, lay the body of he who had once been John Sanderson, private, 3rd Virginia. He had paid his debt.
The Room with the Green Blinds.
St. Paul Academy Now and Then (June 1911)
I.
It was ominous-looking enough in broad daylight, with its dull, brown walls, and musty windows. The garden, if it might be called so, was simply a mass of overgrown weeds, and the walk was falling to pieces, the bricks crumbling from the touch of time. Inside it was no better. Rickety old three-legged chairs, covered with a substance that had once been plush, were not exactly hospitable-looking objects. And yet this house was part of the legacy my grandfather had left me. In his will had been this clause: The house, as it now stands, and all that is inside it, shall go to my grandson, Robert Calvin Raymond, on his coming to the age of twenty-one years. I furthermore desire that he shall not open the room at the end of the corridor on the second floor until Carmatle falls. He may fix up three rooms of the house as modern as he wishes, but let the others remain unchanged. He may keep but one servant.
To a poor young man with no outlook in life, and no money, but a paltry eight hundred a year, this seemed a windfall when counted with the twenty-five thousand dollars that went with it. I resolved to fix up my new home, and so started South to Macon, Georgia, near which my grandfather’s house was situated. All the evening on the Pullman I had thought about that clause, He shall not open the room at the end of the corridor on the second floor until Carmatle falls.
Who was Carmatle? And what did it mean when it said, until Carmatle falls?
In vain I supposed and guessed and thought; I could make no sense of it.
When I finally arrived at the house, I lighted one of a box of candles which I had brought with me and walked up the creaking stairs to the second floor and down a long, narrow corridor covered with cobwebs and bugs of all sorts till I finally came to a massive oaken door which barred my further progress. On the door I could just make out with the aid of the candle the initials J. W. B. in red paint. The door was barred on the outside by heavy iron bars, effectually barricaded against anybody entering or going out. Suddenly, without even a warning flicker, my candle went out, and I found myself in complete darkness. Though I am not troubled with weak nerves, I confess I was somewhat startled by this, for there was not a breath of air stirring. I relit the candle and walked out of the corridor down to the room of the three-legged chairs. As it was now almost nine o’clock and as I was tired after my day of traveling, I soon fell off to sleep.
How long I slept I do not know. I awoke suddenly and sat bolt upright on the lounge. For far down the downstairs hall I heard approaching footsteps, and a second later saw the reflection of a candle on the wall outside my door. I made no noise but as the steps came closer I crept softly to my feet. Another sound and the intruder was directly outside and I had a look at him. The flickering flame of the candle shone on a strong, handsome face, fine brown eyes and a determined chin. A stained grey Confederate uniform covered a magnificent form and here and there a bloodstain made him more weird as he stood looking straight ahead with a glazed stare. His clean-shaven face seemed strangely familiar to me, and some instinct made me connect him with the closed door on the right wing.
I came to myself with a start and crouched to leap at him, but some noise I made must have alarmed him, for the candle was suddenly extinguished and I brought up against a chair, nursing a bruised shin. I spent the rest of the night trying to connect the clause in my uncle’s will with this midnight prowler.
When morning came, things began to look clearer, and I resolved to find out whether I had been dreaming or whether I had had a Confederate officer for a guest. I went into the hall and searched for any sign which might lead to a revelation of the mystery. Sure enough, just outside my door was a tallow stain. About ten yards further on was another, and I found myself following a trail of spots along the hall, and upstairs toward the right wing of the house. About twenty feet from the door of the forbidden room they stopped; neither was there any trace of anyone having gone further. I walked up to the door and tried it to make sure that no one could possibly go in or out. Then I descended and, sauntering out, went around to the east wing to see how it looked from the outside. The room had three windows, each of which was covered with a green blind, and with three iron bars. To make sure of this I went around to the barn, a tumbly old structure and, by dint of much exertion, succeeded in extracting a ladder from a heap of debris behind it. I placed this against the house, and climbing up, tested each bar carefully. There was no deception. They were firmly set in the concrete sill.
Therefore, there could be but one explanation. The man concealed there must have a third way of getting out, some sort of secret passageway. With this thought in mind I searched the house from garret to cellar, but not a sign could I see of any secret entrance. Then I sat down to think it over.
