TWO WORLDS
MONTHLY
Partial Contents of
VOLUME ONE NUMBER FOUR
MAGGIE (A Novel)   Stephen Crane
Fourth part of ULYSSES.........James Joyce
The She-Wolf ..............Giovanni	Verga
The Little Kanaka Joseph Hergesheimer
A Group of Poems ..............Ben 	Finkle
Mr. Handy’s Wife .........T. F. Powys
Mr. Perkins and Mr. Johnson...........
...................Martin 	Armstrong
A Fragment	Norman	 Douglas
Boy at a Prayer-Meeting....John W. Coulter
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Contents of Volume One, Number Four
The short paragraphs scattered throughout this issue of Two Worlds
Monthly are taken from the works of Charles Baudelaire
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Life and Letters..............................................................................................................      377
The Bitch ..........................................................................S.	Esenin	378
The She-Wolf.................... ..............................................Giovanni	Verga	379
The Little Kanaka........................................................Joseph Hergesheimer 383
A Group of Poems..................................................................  Ben	Finkle	385
Love  ........................................................................  Irma	Goeringer	387
Negress.................................................................................................................Paul Reboux	388
On An Island......................................................................  John	Synge	388
Mr. Handy's Wife...............................................................   T.	F. Powys 389
The Mysterious Case of Mr. Perkins and Mr. Johnson	Martin	Armstrong	396
Queens...........................................................................    John	Synge	398
The Hand........................................................................M.L. Skinner	399
Boy at a Prayer-Meeting......................................................John W. Coulter 403
A Fragment...................................................................Norman Douglas 408
Twelve Great Passions: Nadir Shah and Sitara the Hindu Slave-Girl....J. A. Brendon 415
Maggie, A Girl of the Streets	Stephen	Crane	427
That Day She	Seized.......................................................W. H. Davies	472
Ulysses: Part Three (continued)....................................................James	Joyce	473
Kaddish.........................................................................    Samuel	Roth	498
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TWO WORLDS
MONTHLY
Devoted to the Increase of the Gaiety of Nations
VOLUME ONE	NUMBER	FOUR
Life and Letters
HUNDREDS of letters reach me with the one plaintive appeal: why
do I not dedicate a number of Two Worlds Monthly to an
American writer? Being in complete sympathy with this sentiment I am
offering the concluding number of the first volume to Ben Finkle, a group
of whose poems, in a translation by your editor, appear here for the first
time in English.
It is not at all strange that the greatest lyric poet produced by America
in a very long time should happen to be a Jew. France has her Andre
Spire, England her Siegfried Sassoon, why not Ben Finkle for America?
There is a difference, however. Spire writes French, and Sassoon writes
English, whereas Finkle—. It seems to me almost a misfortune, but
Finkle writes his poems in Yiddish.
“Yiddish,” said Mr. Finkle upon my mentioning the matter, “is one of
the languages of America.” To which there was little to object; and
when he added that it does not matter what language a poet writes in,
but that it does matter a bit where he writes it, I felt that the argument
had come to a natural, abrupt, and final termination.
I have consulted Mr. Finkle closely in the matter of this first publication
of his work in English, and although I found him delightfully agreeable
in his approval of what I had done with the poems, I am not deceived
into believing that I have really done him justice. The reader should
remember two things: Yiddish is a difficult, an almost impossible language
to translate, and I fear I am not really gifted as a translator.
377
As for those who might be inclined to think me a bit presumptuous in
announcing a new poet, I beg to remind them that when my first note
about the poetry of Edwin Arlington Robinson appeared in The Bookman,
that learned journal spelled his first name Edward. As the worth of Mr.
Robinson’s poetry is undisputed today so will be the worth of Mr. Finkle’s
poetry in a not distant tomorrow.
I do not want to be misunderstood. Mr. Finkle is a great lyric poet. If
there is any greater, writing in any language today I have not been for-
tunate enough to encounter his work.	S.	R.
The Bitch
By S. ESENIN
At morning in the rye-barn	Till 	evening came she loved them,
The bitch her puppies bore,	And	licked them with her tongue,
Her seven red-brown puppies	And	 her warm belly melted
Upon the littered floor.	The	 snow about her young.
Gloomily came the master
When hens to roost begin,
With a big bag came the master
And put the seven in.
The bitch ran through the snowdrifts
Keeping the master’s pace.—
Long, long the ripples lasted
On the lake’s unfrozen face.
Licking her sweating belly,	She looked at the vault of heaven,
She dragged to the old home-ground.      She howled and howled so shrill.
The moon that shone over the cottage     The pale moon, gliding slowly,
She took for one of her drowned.             Went out behind the hill.
Desperate, like one starving,
Mocked by the stones men throw,
The dog’s eyes drained their golden
Stars upon the snow.
The She-Wolf
By GIOVANNI VERGA
SHE was tall and lean; her breast
alone revealed the firmness and
vigor of the brunette type; and yet
she was no longer a young woman.
She was pallid, as though she always
had the burden of malaria upon her;
and in the midst of that pallor two
such great eyes and lips so fresh and
ruddy that they seemed to devour
you alive.
In the village they called her the
She-Wolf, because she was never sa-
tiated—never with anything. The
women all made the sign of the cross
when they saw her pass by, with the
skulking, prowling tread of a starv-
ing wolf; for she made clean pick-
ings of their sons and husbands with
those rosy lips of hers, drawing them
on behind her skirts merely with one
glance of those eyes like the devil's
own, even though they had been
standing before the altar of St.
Agrippina herself. Fortunately the
She-Wolf never went herself to
church, neither on Easter nor on
Christmas, neither to hear mass nor
to confess herself. Father Angio-
lino, of the Church of St. Mary of
Jesus, a true servant of God, had
lost his soul for her sake.
Maricchia—poor little thing!—a
good and honest lass, wept in secret,
because she was the daughter of the
She-Wolf, and no one would take
her to wife, even if she had had her
share of fine things in a chest and
her bit of good land in the sunshine,
like every other lass in the village.
Once on a time the She-Wolf fell
in love with a handsome lad who had
just come home from soldiering and
was moving the hay beside her in the
fields of the notary; fell in love in
the full sense of the term—love that
sets the flesh on fire beneath a fus-
tian jacket and makes you feel, when
glances meet, a thirst like that which
comes to you during the hot hours
of June in the middle of an open
pasture. But the lad continued tran-
quilly to mow, with his nose close
down to his task, and would say to
her:
“What is the matter with you,
Mistress Pina?”
In the silence of those vast fields,
broken only by the whirring flight of
the grasshoppers, when the sun beat
down upon them like lead, the She-
Wolf kept on steadily binding bun-
dle after bundle, sheaf after sheaf,
never wearing, never for a moment
straightening up to relieve her back,
never pausing to moisten her lips,
but keeping ever close upon the heels
of Nanni, Who mowed and mowed,
and time and again would ask her:
“What is it that you want, Mis-
tress Pina?”
One evening she told him what,
while the men were dozing on the
threshing floor, weary from a long
day’s labor, and the dogs were howl-
ing in the blackness of the vast open
country. “It is you that I want!
You who are splendid as the sun and
as tempting as honey! It is you I
want!”
“And I, on the contrary, want
your daughter; the heifer, not the
cow,” retorted Nanni, with a laugh.
The She-Wolf left him like a
hunted thing, with her hands in her
hair, tearing at her temples without
speaking a word, and roamed away
to be seen no more at the threshing
floor. But in October she saw Nan-
ni again, because he was working
alongside of her home, and the
creaking of the oil press kept her
awake all the night.
“Take the bag of olives,” she
said to her daughter, “and come with
me.”
Nanni was sending the olives by
the shovelful into the machine and
crying “Go ’long!” to the mule, to
keep it from stopping.
“Do you still want my daughter
Maricchia?” Mistress Pina de-
manded.
“What have you to give to your
daughter Maricchia?” retorted Nan-
ni.
“She has what her father left her,
and besides that I will give her the
house. It is enough for me if you
leave me a corner in the kitchen and
a little straw to sleep on.”
“In that case we can talk of it at
Christmas,” said Nanni.
He was all greasy and foul with
oil and with the olives that had be-
gun to ferment, and Maricchia did
not want him at any price. But her
mother dragged her by the hair be-
fore the hearthstone and told her,
between clenched teeth:
“If you don’t take him, I will kill
you!”
The She-Wolf was really ill, and
people began to say that when the
devil grows old he turns hermit. She
no longer went prowling hither and
thither; she no longer lurked in her
doorway, staring out with her devil-
haunted eyes. Her son-in-law, when-
ever he felt those eyes of hers fixed
upon him, would try to laugh and
would pull out his little scapular of
the Madonna, to cross himself with
it. Maricchia now stayed at home
to nurse her babies, and her mother
went forth into the fields to work be-
side the men, precisely like a man,
weeding, spading, driving the cattle,
pruning the vines, indifferent to the
east winds of winter or the sirocco
of August, the days when the mules
droop their heads limply and the
men sleep open-mouthed on the
north side of the wall
'Twixt nones and vespers, in the
gloaming,
No honest woman goes a-roaming,
and Mistress Pina was the solitary
living soul to be seen wandering
across the country along the heated
stones of the narrow lanes or
through the parched stubble of the
immense fields that melted away in a
shimmering haze, far, far away to-
ward nebulous Etna, where the sky
sank to sleep on the horizon.
“Wake up!” the She-Wolf com-
manded Nanni, who was sleeping in
the ditch beside the dust-laden
hedge, with his head between his
arms. “Wake up, for I have
THE SHE-WOLF
381
brought you a wine that will slake
your thirst.”
Nanni stared up with misty eyes,
halfway between sleeping and wak-
ing; then finding her before him,
erect and pallid, with swelling breast
and eyes black like coals, he stretch-
ed out his arms uncertainly toward
her. Then:
“No, no!
“ ’Twixt nones and vespers, in • the
gloaming,
No honest woman goes a-roaming,”
sobbed Nanni, hiding his face
against the dried grass of the ditch,
as deep as he could, with his nails
in his hair. “Take yourself off, take
yourself off! Never come here again
to the threshing floor!”
She took herself off, indeed, the
She-Wolf, twisting up her superb
tresses and looking down fixedly at
her footsteps in the parched stubble,
with her eyes black like coals.
But to the threshing floor she
came back, time and time again, and
Nanni ceased to tell her nay; and
when she was late in coming ’ twixt
nones and vespers, in the hour of
gloaming, he would go and wait for
her, at the top of the little lane,
white and deserted, with the sweat
upon his brow—and afterward he
would bury his hands in his hair, and
repeat to her over and over:
“Take yourself off, take yourself
off! Never come back again to the
threshing floor!”