In the first place there was somebody concealed in the room in the east wing. I had no doubt of that. Who was in the habit of making midnight visits to the front hall? Who was Carmatle? It was an unusual name, and I felt if I could find its possessor I could unravel this affair.
Aha! now I had it. Carmatle, the governor of Georgia; why had I not thought of that before? I resolved that that afternoon I would start for Atlanta to see him.
II.
Mr. Carmatle, I believe?
At your service.
Governor, it’s rather a personal matter I have come to see you about and I may have made a mistake in identity. Do you know anything about ‘J. W. B.’ or did you ever know a man with those initials?
The governor paled.
Young man, tell me where you heard those initials and what brought you here.
In as few words as possible I related to him my story, beginning with the will and ending with my theories regarding it.
When I had finished, the governor rose to his feet.
I see it all; I see it all. Now with your permission I shall spend a night with you in your house in company with a friend of mine who is in the Secret Service. If I am right, concealed in that house is—well,
he broke off. I had better not say now, for it may be only a remarkable coincidence. Meet me at the station in half an hour, and you had better bring a revolver.
Six o’clock found us at the manor; and the governor and I, with the detective he had brought along, a fellow by the name of Butler, proceeded at once to the room.
After half an hour’s labor we succeeded in finding no such thing as a passageway, secret or otherwise. Being tired I sat down to rest and in doing so my hand touched a ledge projecting from the wall. Instantly a portion of the wall swung open, disclosing an opening about three feet square. Instantly the governor, with the agility of a cat, was through it and his form disappeared from view. We grasped the situation and followed him. I found myself crawling along on hard stone in black darkness. Suddenly a shot resounded, and another. Then the passageway came to an end. We were in a room magnificently hung with oriental draperies, the walls covered with medieval armor and ancient swords, shields and battle axes. A red lamp on the table threw a lurid glare over all and cast a red glow on a body which lay at the foot of a Turkish divan. It was the Confederate officer, shot through the heart, for the life blood was fast staining his grey uniform red. The governor was standing near the body, a smoking revolver in his hand.
Gentlemen,
said he, let me present to you John Wilkes Booth, the slayer of Abraham Lincoln.
III.
Mr. Carmatle, you will explain this I hope.
Certainly,
and drawing up a chair the governor began:
My son and I served in Forrest’s cavalry during the Civil War, and being on a scouting expedition did not hear of Lee’s surrender at Appomattox until about three months afterwards. As we were riding southward along the Cumberland Pike we met a man riding down the road. Having struck up an acquaintance, as travelers do, we camped together. The next morning the man was gone, together with my son’s old horse and my son’s old uniform, leaving his new horse and new civilian suit instead. We did not know what to make of this, but never suspected who this man was. My son and I separated and I never saw him again. He was bound for his aunt’s in western Maryland and one morning he was shot by some Union soldiers in a barn where he had tried to snatch a minute’s rest on the way. The story was given out to the public that it was Booth that was shot but I knew and the government knew that my innocent son had been shot by mistake and that John Wilkes Booth, the man who had taken his horse and clothes, had escaped. For four years I hunted Booth, but until I heard you mention the initials J. W. B. I had heard no word of him. As it was, when I found him he shot first. I think that his visit to the hall in the Confederate uniform was simply to frighten you away. The fact that your grandfather was a Southern sympathizer probably had protected him all these years. So now, gentlemen, you have heard my story. It rests with you whether this gets no farther than us three here and the government, or whether I shall be proclaimed a murderer and brought to trial.
You are as innocent as Booth is guilty,
said I. My lips shall be forever sealed.
And we both pressed forward and took him by the hand.
A Luckless Santa Claus.
Newman News (Christmas 1912)
Miss Harmon was responsible for the whole thing. If it had not been for her foolish whim, Talbot would not have made a fool of himself, and—but I am getting ahead of my story.
It was Christmas Eve. Salvation Army Santa Clauses with highly colored noses proclaimed it as they beat upon rickety paper chimneys with tin spoons. Package-laden old bachelors forgot to worry about how many slippers and dressing gowns they would have to thank people for next day, and joined in the general air of excitement that pervaded busy Manhattan.
In the parlor of a house situated on a dimly lighted residence street, somewhere east of Broadway, sat the lady who, as I have said before, started the whole business. She was holding a conversation half frivolous, half sentimental, with a faultlessly dressed young man who sat with her on the sofa. All of this was quite right and proper, however, for they were engaged to be married in June.
Harry Talbot,
said Dorothy Harmon, as she rose and stood laughing at the merry young gentleman beside her, if you aren’t the most ridiculous boy I ever met, I’ll eat that terrible box of candy you brought me last week!
Dorothy,
reproved the young man, you should receive gifts in the spirit in which they are given. That box of candy cost me much of my hard-earned money.
Your hard-earned money, indeed!
scoffed Dorothy. You know very well that you never earned a cent in your life. Golf and dancing—that is the sum total of your occupations. Why you can’t even spend money, much less earn it!
My dear Dorothy, I succeeded in running up some very choice bills last month, as you will find if you consult my father.
That’s not spending your money. That’s wasting it. Why, I don’t think you could give away twenty-five dollars in the right way to save your life.
But why on earth,
remonstrated Harry, should I want to give away twenty-five dollars?
Because,
explained Dorothy, that would be real charity. It’s nothing to charge a desk to your father and have it sent to me, but to give money to people you don’t know is something.
Why, any old fellow can give away money,
protested Harry.
Then,
exclaimed Dorothy, we’ll see if you can! I don’t believe that you could give twenty-five dollars in the course of an evening if you tried.
Indeed, I could.
Then try it!
And Dorothy, dashing into the hall, took down his coat and hat and placed them in his reluctant hands. It is now half-past eight. You be here by ten o’clock.
But, but,
gasped Harry.
Dorothy was edging him towards the door.
How much money have you?
she demanded.
Harry gloomily put his hand in his pocket and counted out a handful of bills.
Exactly twenty-five dollars and five cents.
Very well! Now listen! These are the conditions. You go out and give this money to anybody you care to whom you have never seen before. Don’t give more than two dollars to any one person. And be back here by ten o’clock with no more than five cents in your pocket.
But,
declared Harry, still backing toward the door, "I want my twenty-five dollars."
Harry,
said Dorothy sweetly, "I am surprised !" And with that, she slammed the door in his face.
I insist,
muttered Harry, that this is a most unusual proceeding.
He walked down the steps and hesitated.
Now,
he thought, where shall I go?
He considered a moment and finally started off toward Broadway. He had gone about half a block when he saw a gentleman in a top hat approaching. Harry hesitated. Then he made up his mind, and, stepping toward the man, emitted what he intended for a pleasant laugh but what sounded more like a gurgle, and loudly vociferated, Merry Christmas, friend!
The same to you,
answered he of the top hat, and would have passed on, but Harry was not to be denied.
My good fellow—
he cleared his throat. Would you like me to give you a little money?
What?
yelled the man.
You might need some money, don’t you know, to—er—buy the children—a—a rag doll,
he finished brilliantly.
The next moment his hat went sailing into the gutter, and when he picked it up the man was far away.
There’s five minutes wasted,
muttered Harry, as, full of wrath toward Dorothy, he strode along his way. He decided to try a different method with the next people he met. He would express himself more politely.
A couple approached him,—a young lady and her escort. Harry halted directly in their path and, taking off his hat, addressed them.
As it is Christmas, you know, and everybody gives away—er—articles, why—
Give him a dollar, Billy, and let’s go on,
said the young lady.
Billy obediently thrust a dollar into Harry’s hand, and at that moment the girl gave a cry of surprise.
Why, it’s Harry Talbot,
she exclaimed, begging!
But Harry heard no more. When he realized that he knew the girl he turned and sped like an arrow up the street, cursing his foolhardiness in taking up the affair at all.
He reached Broadway and started slowly down the gaily lighted thoroughfare, intending to give money to the street Arabs he met. All around him was the bustle of preparation. Everywhere swarmed people happy in the pleasant concert of their own generosity. Harry felt strangely out of place as he wandered aimlessly along. He was used to being catered to and bowed before, but here no one spoke to him, and one or two even had the audacity to smile at him and wish him a Merry Christmas.
He nervously accosted a passing boy.
I say, little boy, I’m going to give you some money.
No you ain’t,
said the boy sturdily. I don’t want none of your money.
Rather abashed, Harry continued down the street. He tried to present fifty cents to an inebriated man, but a policeman tapped him on the shoulder and told him to move on. He drew up beside a ragged individual and quietly whispered, Do you wish some money?