Maricchia was weeping night and
day, but whenever she saw her moth-
er coming back from the fields, al-
ways pallid and mute, she would in-
solently face her down, with eyes
scorching with tears and jealousy, a
veritable she-wolf’s whelp herself.
“You vile beast!” she would say.
“You vile beast of a mother!”
“Hold your tongue!”
“You thief! Oh, you thief!”
“Hold your tongue!”
“I’ll bring the police; yes, I will!”
“Bring them then I”
And she really did go and bring
them, with her children in her arms,
fearless and dry-eyed, like a mad-
woman, because now, at last, she too
loved this husband whom they had
given her by force, all foul and
greasy with the olives that had been
put to ferment.
They summoned Nanni to the po-
lice court and threatened him with
the galleys and the scaffold. Nanni
broke down and sobbed and tore out
the hair of his head. He denied
nothing, he attempted no sort of ex-
cuse.
“It is the temptation,” he kept
saying, “the temptation of hell it-
self!”
He cast himself at the feet of the
official, begging to be sent to the gal-
leys.
“Out of charity, Signor Officer,
take me away from the hell I live
in! Tell them to kill me or lock me
up in prison; but don’t let me see her
again—never, never again!”
“No!” was the She-Wolf’s deci-
sion, when the official argued with
her. “I reserved a corner of the
kitchen to sleep in, when I gave her
my house as a dower. The house is
mine. I won’t get out of it!”
Not long after Nanni was kicked
in the chest by a mule, and was like
to die; but the parish priest refused
to bring him the sacrament unless
the She-Wolf left the house. The
She-Wolf did leave the house, so
that her son-in-law could prepare to
make an end, even he, in good Chris-
tian fashion. He made confession
and received communion with such
signs of repentance and contrition
that all the neighbors and curious
idlers began to weep around the bed
of the dying man. And better would
it have been for him to die at that
time, before the devil returned to
tempt him and take possession of
him, body and soul, when he was
well again.
“Leave me in peace!” he kept
saying to the She-Wolf. “Out-of
charity, leave me in peace! I have
looked death straight in the eyes!
And there is poor Maricchia, half
mad with despair. And now the
whole land knows about it. The less
I see of you, the better it is for you
and for me.”
And it would have been well for
him to tear out his eyes, so as not to
see those of the She-Wolf; for
whenever her eyes looked into his
they destroyed him, body and soul.
He no longer knew what to do next,
to free himself from the spell she
cast. He paid mass after mass for
the souls in purgatory, and went to
seek aid from the parish priest and
from the police. At Easter he went
to confession and publicly did pen-
ance on the holy paving-stones in
front of the church. And then, when
the She-Wolf returned to tempt him,
“Listen!” he said to her. “Never
come again to the threshing floor,
because if you come again to seek
me, as truly as there is a God I will
kill you like a beast!”
“Kill me like a beast,” replied the
She-Wolf, “for all I care. But with-
out you I do not care to live.”
And when he saw her coming,
from far off, across the budding
green of new-sown fields, he paused
from pruning the vines and went to
take down his scythe from where it
hung upon the elm. The She-Wolf
saw him come to meet her, pallid
and staring-eyed, with his scythe
that gleamed in the sun; yet she
never shrank back a single step nor
lowered her glance, but came steadi-
ly toward him, her hands full of
great bunches of red poppies, her
black eyes devouring him alive.
“May your soul go straight to
hell!” said Nanni brokenly.
Nations have great men only in spite of themselves—like families. They
direct all their efforts to not having them. And thus, the great man
must have, in order to exist, a force of attack greater than the force of
resistance developed by millions of individuals.

Apropos of sleep, sinister adventure of all nights, it can be said that
men sleep every day with an audacity which would be unintelligible, did
we not know that it is the result of the ignorance of danger.
The Little Kanaka
By JOSEPH HERGESHEIMER
SHE was in a cellar, what, I be-
lieve, in a connection now lost,
was called a Keller, at the Hotel
Richmond. There were seven of
them on the platform, six men and
the girl, all from Hawaii. And,
while the men talked together, or
even smiled, she was silent and
grave. The ceiling was low, the
floor was laid in cement, and electric
fans tore into impalpable streamers
the dead penned air. They, the
Kanakas, were there to play for the
dancing, yet when they began the
heavy and stupid beat of a piano
drowned, practically, whatever deli-
cacy the strings of their guitars
might otherwise have held.
The piano, however, was neces-
sary to mark the beat to which the
shuffling couples danced; couples at
once young and without the gaiety
and freedom of youth, revolving, in
hideous and constricting clothes,
with blanched and empty faces. The
Kanaka girl’s face was still, but its
immobility was stamped with an un-
fathomable brown primitive mys-
tery. Yet it bore, as well, a per-
ceptible degree of memory, utterly
self-contained; a wondering, too
deep even for thought, at the
strangeness of fate. And the quali-
ty of that memory, in a cellar, on a
narrow platform of boards, in the
stirred exhausted air, created sud-
denly an illusion of the dazzling rush
of water and sun over the South
Seas.
I recalled how, in his memoir,
Captain Whalley spoke of making—
after the frozen unendurable wa'ste
of Cape Horn—the harbor of Pa-
peete; where, in a tropical and
heavenly calm of indigo and silver
and green, the Kanaka girls swam
out to the ship with hybiscus flowers
in their hair. How tragically lost
that moment was, not only for the
girl isolated in the hard glare of an
artificial incandescence, but for me as
well! That phase of romance, of
reward, was over; and the ruinous
compromise about us, emphasized
by the piano, only remained.
Then, out of the incongruous and
mingled stridor, the men’s voices
carried the burden of a song; and
somehow, it evaded the restrictions
of the West, the measure necessary
for the mechanical couples—its sus-
tained minor key, like the murmur
of a surf on the outer coral reef,
was native and harmonious and un-
regenerate. It escaped, returned to
the huts thatched with nipa palm, to
the simplicity of brief clearings be-
tween the high-lifted fronds of the
cocoanut palms and the sea. It went
back to an idyllic time before com-
mercial Christianity—or Christian
commerce?—had extended its lanes
of trade and finally introduced, into
far verdant islands, the doubtful ad-
vantages of the muskets, the diseases
and distilled grains of civilization.
But of all this, certainly the
Kanaka girl was ignorant, for her
emotions would be formless, un-
reasoned. Perhaps she was already
wholly destroyed by the forces, the
admirable progressive forces, to
which all primitive people were speci-
ally susceptible. Yet against that
possibility, against any conceivable
and debauched preferences, she was
invested with the charming melan-
choly of what had been beautiful and
had gone. Her intense black hair,
as solid as poured ink, twining across
her high cheek bones, her dwelling
eyes, a mouth wide and vivid and in-
nocently cruel, were immeasurably
richer than the so much later pallor
of the meagre faces—the dancing
at a pause—gathered about the
tables.
But success, victory, belonged to
the latter: the figures on the plat-
form, in white with soft red sashes,
were the servants of pleasure to the
industrious and the drained. The
army of mediocrity, sweeping from
land to land, and crossing all the
seas, was overwhelming with its en-
vious hypocrisy whatever was nat-
ural and superior, happy and true.
The conversion of the heathen, be-
gun in Cuba with Spanish steel,
through friendly islands in a barter-
ing creed, was being bravely carried
forward to its irrevocable end.
A waiter, stopping beside me, in-
formed me that the girl—the little
Kanaka—would dance at half-past
ten and again at a quarter to twelve.
And, paying for my coffee as hastily
as possible, I left; I fled, really,
from the accusing possibility of see-
ing her—in wreaths of dusty paper
flowers where there had once been
hybiscus—dance in a vulgar travesty
of the natural perfection she had
once possessed. I could not face her
standing in alien and tinsel slippers
on the cold floor of a cellar; an ob-
ject of no more than indecent curios-
ity. For, unavoidably, I too had
fetched her away from the perpetual
cool harsh rustle of the palms, into
a place, an existence, an hour, with-
out safety or any escape.

The more one wants, the better one wants.
The more one works, the better one works and the more one wants to
work.
The more one produces, the more productive one becomes.
After a debauch, one feels more alone, more abandoned.
They say I am thirty years old . . . but if I have lived three minutes in
each year, am I not ninety years old?
A Group of Poems
By BEN FINKLE
I
I saw with my own eyes,
Trees by the wayside rise
With wind and song
To greet the dawn,
And went along.
What is there left to say?
From where I stood
In the wet wood,
I saw it come
Out of a misty night,
And I am dumb.
II
A thousand white nights have been mine to see,
But only one stirs in my memory.
The doorway of our house was open wide,
And the shadow of an aspen slept by my side.
And a wind wandered into our house, astray,
Searched for escape but could not find his way;
All night he moaned and scraped till morning, grim,
Rose up and sat on him and strangled him.
III
It’s now a matter of two years,
Or maybe it is three
That May comes and even to fall
In love is not in me.
And I do marvellously well
Without it—as you see.
What can it be ?
What can it be?
IV
I have known the glee
Of running nakedly
Over a wooded plain
In a fierce rain,
And I was as
The wind and grass
And the wild things that rest
On the earth’s breast.
And O the joy I floundered through
That minute or two.
V
The wind breathed quietly,
The birds withheld their din,
As I dug the grave
My dog to bury in.
And now the grave is covered,
The debt is fully told,
With sand for the faithful eyes
And worms for the heart of gold.
VI
Never again will I dare walk
Through cherry orchards on those nights
When the snow of their first blossoming
On them alights.
There’s such a thing as too much joy
For one heart and for nine measures of talk.
VII
In the Princess’ garden,
At night, when the stars look,
The trees stand about like lords
Each in his powdered peruke.
In the Princess’ garden,
By night, when the wind is still,
It would seem that the high lords
Are going a quadrille.
Love
By IRMA GOERINGER
SHE wrote him:
Swear to me that you have never loved a woman as you love me;
that your soul yearns for me as a prisoner yearns for freedom; that your
being thirsts for me to the extreme of torment; that you will waste away
in despair if I do not come to you; that everything in you for good or
for evil is permeated with a desire for me; that you will be mine now and
forever, in life and in death. If you can swear that, then call me: Come!
I will obey, because I love you.
Weeks went by, she received no answer.
Then she wrote him:
Swear to me that you will be able to love no other woman as you love
me, that I alone can give you supreme happiness, that from this moment
you are willing to belong to me body and soul; that you are mine to-day,
and have long been only mine. If you can swear that, then call me:
Come! I will obey, because I love you much.