I’m on,
said the tramp. What’s the job?
"Oh! there’s no job !" Harry reassured him.
Tryin’ to kid me, hey?
growled the tramp resentfully. Well, get somebody else.
And he slunk off into the crowd.
Next Harry tried to squeeze ten cents into the hand of a passing bellboy, but the youth pulled open his coat and displayed a sign No Tipping.
With the air of a thief, Harry approached an Italian bootblack, and cautiously deposited ten cents in his hand. At a safe distance he saw the boy wonderingly pocket the dime, and congratulated himself. He had but twenty-four dollars and ninety cents yet to give away! His last success gave him a plan. He stopped at a newsstand where, in full sight of the vender, he dropped a two-dollar bill and sped away in the crowd. After several minutes’ hard running he came to a walk amidst the curious glances of the bundle-laden passers-by, and was mentally patting himself on the back when he heard quick breathing behind him, and the very newsie he had just left thrust into his hand the two-dollar bill and was off like a flash.
The perspiration streamed from Harry’s forehead and he trudged along despondently. He got rid of twenty-five cents, however, by dropping it into a children’s aid slot. He tried to get fifty cents in, but it was a small slot. His first large sum was two dollars to a Salvation Army Santa Claus, and, after this, he kept a sharp lookout for them, but it was past their closing time, and he saw no more of them on his journey.
He was now crossing Union Square, and, after another half hour’s patient work, he found himself with only fifteen dollars left to give away. A wet snow was falling which turned to slush as it touched the pavements, and the light dancing pumps he wore were drenched, the water oozing out of his shoes with every step he took. He reached Cooper Square and turned into the Bowery. The number of people on the streets was fast thinning and all around him shops were closing up and their occupants going home. Some boys jeered at him, but, turning up his collar, he plodded on. In his ears rang the saying, mocking yet kindly, It is more blessed to give than to receive.
He turned up Third Avenue and counted his remaining money. It amounted to three dollars and seventy cents. Ahead of him he perceived, through the thickening snow, two men standing under a lamp post. Here was his chance. He could divide his three dollars and seventy cents between them. He came up to them and tapped one on the shoulder. The man, a thin, ugly-looking fellow, turned suspiciously.
Won’t you have some money, you fellow?
he said imperiously, for he was angry at humanity in general and Dorothy in particular. The fellow turned savagely.
Oh!
he sneered, you’re one of these stiffs tryin’ the charity gag, and then gettin’ us pulled for beggin’. Come on, Jim, let’s show him what we are.
And they showed him. They hit him, they mashed him, they got him down and jumped on him, they broke his hat, they tore his coat. And Harry, gasping, striking, panting, went down in the slush. He thought of the people who had that very night wished him a Merry Christmas. He was certainly having it.
Miss Dorothy Harmon closed her book with a snap. It was past eleven and no Harry. What was keeping him? He had probably given up and gone home long ago. With this in mind, she reached up to turn out the light, when suddenly she heard a noise outside as if someone had fallen.
Dorothy rushed to the window and pulled up the blind. There, coming up the steps on his hands and knees, was a wretched caricature of a man. He was hatless, coatless, collarless, tieless, and covered with snow. It was Harry. He opened the door and walked into the parlor, leaving a trail of wet snow behind him.
Well?
he said defiantly.
Harry,
she gasped, can it be you?
Dorothy,
he said solemnly, it is me.
What—what has happened?
Oh, nothing. I’ve just been giving away that twenty-five dollars.
And Harry sat down on the sofa.
But Harry,
she faltered, your eye is all swollen.
Oh, my eye? Let me see. Oh, that was on the twenty-second dollar. I had some difficulty with two gentlemen. However, we afterward struck up quite an acquaintance. I had some luck after that. I dropped two dollars in a blind beggar’s hat.
You have been all evening giving away that money?
My dear Dorothy, I have decidedly been all evening giving away that money.
He rose and brushed a lump of snow from his shoulder. I really must be going now. I have two—er—friends outside waiting for me.
He walked towards the door.
Two friends?
Why—a—they are the two gentlemen I had the difficulty with. They are coming home with me to spend Christmas. They are really nice fellows, though they might seem a trifle rough at first.
Dorothy drew a quick breath. For a minute no one spoke. Then he took her in his arms.
Dearest,
she whispered, you did this all for me.
A minute later he sprang down the steps, and arm in arm with his friends, walked off in the darkness.
Good-night, Dorothy,
he called back, and a Merry Christmas!
Pain and the Scientist.
Newman News (1913)
Walter Hamilton Bartney moved to Middleton because it was quiet and offered him an opportunity of studying law, which he should have done long ago. He chose a quiet house rather out in the suburbs of the village, for, as he reasoned to himself, Middleton is a suburb and remarkably quiet at that. Therefore a suburb of a suburb must be the very depth of solitude, and that is what I want.
So Bartney chose a small house in the suburbs and settled down. There was a vacant lot on his left, and on his right Skiggs, the famous Christian Scientist. It is because of Skiggs that this story was written.
Bartney, like the very agreeable young man he was, decided that it would be only neighborly to pay Skiggs a visit, not that he was very much interested in the personality of Mr. Skiggs, but because he had never seen a real Christian Scientist and he felt that his life would be empty without the sight of one.
However, he chose a most unlucky time for his visit. It was one night, dark as pitch, that, feeling restless, he set off as the clock struck ten to investigate and become acquainted. He strode out of his lot and along the path that went by the name of a road, feeling his way between bushes and rocks and keeping his eye on the solitary light that burned in Mr. Skiggs’ house.
It would be blamed unlucky for me if he should take a notion to turn out that light,
he muttered through his clenched teeth. I’d be lost. I’d just have to sit down and wait until morning.
He approached the house, felt around cautiously, and, reaching for what he thought was a step, uttered an exclamation of pain, for a large stone had rolled down over his leg and pinned him to the earth. He grunted, swore, and tried to move the rock, but he was held powerless by the huge stone, and his efforts were unavailing.
Hello!
he shouted. Mr. Skiggs!
There was no answer.
Help in there,
he cried again. Help!
A light was lit upstairs and a head, topped with a conical-shaped night-cap, poked itself out of the window like an animated jack-in-the-box.
Who’s there?
said the night-cap in a high-pitched querulous voice. Who’s there? Speak, or I fire.
Don’t fire! It’s me—Bartney, your neighbor. I’ve had an accident, a nasty ankle wrench, and there’s a stone on top of me.
Bartney?
queried the night-cap, nodding pensively. Who’s Bartney?
Bartney swore inwardly.
I’m your neighbor. I live next door. This stone is very heavy. If you would come down here—
How do I know you’re Bartney, whoever he is?
demanded the night-cap. How do I know you won’t get me out there and blackjack me?
For heaven’s sake,
cried Bartney, look and see. Turn a searchlight on me, and see if I’m not pinned down.
I have no searchlight,
came the voice from above.
Then you’ll have to take a chance. I can’t stay here all night.
Then go away. I am not stopping you,
said the night-cap with a decisive squeak in his voice.
Mr. Skiggs,
said Bartney in desperation, I am in mortal agony and—
You are not in mortal agony,
announced Mr. Skiggs.
What? Do you still think I’m trying to entice you out here to murder you?
I repeat, you are not in mortal agony. I am convinced now that you really think you are hurt, but I assure you, you are not.
He’s crazy,
thought Bartney.
I shall endeavor to prove to you that you are not, thus causing you more relief than I would if I lifted the stone. I am very moderate. I will treat you now at the rate of three dollars an hour.
An hour?
shouted Bartney fiercely. You come down here and roll this stone off me, or I’ll skin you alive!
Even against your will,
went on Mr. Skiggs. I feel called upon to treat you; for it is a duty to everyone to help the injured, or rather those who fancy themselves injured. Now, clear your mind of all sensation, and we will begin the treatment.
Come down here, you mean, low-browed fanatic!
yelled Bartney, forgetting his pain in a paroxysm of rage. Come down here, and I’ll drive every bit of Christian Science out of your head.
To begin with,
began the shrill falsetto from the window, there is no pain—absolutely none. Do you begin to have an inkling of that?
No,
shouted Bartney. You, you—
his voice was lost in a gurgle of impotent rage.
Now, all is mind. Mind is everything. Matter is nothing—absolutely nothing. You are well. You fancy you are hurt, but you are not.
You lie!
shrieked Bartney.