Weeks went by, she received no answer.
Thereupon she wrote him:
Swear to me that you have suffered on my account, that your soul and
your senses long more for me than for all the possessions of life; that
you are sad for me and joyful for me; that I can give you all that is
most precious. If you can swear that, then call me: Come! I will obey,
because I love you so much that I suffer torments for you.
Weeks went by, she received no answer.
Now she wrote him:
Tell me you are fond of me, that I can give you a little pleasure; that
for a single day I can bring joy to your existence, and that you will not
wholly forget me. If you can say that, then call me: Come! I will obey,
because I love you more than life.
The following day he called her: “Come!”
And as she stepped into his room with trembling, submissive love, he
sank before her on his knees, and kissed the hem of her garment.
“I love you as I have loved no woman before; my soul yearns for you as
a prisoner yearns for freedom; my being thirsts for you to the extreme of
torment; I have wasted away in despair because you did not come; every-
thing in me for good or for evil is permeated with a desire for you. Yours
I will be now and forever, in life and in death, yours, only yours.
“That I swear to you, my goddess, to-day, because, you love me as I love
you—Come!”

Negress
By PAUL REBOUX
She is as an ornament detached from some treasure chest whose wood,
polished each morning for four centuries, glistens with a metallic lustre.
Her hair clusters about her head like a nest of black moss, her eyes are
two jewels of yellow agate and onyx rolling languidly between long lashes,
her small, even-set teeth gleam in the parting of her brown, rose-bordered
lips.
Her breasts, like two encaustic bowls, surge away from each other. Her
shoulders and limbs are dappled orange in the lamplight. When the sun
shines, she garbs herself in its azure rays so that by looking at her alone
one might say the sky was blue.
The curve of her stomach and the arc of her thighs intersect at a point
duskier still, but when she dances, one can glimpse something like a fruit,
which, even at nightfall, retains the full splendour of its purple bloom.

On An Island
By JOHN SYNGE
You’ve plucked a curlew, drawn a hen,
Washed the shirts of seven men,
You’ve stuffed my pillow, stretched the sheet,
And filled the pan to wash your feet,
You’ve cooped the pullets, wound the clock,
And rinsed the young men’s drinking crock;
And now we’ll dance to jigs and reels,
Nailed boots chasing girls’ naked heels,
Until your father’ll start to snore,
And Jude, now you’re married, will stretch on the floor.
Mr. Handy’s Wife
By T. F. POWYS
MR. JOHN HANDY had one
real holiday a week. He al-
ways walked out on Saturday after-
noons to visit his sister who lived at
Maids Madder. Mr. Handy’s sis-
ter was Mrs. Jane Pelly, and she was
a widow. All the week Mr. Handy,
worked for Farmer Told in the Shel-
ton fields, but on Saturdays, at one
o’clock, Mr. Handy used to carry
his fork, or his hook, home with him
and hang up whichever he had used
that morning upon its proper nail in
his woodshed. Mr. Handy would
then carefully clean his heavy work-
day boots with a chip of wood, and
once or twice in the winter he threw
the little heap of mud, scraped from
his boots, into the garden with his
spade.
As soon as he had hung up his
tools and scraped his boots if they
were muddy, Mr. Handy would ad-
dress himself to the cobwebs in the
corner of his woodshed, and remark
aloud as if it were the first time he
had ever spoken to them—“I be go-
ing Madder way to visit sister.”
After telling this to the cobwebs,
Mr. Handy—a peaceful man of
forty, with a look of trustfulness
that matched his moustache—would
give himself a shake, as though to
shake off the serf and put on the
freedman, step into his cottage par-
lour, and await his dinner. The dis-
tance from Mr. Handy’s woodshed
to his parlour was but two yards, but
Mr. Handy would step these two
yards in a slow and easy manner that
showed the free-born Englishman,
and inform his wife, as he had the
cobwebs, that he was going to visit
his sister.
During his dinner, Mr. Handy
would look most admiringly at his
wife, Winnie, and chew gratefully as
though she were become a part of
the cheese that he ate. Mrs. Handy
knew, as every woman does, that she
was being watched lovingly and her
lips would look the redder, and the
contour of her bosom, as his eyes
followed her movements, became
more and more rounded and wo-
manly.
Winnie Handy used to lean over
the table to take away the loaf of
bread when he had cut what he
wanted, so that he might have a
nearer view of her comeliness, and
Mr. Handy would take advantage
of her nearness to look the more
kindly at her. . . .
It was the first Saturday in May.
Mr. Handy’s wife looked more
blooming than ever, and had just
leant over the table very near to
Mr. Handy to take the bread away.
“I do most days,” said Mr.
Handy, leaning back in his chair and
watching his wife, “see Thomas
Pickup and Polly Dent when I walk
to sister’s.” Mr. Handy gazed at
his wife’s apron and she blushed.
“Thee’s mother,” said Mr. Handy,
addressing his three children—all
little girls, under ten, who had run
into the room from the lane with
their hands full of cowslips—“thee’s
mother be a woman. An’ a woman
that I do mind when I be out.' Now
look at she.”
Winnie Handy was putting away
the plates. Every movement that
she made was a sure and evident in-
dication that she knew how to enjoy
and be enjoyed by a man.
“I do talk to Mr. Pickup about
’ee, Winnie,” said Mr. Handy, “for,
even when I be stepping on they lit-
tle loose stones in road, I do mind
’ee.”
“Thee don’t tell too much about
me, I do hope,” said Winnie, laugh-
ing. "Thee don’t tell none of they
folk about . . .”
“No, no,” replied Mr. Handy,
“they be secrets that a walking man
don’t never tell.”
“And when thee be gone to sis-
ter’s,” said Mr. Handy’s wife, turn-
ing to look out of the window, “I do
put the children to bed and clean the
room we do sleep in.”
“But we baint asleep,” said Bessy,
the youngest of the children, “when
our Daddy do come in.”
“Oh, yes, ’ee be,” said Mrs.
Handy, bidding the children eat up
their dinner.
Mr. Handy now busied himself in
preparing for his departure. First,
he took off his coat and shaved him-
self before a tiny glass, placed upon
the window sill. After that was over
and he had carefully wiped and put
away his razor, he walked up the
seven shaky steps to the bedroom
and dressed himself in his Sunday
clothes that his wife had laid ready
for him.
Feeling himself so much the
grander by the change, he stepped
gently down the stairs, put on his
Sunday boots, and took up his black,
holiday walking-stick—a wedding
present from his wife—and regard-
ed it for a moment in silent pride.
Having done all according to his
Saturday custom, Mr. Handy said
quietly, “I be going to sister’s,” and
went by his wife who was washing
the plates, and so out of the cottage
door.
In the lane, beside the garden
gate, Mr. Handy stopped. He had
no need to hurry and he listened.
The distant sound of a military
band, from the camp that was about
six miles away, came to him.
This sound gave no kind of in-
formation to Mr. Handy, other than
that the wind was in the north, and
so the afternoon was likely to be
fine. It was only a habit of Mr
Handy’s to wait for a moment be-
side his own gate before he ventured
out into the lane. Perhaps he wished
the little birds in the cottage hedge
to admire the wonderful shine he
had given to the boots that he al-
ways cleaned before he set out to
work on Monday mornings.
While Mr. Handy yet looked
back, Bessy ran out of the house and
fled, as fast as she could go, round
the little garden with her mother af-
ter her.
“ ’Taint time to go to bed yet,”
Bessy called. “All t’other children
be out to play, and ’taint time to
push we into bedroom.”
Mr. Handy’s wife now caught
Bessy and stopped her from saying
any more with a good shaking.
Mr. Handy smiled. He walked
down the lane in his Saturday man-
ner, continuing his way through Shel-
ton village until he reached the cot-
tage where Mr. Pickup lived. Had
Mr. Handy not seen Mr. Pickup in
his garden he would have only
passed by, remarking to himself that
“some folk baint always where they
be expected”—but this time Mr.
Handy had no need to say so, for
Mr. Pickup was where he expected
him to be—beside his garden wall.
Though Mr. Pickup was there
there was something unusual about
him. Mr. Pickup had his right arm
in a sling. Mr. Handy hit a poppy
bud that grew under the wall with
his walking-stick.
“What ’ave ’ee been a-doing ‘to
thee’s arm?” he inquired, regarding
Mr. Pickup with a grave, though a
holiday, interest.
“ ’Twere done,” replied Mr. Pick-
Up, looking with extreme concern at
his arm, “at Madder Inn when they
soldiers were talking—and thee be
going they Madder ways, too, by the
look of ’ee.”
Mr. Handy gazed up the road.
Even with a bad arm, he supposed
Mr. Pickup would speak as expect-
ed. Mr. Pickup softly drew nearer
to the wall. Presently, he spoke.
“Thee’ve left something at home
that be the best part of ’ee,” said
Mr. Pickup. “An' when thee two
be together something do happen.”
Mr. Handy opened his mouth
widely, but he did not laugh.
“Winnie,” he said, “be made dif-
ferent to I, and ’tis thik difference
that do interest.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Pickup. “Thee
can be merry when church clock do
strike.”
Mr. Handy expected that to come
and looked pleased.
“Thee do pass here most Satur-
days,” observed Mr. Pickup after a
silence of five minutes, during which
Mr. Handy employed his eyes in
gazing at his friend’s wounded arm.
Mr. Pickup looked at his arm, too,
as if that member, through its injury,
had become an alien part of him that
he was obliged to nurse through
necessity.
“They soldiers don’t fancy being
called liars,” Mr. Pickup said, nod-
ding at his arm apologetically. “But
who be 'ee a-going to see at Mad-
der? There be Polly Dent who do
live by the pond. Don’t Winnie
mind thee a-going they ways ?”
“She do know,” replied Mr.
'Handy, “that Polly don’t earn no
shilling from I in Grange meadow,
for 'tis to sister’s I do walk on Sat-
urdays.”
Mr. Pickup raised his bandaged
arm and groaned.
“Soldiers be fighters, as well as
liars,” he said, mournfully.
Mr. Handy moved his feet; he
changed his walking-stick from one
hand to the other and began to walk.
Mr. Pickup entered his cottage. He
was going to tell his wife all that
Mr. Handy had said.
The afternoon sun shone kindly.
Even the air was visible—hot and
simmering—over the meadows. The
delicious odour of clover blossoms
scented the air. But Mr. Handy
cared for none of these things; he
had only thoughts for his wife, Win-
nie. He had never spoken in a lov-
ing manner to any but she. When
he was but a boy he had planted a
willow twig in his father’s garden
upon the evening when, after an ex-
citing chase, he had first kissed Win-
nie. He had watched the twig grow,
and Winnie grew, too—and never in
any Sunday walk with her had John
Handy behaved unbecomingly.