Unheeding, Mr. Skiggs went on.
Thus, if there is no pain, it cannot act on your mind. A sensation is not physical. If you had no brain, there would be no pain, for what you call pain acts on the brain. You see?
Oh-h,
cried Bartney, if you saw what a bottomless well of punishment you were digging for yourself, you’d cut out that monkey business.
Therefore, as so-called pain is a mental sensation, your ankle doesn’t hurt you. Your brain may imagine it does, but all sensation goes to the brain. You are very foolish when you complain of hurt—
Bartney’s patience wore out. He drew in his breath, and let out a yell that echoed and re-echoed through the night air.
He repeated it again and again, and at length he heard the sound of footsteps coming up the road.
Hello!
came a voice.
Bartney breathed a prayer of thanksgiving.
Come here! I’ve had an accident,
he called, and a minute later the night watchman’s brawny arms had rolled the stone off him and he staggered to his feet.
Good-night,
called the Christian Scientist sweetly. I hope I have made some impression on you.
You certainly have,
called back Bartney as he limped off, his hand on the watchman’s shoulder, one I won’t forget.
Two days later, as Bartney sat with his foot on a pillow, he pulled an unfamiliar envelope out of his mail and opened it. It read:
William Bartney.
To Hepezia Skiggs, Dr.
Treatment by Christian Science—$3.00. Payment by check or money order.
* * * * * * * * * *
The weeks wore on. Bartney was up and around. Out in his yard he started a flower garden and became a floral enthusiast. Every day he planted, and the next day he would weed what he had planted. But it gave him something to do, for law was tiresome at times.
One bright summer’s day, he left his house and strolled toward the garden, where the day before he had planted in despair some store-bought
pansies. He perceived to his surprise a long, thin, slippery-looking figure bending over, picking his new acquisitions. With quiet tread he approached, and, as the invader turned around, he said severely:
What are you doing, sir?
I was plucking—er—a few posies—
The long, thin, slippery-looking figure got no further. Though the face had been strange to Bartney, the voice, a thin, querulous falsetto, was one he would never forget. He advanced slowly, eyeing the owner of that voice, as the wolf eyes his prey.
Well, Mr. Skiggs, how is it I find you on my property?
Mr. Skiggs appeared unaccountably shy and looked the other way.
I repeat,
said Bartney, that I find you here on my property—and in my power.
Yes, sir,
said Mr. Skiggs, squirming in alarm.
Bartney grabbed him by the collar, and shook him as a terrier does a rat.
You conceited imp of Christian Science! You miserable hypocrite! What?
he demanded fiercely, as Skiggs emitted a cry of protest. You yell. How dare you? Don’t you know there is no such thing as pain? Come on, now, give me some of that Christian Science. Say ‘mind is everything.’ Say it!
Mr. Skiggs, in the midst of his jerky course, said quaveringly, Mind is everyth-thing.
Pain is nothing,
urged his tormenter grimly.
P-Pain is nothing,
repeated Mr. Skiggs feelingly.
The shaking continued.
Remember, Skiggs, this is all for the good of the cause. I hope you’re taking it to heart. Remember, such is life, therefore life is such. Do you see?
He left off shaking, and proceeded to entice Skiggs around by a grip on his collar, the scientist meanwhile kicking and struggling violently.
Now,
said Bartney, I want you to assure me that you feel no pain. Go on, do it!
I f-feel—ouch,
he exclaimed as he passed over a large stone in his course, n-no pain.
Now,
said Bartney, I want two dollars for the hour’s Christian Science treatment I have given you. Out with it.
Skiggs hesitated, but the look of Bartney’s eyes and a tightening of Bartney’s grip convinced him, and he unwillingly tendered a bill. Bartney tore it to pieces and distributed the fragments to the wind.
Now, you may go.
Skiggs, when his collar was released, took to his heels, and his flying footsteps crossed the boundary line in less time than you would imagine.
Good-bye, Mr. Skiggs,
called Bartney pleasantly. Any other time you want a treatment come over. The price is always the same. I see you know one thing I didn’t have to teach you. There’s no such thing as pain, when somebody else is the goat.
The Trail of the Duke.