“They naughty ways baint for
we,” he used to say, “for there be
thee’s wedding frock and the ring
to talk of.”
During the afternoon walk upon
the wedding day Mr. Handy began
to be a little freer in his manners,
but Winnie resisted him.
“Oh, I baint Polly Dent,” she
said, “and thee had best wait till
bedtime do come.”
“I did only mistake the hour,” re-
plied Mr. Handy.
When the wedding night came,
and afterwards, too, Mr. Handy
could never admire his wife enough,
and would bless himself that so many
wonders that go to make a pretty
woman were all his, and his alone, to
do as he chose with.
“Ah!” he said, when he saw his
first child nursed at the breast,
“Thee’s mother ’ave all that be
proper to feed ’ee. . . .”
Mr. Handy walked along in the
dust of the road. The sun shone
upon him and a cuckoo flew lazily
over him, perched in a tree, and be-
gan to call.
“ ’Tis a bird,” said Mr. Handy.
Mr. Handy always liked to mark
 the difference between this holiday
walk and those other journeys that,
in the way of his profession, he made
to the fields. He would show himself
this difference by stopping some-
times.
He stopped now beside a deep
roadside pond, where a willow tree
grew. A moorhen fed under the
willow with its family of chicks.
“Birds!” said Mr. Handy.
But these birds were not all that
Mr. Handy saw in the pond, for the
surface of the water was clear in the
May sunshine, and John Handy saw
himself reflected in it. After gazing
at himself for a few moments, Mr.
Handy remarked:
“They waters do know I for a
married man.”
To show the waters, perhaps, that
he was careless and idle, as well as
married, Mr. Handy dipped his stick
into the pond in order to see if he
could feel the bottom. He felt noth-
ing, but in reaching down he nearly
overbalanced and fell into the pond.
He recovered himself instantly, but
at the same moment looked round
to see if anyone had noticed his fool-
ishness. Polly Dent was just behind
him. She had slipped out of her
cottage without being heard.
“He! he! he!” sniggered Polly,
“thee’s Winnie baint done what she
shouldn’t to make ’ee try drown
theeself ? If that be what ’ave hap-
pened, ’tis best thee do come a little
way wi’ I into meadow.”
Mr. Handy regarded Polly criti-
cally.
“I baint used to no scarecrows,”
he said. “What I do keep at home
be a woman.”
Polly would have replied angrily,
only the north wind brought again
the sound of the band from the
camp.
“Ah!” she said, “ ’tis time I do
go and clean meself, for no soldiers
be rude to a happy maid. . . .”
The people of Madder had grown
used to seeing Mr. Handy walk that
way upon a Saturday to his sister’s
cottage, that was near to the church.
Arid so Mrs. Squibb merely remark-
ed to her cat:
“John Handy be a little late to-
day. ’Tis most likely ’e did meet
someone down road.”
Mr. Handy’s sister had two Gods
upon earth—her best chair and her
strawberry bed. She had set times
to do her housework and a set time
to weed her strawberries, and when
she had done she would regard both
her Gods—after dusting the one and
weeding the other—with an angry
eye, and watch their behaviour. Mr.
Pelly was now in her garden, looking
at the strawberries. She had found
a snail in the bed and crushed it un-
der her foot.
“They strawberries do grow,”
said Mr. Handy, “an’ ’tis nice ’ee
have ’em, sister, but all same I do
know where a strawberry do bide
that be always a ripe one.” 
“I suppose thee be come to Mad-
der for a cup of tea,” remarked
Mrs. Pelly.
She wished her brother to stand
there a little to be noticed in his Sun-
day clothes by any passer-by. She
bent down and searched amongst the
white flowers, and at last discovered
another snail. Mr. Handy watched
her with approval when she crushed
the snail, and then followed her into
the cottage, looking down at his
boots.
Mr. Handy sat beside the table.
“Thee baint Winnie,” he said.
“How be they children?” inquired
Mrs. Pelly.
“Winnie were just a-catching
one,” replied Mr. Handy innocent-
ly, “as I did step into lane.”
“She don’t never put they toads
to bed in the afternoon, do she?”
asked Mrs. Pelly, snappishly.
“Oh! yes, she do,” replied Mr.
Handy. “She do put they into the
little bedroom and then she do clear
the big one.”
Mrs. Pelly looked at her brother
in horror.
“No woman ever cleans a bed-
room on Saturday,” she said, decid-
edly. “ ’Twas on Friday that God
created great whales, and ’tis on a
Friday that all good people do scrub
bedrooms.”
“God’s ways baint Winnie’s,” re-
plied Mr. Handy, with a knowing
look.
Mr. Handy fumbled in his pocket,
searching for something that had got
into the lining of his trousers. At
last he found what he. sought and
drew out a new shilling and showed
it to his sister.
“ ’Taint often that I do go home
merry,” he said, “and so I be going
to spend thik at ‘Soldier’s Return’.”
Mrs. Pelly looked surprised.
“Did Winnie give ’ee the shil-
ling?” she asked.
“ ’Tis to send I back to she, hap-
py,” said Mr. Handy.
Mrs. Pelly looked, with sudden
horror, at her best chair. Every
Saturday she used to carry this
plush-covered chair upstairs, for fear
her brother might sit upon it—for
even his Sunday clothes were some-
times a little dusty. She now noticed
that she had forgotten to move the
chair.
Mr. Handy had finished his tea.
His sister had given him a wooden
chair to sit upon but he now rose
and looked at the grander one.
“Oh!” said Mrs. Pelly, excitedly,
“look out of window at they soldiers
going by.”
Mr. Handy took no notice and
prepared to seat himself.
“The shilling,” exclaimed Mrs.
Pelly, “baint thee going to spend
thik?” She took her brother’s arm
and drew him to the door.
“ ’Tis most likely they soldiers
will treat ’ee, too. They be going
to public,” she said.
Mr. Handy paused for a moment
beside the strawberries.
“ ’Tis a fruit,” he said slowly,
“that I do much admire.”
As soon as he was safe out of her
gate, Mrs. Pelly hurried into her
cottage and knelt thankfully down
beside her best chair.
Madder Hill now cast a shadow
that covered a part of the road to
the inn. In this shadow Mr. Squibb
was standing, who informed Mr.
Handy that he believed the weather
would change.
“A cloud be come already,” he
said.
Mr. Handy entered the inn and
asked for some drink. He sat near
to the bar window, tasted his drink,
and looked out into the lane. Mr.
Squibb was still standing there, in the
shadow of the hill, telling any who
happened to pass him that the rain
was coming.
Mr. Handy emptied his mug, ask-
ed to have it filled again, smiled, and
said softly to himself:
“Sister didn’t fancy I sitting on
she’s easy chair. ’Tis well Winnie
baint so particular.”
There were three soldiers drink-
ing in the bar, but Mr. Handy did
not heed them. Outside were the
birds, foolish Mr. Squibb, and the
pleasant fields of Madder. Mr.
Handy felt the happiness of one who
enjoys all that he needs. God who
had made the great whales, as his
sister had told him, on Friday, had
also a little later made Winnie,
whom Mr. Handy called in his heart
not his wife alone but his home.
The beer warmed Mr. Handy.
He already fancied himself going
home to her. But he would purpose-
ly be a little later than usual in get-
ting home, but, once there, he would
take off his boots, open the stairway
door and call out:
“There baint no woman in bed, be
there ? for someone be a-coming."
Mr. Handy finished his beer and
now, for the first time since he had
been at the inn, he looked at the
soldiers and listened to what they
were saying. There were three of
them and they were talking about a
woman.
One of the soldiers was a thick,
sturdy man, with a broad back, who,
being sat down, seemed to cover half
a form. The other two were well-
shaped men, strong and lusty, and
they all had the same kind of boast-
ful look and insolent manner. They
were beginning to talk loudly, in the
manner of soldiers, who like to shout
and quarrel when they are drinking.
The short one was the most angry
because the others didn’t believe
what he said, when he told them that
he knew the woman that they were
speaking of as well as they.
“I’ve been with her a hundred
times,” he shouted with an oath,
“and I know well enough what she
wants when she unties her apron
strings.”
“Damn you, no! You’ve never
been to her,” said one of the others,
angrily. “It’s a hard place to find
and we two have always kept the
knowledge of her to ourselves.”
Mr. Handy turned from the win-
dow. He listened attentively to what
the soldiers were saying. He believed
their quarrel would make a nice
story to tell to Winnie when he
reached home, for, though she was
so well-behaved, she liked to hear a
story now and again.
“We’ll all go together,” growled
the angry soldier, “on next Saturday,
for that’s the only day she can have
us. I’ve come from her now.”
“Another b----- woman, but not
her!” shouted the others.
“I tell you it’s the same,” the short
one growled fiercely. “She has a
birthmark—a ripe strawberry—
upon her body.”
Mr. Handy sprang up, he stag-
gered, he uttered a great cry—“My
wife. My wife!”—and fell in a heap
upon the floor.

Why democrats do not like cats is easy to guess. The cat is beautiful;
he reveals ideas of luxury, of cleanliness, of voluptuousness, etc.
Man, that is to say, every one, is naturally so depraved that he suffers less
from the universal debasement than from the establishment of a hierarchy
of reason.

Woman is the opposite from the dandy. Therefore she should be held
in horror.
Woman is hungry and she desires to eat; thirsty, and she desires to drink.
She is. . . .
How meritorious!
Woman is natural, that is, abominable.
And she is always vulgar.

Analysis of counter-religions: examples, sacred prostitution.
What is sacred prostitution?
Nervous excitement.
Mysticism of paganism. Mysticism, link between paganism and Chris-
tianity.
Superstition is the reservoir of all truths.
The Mysterious Case of
Mr. Perkins and Mr. Johnson
By MARTIN ARMSTRONG
THERE were once two gentle-
men called Mr. Perkins and
Mr. Johnson who were great trav-
ellers. And they travelled so far
and into lands so foreign and un-
couth that they found themselves at
last in a country full of devils and
wizards and in an hotel without a
bathroom. “And so,” said they, “we
must go to the public baths.” 
So they went to the public baths.
And as they sat in the waiting-room,
waiting until baths should be vacant
for them, they fell into a dilemma as
to how each should know when the
other had finished bathing. And at
length Mr. Perkins, being the more
resourceful of the two, propounded
the following scheme. “If,” said he,
“I do not find you in this waiting-
room when I have finished my bath,
I shall gather that you have not fin-
ished yours. But if, on the other
hand, I find you sitting here already,
I shall conclude that you have fin-
ished and that we can both go away
without more ado.”
“But what about me?” asked Mr.
Johnson.
“That,” answered Mr. Perkins,
“is equally simple. For if you find
me waiting, you may be sure that I
have already finished and that we
can go away forthwith: but if you
do not find me here you will know
that I am still in my bathroom and
you will sit down and wait for me
patiently.”
Mr. Johnson thought for a mo-
ment. “But what am I to think,”
said he, “if I find someone sitting
here who is not you?”
“That,” answered Mr. Perkins,
“will have no bearing on the case.”
No sooner had Mr. Perkins thus
made all things plain, than the keep-
er of the baths came to say that two
bathrooms were now ready, and Mr.
Perkins and Mr. Johnson went into
their allotted bathrooms and the
doors were closed.
But in his bathroom Mr. Johnson
was assailed by perplexing thoughts
and ruminations, so that the delight
of sliding into hot water was blunted
for him and the delicious sense of
emerging into cleanliness was be-
numbed, for he kept saying to him-
self: “Something may occur in this
matter for which we have not made
provision.”
But after that space of time which
is necessary for the achievement of
perfect cleanliness, Mr. Johnson is-
sued from his bathroom and pro-
ceeded down the passage to the wait-
ing-room: and he could see in the
waiting-room a pair of legs protrud-
ing from a chair. And he said to
himself:	“Those	are the legs of
Perkins, who has been sparing with
the soap and so has finished first.”
But when he had reached the
waiting-room and looked into the
chair he sprang back with a loud and
fearful exclamation, for—horror of
horrors—seated in that chair was
not Perkins but his very self, to wit,
Johnson. And he became cold all
over.
But when he had collected, himself
a little, he approached that Other in
the chair, which was himself, and, by
way of clearing things up, asked
it: “Are you by any chance waiting
for me?”
“Do not ask foolish questions,”
replied the Other. “For how can a
man wait for himself? I am waiting
for Perkins, as we arranged three-
quarters-of-an-hour ago before going
to our baths.”
“But I too arranged in a similar
way to wait for Perkins,” said John-
son.”
“That,” said the Other, “cannot
be, because no third party was in-
volved.”
At these words Mr. Johnson shud-
dered, for it seemed that his identity
was slipping away from him. Then
he remembered that the number of
his bathroom was 13, and the re-
membrance of that number came to
him as a ray of hope, for if he could
prove that he and he alone had occu-
pied that bathroom during the last
three-quarters of an hour, it would
surely be some sort of a proof of his
identity. So, trembling with eager-
ness, he asked the Other:
“Tell me, what was the number of
your bathroom?”
“The number of my bathroom,”
said the Other, “was 13. I left it
ten minutes ago.”
Again Mr. Johnson shuddered
and the horror of madness came
upon him, for now it seemed that
his identity hung by the merest
thread. “At least,” he said finally,
“when Perkins comes out we shall
hear from his own lips which of us
he is looking for.”
Now as they talked, a third person
had come from one of the bathrooms
into the waiting-room. He was a
tall person, with beard, moustaches,
and eyebrows of an extreme fierce-
ness, and he sat and watched the
other two and listened to their con-
versation with a saturnine amuse-
ment.
But after a few minutes a bolt was
shot, the door opened, and Perkins
came out into the passage and so to
the waiting-room.
Instantly Johnson and the Other
arose and, speaking in perfect uni-
son, they asked him: “Which of us,
Perkins, are you looking for?”
But Perkins scowled at the two
and replied: “I am looking for nei-
ther of you, but for Johnson here.”
And, taking the arm of the fierce-
looking gentleman who had also
risen, he disappeared with him into
the street without further parley,
leaving those two others with open
mouths and staring eyes.
And after they had managed to
pull themselves together, they dis-
cussed the situation at some length:
and the results of their discussion
were, firstly that, whichever of them
was Johnson and whichever was not,
at least it was certain that he with
whom Perkins had departed was em-
phatically not Johnson: and secondly
that both of themselves were obvi-
ously the real Johnson, unhappily
split into two by some local devilry.
And they laid their heads together
as to how to reduce themselves to
unity again. And finally they de-
cided to draw lots and that the one
on whom the lot fell should return
to number 13 bathroom and drown
himself in the bath. So Johnson and
the Other drew lots: and the lot fell
to the Other. And they repaired to
number 13 bathroom and, with the
help of Johnson, the Other drowned
himself in the bath as arranged.
And as the bubbles ceased to rise,
Johnson felt himself invaded by a
flood of energy and reassurance, and_
he smacked himself on the chest,
saying: “Good! I feel that I am
quite myself again.” So saying, he
drew out the plug of the bath and
the Other passed out through the
waste-pipe.
Then taking his hat and stick, Mr.
Johnson hurried out to the rescue of
Mr. Perkins who, bewitched by some
local devilry, had so unfortunately
gone out for a walk with a wizard
disguised as a gentleman with fierce
eyebrows.
Queens

By JOHN SYNGE
Seven dog-days we let pass
Naming Queens in Glenmacnass,
All the rare and royal names
Wormy sheepskins yet retains:
Etain, Helen, Maeve, and Fand,
Golden Deirdre’s tender hand;
Bert, the big-foot, sung by Villon,
Cassandra, Ronsard found in Lyon.
Queens of Sheba, Meath and Connaught,
Coifed with crown, or gaudy bonnet;
Queens whose finger once did stir men,
Queens were eaten of fleas and vermin,
Queens men drew like Mona Lisa,
Or slew with drugs in Rome and Pisa.
We named Lucrezia Crivelli,
And Titian's lady with amber belly,
Queens acquainted in learned sin,
Jane of Jewry’s slender shin:
Queens who cut the bogs of Glanna,
Judith of Scripture, and Gloriana,
Queens who wasted the East by proxy,
Or drove the ass-cart, a tinker’s doxy.
Yet these are rotten—I ask their pardon—
And we’ve the sun on rock and garden;
These are rotten, so you’re the Queen
Of all are living or have been.
The Hand
By M. L. SKINNER
IT was winter, and bitter cold
when the sun was hidden. Then
there was little doing in the mining-
town hospital back there in Western
Australia. The evenings were long,
the light from the old kereosene
lamp dim to read by, and the Ma-
tron was good at telling a story.
She had been through the war,
but it was not of her war-time ex-
periences we persuaded her to talk,
rather of her days in Australia, in
peace. We would draw our slippery
leather chairs to the fire, and ask her
how she had come to be a matron so
young, and how she had got herself
appointed to those posts way back in
the interior, where she had managed
so well.
“I was trained young,” she told us
modestly. ‘‘And then my father was
a doctor; he suggested my taking a
course in dispensing. That was how
I dropped into these positions. You
see, there are no chemists out back
there, and if there is a doctor, he
has no time for dispensing. So I
could do it.”
“It was an awfully lonely life for
a young nurse.”
“I loved it.” 
“But weren’t you ever frighten-
ed?”
“Of what?”
“Well—the loneliness! And bad
white men, and bad blacks! Or pa-
tients in delirium! Or some awful
maternity case you couldn’t handle!”
“I didn’t think about it. I did
what I could. I was frightened
once, though: and that, really, by a
nurse screaming. A nurse shouldn’t
scream.”
We agreed in silence.
“It was in that outpost hospital
between Ashthorp and Boolong, out
there on the far edge of the gold-
fields, twenty miles from Ashthorp
and thirty from Boolong—a rough
half-way. We served both the min-
ing camps—as well as the settlers.
It’s a great sheep country, and the
station people used to call in and
give us Coo-ee! when they were
going down to the coast.
“It wasn’t so longely. There
were two nurses and a cook on the
staff, as well as myself. Then the
big well, with the water-supply for
everybody, and the half-way house,
and a blacksmith’s, and the public-
house, all lay in a jumble between
the railway and the road. The pub-
lican had a wife and a boy, and the
blacksmith’s wife had three little
girls. The trail came through, from
up-country, and every buggy or
wagon stopped at the blacksmith’s,
or at the public-house—or at the
hospital. We weren’t so lonely, at
all.
“They were fine people, the peo-
ple from the sheep stations, as a
rule: brought us eggs and poultry
and mutton, and kangaroo and wild
turkeys, going down; and coming
back from the coast the newspapers,
and books, and chocolates.
“Nurse Hammer—you remember
her, don’t you, Hammer?—she was
a regular town girl, weak; while
Nurse Smith was a staunch little
thing. They were both in the men’s
ward this particular evening, play-
ing cards. The hospital was a wood-
en, ramshackle L-shaped bungalow,
without fence or anything, lying
open to the bush on one side, the
road on the other side, the railways
going beyond the road, and some-
body’s boundary fence beyond the
railway. The men’s ward was at
the bend of the L, and our bedrooms
opened out on to the verandah on
one wing, the kitchen and stores
round at the other end.
“This night I am telling you
about, I was sitting doing accounts
in my room, and my mind kept
wandering—I am like that—very
practical, really—and then liable to
feel things in the air, that other peo-
ple aren’t aware of. My father
called it ‘unwarranted inference,'
and told me to taboo it. But it gets
hold of me sometimes; and this eve-
ning I was uneasy and aware of
’something’; I could not get on with
my work.
“It was hot, all the doors were
open on to the verandah. The
moon was up, a brilliant white night,
white and black, and still. From
where I sat I could see the bush,
mysterious under the bright moon,
drawing itself into itself, as if the
blazing hot sun had been enough,
without the moon. It fascinated me,
but I could understand why the
blacks are so terrified after sun-
down. It is frightening.
“I wanted to get on with my work,
and ignore the night, but I kept stop-
ping and staring outside, just gazing.
I could hear the nurses laughing and
chatting with the patients: and an
old mo’poke booing; a most reassur-
ing sound. And I knew that cook
was not far off, out on the wood
heap perhaps, with her young man,
a respectable sandalwood-getter who
was ‘in’ from his camp with a load
of trucking. The sounds I imagined
could not come from them, because
if there was any sound at all it was
a creeping, held breathing, a stifled
sound. I heard nothing, really, but
I made myself get up and look along
the verandah, and round the clear-
ing. Shadowy emptiness was all
there was, except that I saw the mo’-
poke who had been sitting on a
stump fly away. So I went back to
the table and tried to add up those
figures. My little clock chimed ten,
and I heard Nurse Hammer coming
to bed. There came the sound of
her match striking, and suddenly a
blood-curdling scream. I jumped
from my chair and down from the
verandah to the ground, running till
I came into the lamp-light that flood-
ed out from the ward. I could not
have gone along the shadowy ve-
randah itself, after that terrible
scream. But my instant thought was
to reach the patients. One had just
recovered from an attack of D. T.s,
and I had him immediately in mind.