Newman News (June 1913)
It was a hot July night. Inside, through screen, window and door, fled the bugs and gathered around the lights like so many humans at a carnival, buzzing, thugging, whirring. From out the night into the houses came the sweltering late summer heat, overpowering and enervating, bursting against the walls and enveloping all mankind like a huge smothering blanket. In the drug stores, the clerks, tired and grumbling, handed out ice cream to hundreds of thirsty but misled civilians, while in the corners buzzed the electric fans in a whirring mockery of coolness. In the flats that line upper New York, pianos (sweating ebony perspiration) ground out ragtime tunes of last winter, and here and there a wan woman sang the air in a hot soprano. In the tenements, shirt-sleeves gleamed like beacon lights in steady rows along the streets in tiers of from four to eight according to the number of stories of the house. In a word, it was a typical, hot New York summer night.
In his house on upper Fifth Avenue, young Dodson Garland lay on a divan in the billiard room and consumed oceans of mint juleps, as he grumbled at the polo that had kept him in town, the cigarettes, the butler, and occasionally breaking the Second Commandment. The butler ran back and forth with large consignments of juleps and soda and finally, on one of his dramatic entrances, Garland turned toward him and for the first time that evening perceived that the butler was a human being, not a living bottle-tray.
Hello, Allen,
he said, rather surprised that he had made such a discovery. Are you hot?
Allen made an expressive gesture with his handkerchief, tried to smile but only succeeded in a feeble, smothery grin.
Allen,
said Garland struck by an inspiration, what shall I do tonight?
Allen again essayed the grin but, failing once more, sank into a hot, undignified silence.
Get out of here,
exclaimed Garland petulantly, and bring me another julep and a plate of ice.
Now,
thought the young man, what shall I do? I can go to the theatre and melt. I can go to a roof garden and be sung to by a would-be prima donna, or—or go calling.
Go calling,
in Garland’s vocabulary meant but one thing: to see Mirabel. Mirabel Walmsley was his fiancee since some three months, and was in the city to receive some nobleman or other who was to visit her father. The lucky youth yawned, rolled over, yawned again and rose to a sitting position where he yawned a third time and then got to his feet.
I’ll walk up and see Mirabel. I need a little exercise.
And with this final decision he went to his room where he dressed, sweated and dressed, for half an hour. At the end of that time, he emerged from his residence, immaculate, and strolled up Fifth Avenue to Broadway. The city was all outside. As he walked along the white way, he passed groups and groups clad in linen and lingerie, laughing, talking, smoking, smiling, all hot, all uncomfortable.
He reached Mirabel’s house and then suddenly stopped on the doorstep.
Heavens,
he thought, I forgot all about it. The Duke of Dunsinlane or Artrellane or some lane or other was to arrive today to see Mirabel’s papa. Isn’t that awful? And I haven’t seen Mirabel for three days.
He sighed, faltered, and finally walked up the steps and rang the bell. Hardly had he stepped inside the door, when the vision of his dreams came running into the hall in a state of great excitement and perturbation.
Oh, Doddy!
she burst out, I’m in an awful situation. The Duke went out of the house an hour ago. None of the maids saw him go. He just wandered out. You must find him. He’s probably lost—lost and nobody knows him.
Mirabel wrung her hands in entrancing despair. Oh, I shall die if he’s lost—and it’s so hot. He’ll have a sunstroke surely or a—moonstroke. Go and find him. We’ve telephoned the police, but it won’t do any good. Hurry up! Do! Oh, Doddy, I’m so nervous.
Doddy
put his hands in his pockets, sighed, put his hat on his head and sighed again. Then he turned toward the door. Mirabel, her face anxious, followed him.
Bring him right up here if you find him. Oh Doddy you’re a life-saver.
The life-saver sighed again and walked quickly through the portal. On the doorstep he paused.
Well, of all outrageous things! To hunt for a French Duke in New York. This is outrageous. Where shall I go? What will I do?
He paused at the doorstep and then, following the crowd, strode toward Broadway. Now let me see. I must have a plan of action. I can’t go up and ask everybody I meet if he’s the Duke of ——, well of, well—I can’t remember his name. I don’t know what he looks like. He probably can’t talk English. Oh, curses on the nobility.
He strode aimlessly, hot and muddled. He wished he had asked Mirabel the Duke’s name and personal appearance, but it was now too late. He would not convict himself of such a blunder. Reaching Broadway he suddenly