But it wasn’t Sam Jones. He met
me with a sheepish grin—not even
upset. The other men were all right,
THE HAND
401
rousing up from their pillows with
inquiring glances. Sam had slipped
into his dungarees, and both he and
Nurse Smith looked at me with re-
lief, as if my presence in the door-
way would solve the mystery. But
all relief vanished in the moment,
for the stream was repeated. We
all stood paralyzed, until Nurse
Smith gasped: ‘Hammer!’ Then
we all ran along the verandah to-
gether to her room. There was no
light coming from her open door,
though I had distinctly heard her
strike a match; but terror seemed
to sweep out of it like a blast of
cold wind. ‘Hammer!’ cried Nurse
Smith, and then in the gloaming we
could see the figure of the girl,
standing motionless by the bed.
‘Wait a minute,' said Nurse Smith,
and she ran back to get the hurri-
cane lantern, while I went in and
put my arms round Nurse Hammer.
She began to sob: 'I can’t move! I
can’t move! Something has got me
by the foot.’ I felt the terror ema-
nating from her, and I went cold.
“ ‘Hurry up with the lantern!’ I
called. ‘There’s a snake in the room.’
" ‘Is it a snake?' panted Ham-
mer. ‘It feels like something else.’
“ ‘Hurry with the lantern!’ I cried
again.
“ ‘It has let go!’ whispered Nurse
Hammer, but she did not move, and
I felt as if some dreadful thing
would rise in the dark and envelop
us both. Sam Jones remained like a
ghost in the doorway, but when
Nurse Smith brought the lantern he
took it from her and lit it, then
swung it round the room. There
was nothing unusual to be seen, and
I grew hot with shame that Nurse
Hammer had made such a fool of
us all. The Government-issue of
chest of drawers stood solidly under
the window, the stark washstand by
the door. The low bed was un-
touched. ‘Under the bed!’ gasped
Nurse Hammer, still clinging to me.
Dipping the lantern to look, it went
out, and there we were in the dark
again. In horrifying silence Sam
lit it, then he lifted the hanging ride
of the quilt. The naked arm of a
man and a pair of glowing, lowering
eyes were disclosed. You cannot
imagine how terrifying this sight
was! Nurse Smith shuddered and
gripped Nurse Hammer, and they
moved slowly backward to the door.
But Sam, intensely interested, stood
by me. I knelt down and was going
to put my hand on the bare white
arm when it lifted, and the hand
clasped mine. That handclasp! How
can I describe it! It was not con-
sciously friendly, yet it was confid-
ing, like a child’s hand seeking mine.
At the same time it dismayed me,
like the hand of a friendly, disem-
bodied spirit that had reached from
the gloom and touched me. I saw
the eyes, and a face bluey brown
with beard, sun-blistered, and ex-
hausted, and I saw that the man was
naked. And I knew that here was
one who had been lost in the bush,
and who had crept in here, perhaps
too late to be saved.
“I said to Sam quietly enough:
‘Give me some water in the tooth
tumbler, and then tell nurse to get a
bed ready and bring a sleeping-suit
to put on him.'
“But the poor creature under the
bed was too exhausted or uncon-
scious to take the water, so we drag-
ged him out. I put the glass to his
lips, while Sam went to carry out my
bidding. The man drank and real-
ised he was drinking. Suddenly he
sat up and went mad for more. I
was kneeling, and he wrestled with
me, for I dared not give him more.
Fear smothered me for a moment.
He was strong in demented spas-
modic desire for water. Then he
suddenly fell back limp, with closed
eyes, and I felt only sorry for
him.
“ ‘He’s dying!' said Sam, in an
awestruck voice, as he and the nurses
returned, their terror and dismay
gone. Here, now, were the women
to attend him....”

In morals as in physiology, I have always had the sensation of the abyss,
not only of the abyss of sleep, but of the abyss of action, of dream, of
remembrance, of desire, of regret, of remords, of beauty, of number. . . .
I have cultivated my hysteria with joy and terror.. Now, I always have
vertigo, and today, January 23, 1862, I have undergone a singular warn-
ing; I have felt the wind of the wing of imbecility pass over me.
At each minute we are obliterated by the idea and the sensation of time.
And there are only two ways of escape from this nightmare, of forgetting
it: pleasure and work. Pleasure uses us. Work fortifies us. Let us
choose.
George Sand is one of those old ingenues who wish never to leave the
boards. Lately I read a preface ... in which she maintains that a true
Christian can not believe in Hell. She has good reasons for wishing to
suppress Hell.
What is love?
The need to escape from oneself. Man is an adoring animal. To adore
is to sacrifice and prostitute oneself. And all love is prostitution.
Wisdom is known only by contrasting it with folly; by shadow only we
perceive that all visible objects are not flat. Yet Philanthropos would
abolish evil!

Woman’s courage is ignorance of danger; man’s is hope of escape.
Boy At A Prayer-Meeting
By JOHN W. COULTER
Arthur mcMaster, clasp-
ing his mother’s hand, turned
  out of the noise and glare of Mill
Street and entered the school-room
porch, where a single gas-jet glim-
mered on shabby paint and chipping
plaster, and on the pile of Sankey’s
hymn-books by the inner door. Care-
fully they wiped their muddy feet on
the mat, and paused then a moment
to compose themselves before going
on into the meeting.
  As always, but particularly on
prayer-meeting nights, Mrs. Mc-
Master’s manner was quiet and a
little sad; but Arthur was lifted up
with a secret excitement. This he
had tried to conceal from his moth-
er : but she had seen the furtive light
in his eye, and his flushed cheek; had
noticed now he would chatter a while
and then suddenly fall silent. And
in Arthur’s hearing she had spoken
of this to Mr. Williams, the minis-
ter, saying with a sort of pride that
nothing pleased her boy half so
much as the thought of going to the
prayer-meeting. “Ah, indeed now !"
the minister had replied. “Surely a
goodly and gracious sign in one so
young,” saying it a little pompously,
but at the same time patting Ar-
thur’s head kindly, and smiling down
on him through gold-rimmed spec-
tacles. So Arthur knew that al-
though his mother had seen, she had
not understood: his secret had es-
caped even the minister’s beaked
gaze.
Now he followed his mother into
the meeting and tip-toed across the
bare floor to the benches ranked in
front of reading-desk and harmoni-
um. Most of the usual people were
already in their usual places; but a
swift shy glance showed Arthur that
the instrument was still unopened.
It fell bleakly upon him that Miss
Mabel, who played the instrument,
had not arrived, that to-night she
might not come at all. He bowed
his head to ask God’s blessing on the
meeting; but he was not praying,
but only holding his eyes very tight-
ly closed against the desolation shed
by the closed instrument. He kept
his head down thus as long as he
dared, listening intently for the swift
footfall out in the porch, but hear-
ing only the slow tick, tack, of the
clock, filling the room that in imag-
ination had drawn him, all the long
afternoon, as to a place strangely
warm and bright and welcoming, but
that now was chilling and gloomy as
a cave.
He looked up at last, and there
was the unopened instrument and the
clock with the minute hand almost at
eight.
Now it was eight.
One minute past.
Two minutes.
Three.
Yet the minister still sat with his
legs crossed, polishing his glasses.
With a sudden flurry Arthur under-
stood that the minister had known
Miss Mabel would be late to-night.
Yet why had they not opened the in-
strument?
Four minutes past.
Five.
Arthur could not be still. He
shifted his seat on the hard knotted
bench and looked at the old people
sitting around him, so patient, so
quiet, withdrawn and hidden within
themselves in some dark depth of
which the mere thought vaguely
troubled him. There was Mrs.
Mawhinney in her jet-spangled bon-
net and black beady cape. And Miss
Cairns, her thin bristly chin, as it
munched, munched at nothing, al-
most touching her nose, like calipers.
But her old eyes were closed in their
pouches and her knuckly red hands
were folded over the Bible and
hymn-book in her lap. And old Mr.
Martin, with the ugly wadding stuck
untidily in his ear . . .
Ah, but what was the sexton do-
ing now, whispering to the minister?
Now he was opening the instru-
ment, setting the music book on the
rack. He had been watching for
Miss Mabel, and now she was com-
ing. Oh, it was her quick step in the
porch!
Arthur felt his cheeks blazing and
his heart pounding, and almost fear-
ed that the heedless old people
would turn out of their dark dreams
and stare at him and betray him to
Miss Mabel. She was tripping
across to her seat at the instrument,
flushed and smiling a little, and a
little out of breath. She was bowing
her head in prayer. She was draw-
ing off her gloves and glancing at
the list of hymns the minister had
given her. To Arthur the huge dim
cavern of the school-room was flood-
ed with her bright presence: he was
enfolded, safe.
The opening hymn was announced,
and the old people rose, slowly, and,
slowly, began singing “There is a
fountain filled with blood.” The
image of the fountain of blood with
the sinners plunging in had once
flashed upon Arthur with such dread-
ful realism that night by night for
weeks afterwards it had haunted his
dreams and made him morbid and
ill. But tonight the words had no
terror for him: he was standing
small and quiet among the dark men-
acing figures of the old people,
watching Miss Mabel’s white hands
moving up and down the keys, and
her fair head and narrow shoulders
swaying as she pedalled the instru-
ment; and intently, very secretly, he
was listening, disentangling from the
skein of sound Miss Mabel’s sweet
bright treble that lingered and trilled
a little here, and there, as if capri-
ciously, hurried on in advance of the
slow, heavy drawl. It was as if an
enchanted timid thing were peering
from a thicket at the gambols of
some bright creature in the sun.
The. address began. Miss Mabel
had come down from her music
stool and was sitting on the front
bench, and two benches behind her
sat Arthur, gazing obliquely between
the people in front at the white nape
of her neck and the soft fair hair
knotted upon it. Quiet as a mouse
he sat, and secretly, very secretly,
watched her; and he wished that
only himself and Miss Mabel were
there, and that he could lay his cheek
upon her cheek or upon her white
neck and soft hair. Strangely, and
frightening him a little, at that
thought there surged within him an
emotion that overwhelmed and
elated his sense. He felt as if his
body were floating gently up and up.
. . . He was growing dizzy. He
felt that he must cry out, or swoon,
so gripped the bench and held to it
desperately. His breathing quicken-
ed: his face was flushed: a faint
sound of distress escaped him. And
then his mother was drawing him to-
wards her, whispering, “What is it,
Arthur dear; what is it?”
He knew what she was thinking:
the address was closing with a per-
sonal appeal, and she was thinking
that he had been listening and was
moved by it. He was at once abash-
ed and relieved. He did not try to
draw away from her, nor to release
the hand she was holding so tightly;
but tried to bend his thought away
from Miss Mabel to the words of
the address. The minister was say-
ing that the Holy Ghost would not
always strive with men. And that
the unpardonable sin . . .
Vaguely through Arthur’s mind
the words flowed on like a stream.
But detached and full of menace
there recurred to him again and
again the words “unpardonable sin”
and “Holy Ghost.” What, he won-
dered, was the unpardonable sin?
Had he committed it? And what
kind of awful being was the Holy
Ghost? “Holy Ghost”—there was
something queer, frightening, in
those two words. They brooded
over Arthur’s mind now, shadowing
it with a sort of slow, cold terror.
He trembled. Perspiration started
on his brow and down his spine and
in the hot palms of his hands. He
could feel his mother holding him
closer and hear her whispered pray-
er for him, “Jesus! Jesus!”
The address ended. Slowly, stiff-
ly, the old men spread their handker-
chiefs and knelt on the floor: the old
women leaned forward, sighed, and
covered their faces with their hands.
Mr. Martin, at the minister’s invita-
tion, began to pray; a rambling, half-
wailing prayer, self-pitying, self-
abasing, but sometimes rising into a
sort of exultation at the shining pros-
pect of heaven at the journey’s end
and all earth’s disappointments and
defeats forgotten. Arthur had heard
Mr. Martin pray almost the same
prayer many times, could even an-
ticipate some of the phrases, yet to-
night it touched him strangely. And
this his mother knew. He felt the
warmth of her body as she bent over
him; and now her warm moist breath
was in his ear. “Oh, Arthur,” she
was whispering, “if the Holy Spirit
is pleading with you—don’t put Him
away. Open your heart to Him,
dear. He’s so sweet and gentle!”
Arthur sobbed softly, and when
his mother asked him had he taken
the Saviour into his heart, he said
that he had; and then he heard her
strange deep cry: she was kissing his
forehead; she was holding his head
close against her bosom.
Mr. Martin finished at last; but
someone else followed. Then an-
other prayer. Yet another. A
pause, the silence broken only by
sighs and little half-articulate, pious
cries, and then, while the men still
knelt and the women kept their heads
bowed in their hands, someone be-
gan to sing, “I am coming, Lord,
coming now to Thee.” With a kind
of feeble fervour the tuneless old
voices joined and sang on, verse
after verse. Then the minister pray-
ed and pronounced the Benediction,
and the meeting was over.
But for a time nobody moved
from the attitude of prayer. The
old people were as if entranced.
Something had come to them, some
power or presence that uplifted and
soothed and sheltered them and
made them one. For a brief mo-
ment they were together. Outside
was the world; perplexing, chaotic,
full of dark troubles.
It was Miss Mabel who first rose.
Arthur heard her apologetic cough
and the faint rustle of her skirts as
she rose, and knowing that in a mo-
ment she would be smiling at him
and perhaps patting his head, he was
suddenly excited and shy, and would
have postponed the ordeal by re-
maining on his knees at his mother’s
side. But everybody else was mov-
ing. Mrs. McMaster whispered,
“Come now, Arthur, dear.”
The people were standing in little
groups, reluctant to separate. On
the fringe Arthur hovered uneasily.
He could see his mother talking a
little excitedly to the minister, no
doubt telling what had just happened
to her boy. He felt somehow guilty
and ashamed. Particularly he hoped
Miss Mabel would not hear the
story. But she was talking loudly
and rapidly to someone else.
A moment later she had unexpect-
edly turned and come to Arthur,
smiling and making her usual little
joke, “Hullo, Master McMaster !”
He blushed and stammered some-
thing, and then she had thrust her
hand under his arm and was sweep-
ing him along toward the unlighted
end of the school-room.
“I want to run upstairs for some
music,” she explained. “It’s dark,
you know; but I won’t mind that if
you’re with me!”
He knew it was her fun; yet, oh,
how he longed to do before her
some daring valorous feat!
They passed out to the dark hall,
up dark stairs together, groped their
way into the church parlour. Cold
moonlight lay in a pool beneath a
window and streamed faintly up to
the circle of chairs, to the piano with
the pile of music dimly white upon
it, to the dim rectangles of the litho-
graphed texts upon the walls. While
Miss Mabel searched, Arthur wait-
ed. He could see her shadowy form,
could hear the rustle of her dress,
and smell its camphor perfume. His
brain swam with the sense of her
proximity in that dim, quiet, enchant-
ed place—alone. Once more, as in
the meeting, his longing toward her
overwhelmed him. He stretched out
his hand, thrilled, to touch her.
But she had found her music:
“Ah, here it is!”
“Oh, Miss Mabel!”
She turned, surprised and puzzled
by his distress.
“Yes. What is it?”
He could not answer.
She took his face between her
hands and stooped and laid her
cheek on his forehead. She whis-
pered: “Tell me. You’re my own,
own boy, you know!”
He could not bear it longer.
Wildly he flung his arms about her
and buried his face in her bosom and
sobbed without restraint.
For a moment she held him thus;
then, disengaging herself gently, she
asked again: “Now", Arthur dear.
Aren’t you going to tell me what it
is?"

But his overcharged feeling was
spent. And now, suddenly, he was
bitterly ashamed. He turned away
and muttered gruffly: “It’s noth-
ing.”
“O-ho! My Arthur’s not sulking
now, is he?”
“I’m not your Arthur.”
She touched him, but he would not
respond.
“Arthur!”
But he stood stubborn.
“Oh, well, well!” she said, a little
impatiently. “You are a funny little
chap.”
Then they went down the dark
stairs again and back to the school-
room.
Everybody had gone but Mrs.
McMaster and the minister. Miss
Mabel joined them and began to
talk in a low, quick, anxious voice.
Arthur knew that she was telling
what had happened upstairs; and
then that she was hearing from his
mother what had happened during
the meeting.
Mrs. McMaster was confiding it
with a certain pride. She finished.
She nodded her head, smiling. All
turned smiling toward Arthur, and
Miss Mabel ran to him, saying:
“So that's what you wanted to tell

me!"
He tried to avoid her caresses,
and but half understood what she
said or the minister’s words about
how good it was to have started upon
the narrow way so early in life.
And while they talked kindly and
tenderly to him, he wanted to run
away: he was fighting hard to keep
back tears of vexation and shame.
Eloi, Eloi.—“Yea, that His
most dreadful cry, which at once
moved all the powers of Heaven and
earth, ‘My God, my God,’ was the
voice of some mighty anguish where-
with his soul was smitten; and that
in other sort than with any material
spear. For derelinqui a Deo—
the body cannot feel it, or tell
what it meaneth. It is the soul’s
complaint, and therefore without all
doubt the soul within Him was
pierced and suffered, though not that
which—except charity be allowed to
expound it—cannot be spoken with-
out blasphemy. Not so much, God
forbid! yet much, and very much,
and much more than others seem to
allow; or how much, it is dangerous
to define.” (Lancelot Andrewes:
Good Friday Sermon, 1597.)

One may know oneself ugly, but there is no mirror for the understanding.

What theology is to religion and jurisprudence to justice, etiquette is to
civility.
A Fragment
By NORMAN DOUGLAS
THE Fish-Goddess Derceto
slunk out of those divine pre-
cincts of hers like some frightened
mortal, and wandered many days
about the bleak earth, looking for
consolation and finding none. At
last she entered the Celestial Halls,
determined to brave the mockery of
her immortal companions and to
seek the Great Father’s advice.
On approaching those Gardens of
Bliss, she observed her sister Men-
etha, Goddess of Wisdom, seated
among the deathless flowers beside
the young Moon. They seemed to
be engaged in some friendly dis-
course. The Moon was the first to
catch sight of Derceto, and prompt-
ly eclipsed himself. It was only
after this that Menetha, glancing
up, saw her sister near at hand. She
began, with a smile:
“It is ever so long since we met.
How goes it, my dear?”
“Ah, sister . . . But let me hear
about yourself, to begin with; and
about the Moon. Are they still
teasing you two ?”
“How kind of you to enquire!
No, they have given up teasing us
and are looking about, I should say,
for some new source of laughter.”
“They will soon find it,” said Der-
ceto sadly. “And tell me: what of
his weakness?”
The young Moon, and he alone
of Immortals, was supposed to be
sterile and subject to convulsions.
“I have almost cured him of those
tiresome fits,” replied Menetha.
“And I am not without hopes,” she
added coyly, “of healing his other
infirmity as well. The gentle Moon
—little they know of his true Na-
ture ! They will soon discover
whether he lacks what they possess.
He is only shy—nothing else. Dear
sister, I am happier than I ever yet
was. I have almost forgotten to be
wise.”
“That would never do, Menetha.
You are the only one of us who al-
ways keeps her head. And now look
at poor impetuous me. Yes; you
may well be surprised. I took him
for an ordinary mortal stranger; he
was only a little prettier and lustier
than most of them. Such a hand-
some boy! And I was so polite to
him, so charming!”
“I am sure you were.”
“You see his work? You can feel
the beat of its heart if you place
your hand on this spot. What’s to
be done?”
“I see,” said the Goddess of Wis-
dom. “That comes of being polite
with strangers. For the rest, you
are not the first goddess to get into
this kind of scrape. How that Clat-
terer would laugh if he were here!
Fortunately he is away just now,
jeering at his prisoner Deroudi in
some black mountain; that is his
latest amusement. But he may re-
turn at any moment. What will your
priests be saying? Don’t they take
you for a maiden?”
Tears started to the eyes of the
great Fish-Goddess as she replied:
“They did; and till now I had no
difficulty in keeping up appearances.
I know too well what they are say-
ing. They are saying: Away with
this horror! Help me, Menetha
dear; put-me-to-rights. Do you
think they would burn my temple?
If they do, I am the unhappiest god-
dess that ever breathed. Why was
I not born a mortal? They can at
least kill themselves.”
There was a pause. At last Men-
etha observed:
“Things sometimes look worse
than they are. Why not consult the
old Satyr, that half-bull Hea-bani?
They say he is a splendid physician,
and if you make it worth his while
he may do what you want. Then
none of us need know anything. But,
judging by appearances, you will
have to be quick about it.”
“Dear, I have been there already.
And oh, Menetha, you should see
the horrible creature. All hairs and
horns! He wore a ridiculous red
cloak to cover his shaggy hide, and
when I announced myself, asking for
his advice, he only scowled and said
he had a prejudice against female
patients; they gave so much trouble
and never told the truth. I prom-
ised him immortal life, if he would
assist me to expel this encumbrance.
Can you guess what he said? He
said immortality was the last thing
he desired, seeing that it might bring
him into contact with our poisonous
society up here. Those were his
words.”
“Satyrs will be Satyrs,” remarked
Menetha. “And you left him?”
“Indeed, no. I humilated myself
still further. I implored him to do
all he could, and swore by the sacred
beak of Hapso that he should come
to no harm. Then he suddenly
grunted, “How long has this trou-
ble been going on?” When I told
him, he began a most searching
and conscientious examination. I
thought: The dear old bull-face, he
is going to help me after all! Can
you guess what he said when it was
over? Can you guess? He said in
a horribly sententious fashion: “A
girl, if I am not mistaken. As to
doing what you wish, Goddess,—it
fs out of the question. No! Life
is throbbing within you, and we
healers are not there to destroy life.
Much as I like to oblige Immortals,
I never oblige them in cases of this
kind. Bear the inevitable discom-
fort, and try to be more prudent in
future.” Those were his words, and
I think he was laughing inwardly all
the time; you know how he detests
our whole divine race. But for my
oath, I should have taken on some
abomination to fragments, cloak and
horns and all. What annoyed me
was not so much his words as the
insufferable way he said them.”
“I can hear him. The rude old
thing.”
“Ah! And he also predicted a
marvellous future for this burden
of mine. Semiramis was to be her
name. There he is wrong. I shall
certainly kill it. Meanwhile I am
in despair. Say, is it right that I
should be driven from Askalon and
from my priests and darling Duri-
fish and thymul trees and my black-
and-vermilion sanctuary for a tiny
slip like this, while all the rest of
you have your shrines and the sweet
adoration of worshippers ? And they
were just beginning to build me such
a lovely new one, all of stone. Oh,
why need anybody be a virgin ? Why
did I ever set eyes on the little
wretch ?”
“I think I can answer that last
question/’ said the Goddess of
Wisdom. “You set eyes on him be-
cause you happened to be looking in
his direction.”
“How wonderfully you explain
everything! Would the Great Fa-
ther help me?”
Menetha pondered a while.
“No doubt he could if he would,”
she replied at last. “But he sel-
dom intervenes nowadays if he can
avoid it; he hates being disturbed.
He may not answer you at all. Or
perhaps he will say, “Call up the
Sun,”—as if the dear simple Sun
were of the slightest use to anybody
save for shining and warming!
That is our parent’s latest method
of solving problems and, between
ourselves, rather an unsatisfactory
one. Sulky, you know, about those
decayed temples of his. How gay
we used to be!—you remember?
What an astonishing papa he was:
something new every moment! But
of late he never makes us laugh and
never invents anything fresh; he has
forgotten all his tricks and surprises.
Sulky! No harm in approaching
him, of course. He is alone at pres-
ent. The others are still banqueting.
“Come with me, Menetha, and
explain my case to him. You are
Goddess of Wisdom and one of his
favourite children; I feel sure you
can persuade him to help. He never
has a kind word for me—I don’t
know why. Do your best, dear sis-
ter.”
The Great Father seldom spoke
nowadays, and when he did, it was
only to put off the solution of some
urgent problem; he had long since
refused to preside at their boisterous
banquets. Save during moments of
angry or pleasurable excitement he
remained in sour mood, forgetful of
his mellow joviality and almost with-
drawn from the assembly—shroud-
ed, that is, in a starry mist which
allowed nothing but the merest
glimpse of his lineaments to appear;
a mist that was pierced, ever and
anon, by one stainless hand emerg-
ing to grasp a goblet full of Myut,
the drink of the Gods which, as it
percolated his essence, drove a rose-
ate shudder through those exquisite
outlines. The divine sulkiness had
now lasted many thousand years.
When would it end? Not until
those temples, in several lands,
ruined or neglected, should once
more be repaired and thronged with
worshippers. He was pining for
the adoration paid in former days,
and since withheld. Meanwhile he
sat aloof, and laid aside all his old
creative phantasies and those merry
pranks that delighted both Gods and
mortals, and bade the ages roll
along as they pleased.
Menetha and her sister drew
near that luminous region where the
Great Father of the Gods reclined,
and the firstnamed set forth with
more than her customary eloquence
the sad predicament of Derceto, and
ended by praying him to devise some
expedient for her relief.
No answer was vouchsafed.
“I feared so" said Menetha.
At. this moment the Great Mother
appeared on the scene. She looked
considerably flurried.
“My dears,” she began, after they
had greeted one another, “I can bear
it no longer. The din at those ban-
quets is not to be believed. It has
positively driven me away. Some of
the halfgods, especially — will they
never learn how to behave in our
company? But, Derceto,” she con-
tinued, “what’s the matter with you ?
In trouble?”
When all had been explained, she
said:
“Naughty girl, I thought it would
come to this. And now we are to
have another half-god up here. This
is dreadful, dreadful. You see what
happens, Menetha? Were you not
wise in choosing the Moon for a
friend ? Only think: a child of yours,
if such should be your fate, will at
least be wholly divine and fit for our
society. Dreadful, dreadful. How
very inconsiderate of you, Derceto
darling! We shall soon be crowded
out of our Celdstial Halls with all
these new creatures.”
“My new creature,” said the Fish
Goddess savagely, “is never going to
enter these Halls. I mean to kill it.”
The Great Mother replied;
“I was tempted to say the same
thing in the case of every one of you.
And there you all are, my dears! No,
Derceto. You will not kill it. Your
heart will melt. But do try, darling,
to keep it on earth, for it is sure to
be something not very nice. That
lecherous fish-element in your nature
—forgive my saying so-—is indiffer-
ent stuff to breed from. It is not
your fault, you poor thing. You were
begotten in one of your father’s bad
moments; there was some strange
discord, some vice, in his godly ichor
just then. I told him to >jvait, but
you know how impatient they are at
such times; they never listen to rea-
son. Meanwhile* what are you do-
ing about it? And what are your
priests doing? I fear you will be
in disgrace at Askalon.”
“I am in disgrace, Mother dear.
They are sure to bum my temple
and choose some horrid Man-protec-
tor in place of me. They have
threatened to do so before now. Oh,
please help me out of this scrape.
Make Father invent something.
Menetha tried, but never got a word
out of him. When you talk, he al-
ways listens-------
“—and seldom answers,” added
the Great Mother.
None the less, she approached her
Spouse and began to draw his atten-
tion to their presence. While she
yet spoke, those divine lineaments
grew clearer till they were half re-
vealed—half, not more; and that
wonderful Voice, which had seldom
been heard during the last ten thou-
sand years, became audible once
again. It said grumpily:
“How many more times are we
going to be disturbed? Are we
never to have a moment’s peace?
Well, what is it?”
Before she had proceeded far in
her explanation the Voice inter-
rupted :
“Since you are making such a fuss
about it, we shall require an authen-
tic report instead of all this vague
and untrustworthy talk. Call up the
Sun! Where may he now be wander-
ing?”
“Over the frozen lands,” said
Menetha, who knew a great deal.
They can spare him a while. Up
with him!”
The Sun was on the spot in a
twinkling. He, too, seemed to be
flustered and embarrassed, especially
when the Great Mother told him
the reason for which he had been
summoned..
He began shyly:
“I cannot recall every detail of
that encounter, but I fear it was
nothing out of the common, so far
as our Derceto is concerned. He
looked like a mortal, a beardless
child. No, no! I did not see the
end of it, or even the middle; a
stupid wander-cloud got in the way;
but I fear, I greatly fear, it was
nothing out of the common ”
“Why are you blushing?” the
Voice inquired sternly.
“The things I see! My life, O
Father, is one continuous blush.”
“It is time you grew out of that
habit.”
At this rebuke the Sun was more
abashed than ever. Then he pulled
himself together with an effort and
said in dignified tones:
“It is time, dear Parent, for sev-
eral other things as well. Here is
a point I should like to see settled:
am I to give light to Mortals with
due regularity? Yes, or no? If yes,
then it is impossible for me to act
simultaneously as Celestial tale-bear-
er up here. I am always being called
from my work and asked to report
about matters which happen down
below and which are no concern of
mine. The things I see! Believe me,
it is bad enough to be obliged to
witness them, without having to de-
scribe them afterwards to a crowd
of jesting Immortals. Now what
must earth-crawlers think of these
perpetual obfuscations on my part?
They are already beginning to call
me names: ask the wind! And
through no fault of my own. Alto-
gether, I am tired, utterly tired, of
my hard and thankless task. Let me
take this opportunity, Father, of
once more begging to be relieved of
my functions. Will you allow me to
pour Ocean on myself and be done
with it?”
No answer was vouchsafed.
The Sun persisted:
“This is my point. To carry up
news is the Wind’s business and not
mine. Am I right, or am I wrong ?”
No answer was vouchsafed.
The Sun went on sadly, as though
speaking to himself:
“What a life! None of his chil-
dren is more conscientious in the per-
formance of his duties than I, his
first-born; none works harder. And
here we are again, dragged up from
those poor white-faced people who
enjoy a few days of our shining in
the whole long year. How glad they
are of that golden light which de-
livers them from the bondage of the
Frost-Giant Ymir and his brood;
how they dote on those tepid beams!
Is it right that they should be left
in icy darkness all their lives? O
Father, let me give them a little
more solace and cheer their spirits
with my ruddy face. Let me go back
to them! Nobody loves me as they
do.” Then he added mysteriously:
“If this unpunctuality goes on, the
Hyperboreans will soon cease to
worship me. And so will the rest
of them. I wonder what men are
saying at this moment? I think I
know.”
The Voice inquired:
“They are saying, my son?”
“They are saying: ‘What can the
Great Father be about, to allow his
orderly child these erratic and incon-
venient movements? Have they all
taken leave of their senses, up there ?
We fear they have.' Which may ex-
plain why certain temples are in dis-
repair just now and unfrequented by
mortals.”
The Voice said:
“You have not told us much. But,
regarding your duties, you spoke
well. Return at once to those shiver-
ing folk and comfort their cold skins.
We will hear you another day when
you are among the Aethiopians, who
may not be sorry to be relieved of
your dazzle for a while. As to pour-
ing Ocean on yourself—never let
us hear such nonsense again. You
were summoned because the Wind,
as we all know, has grown to be a
little chatterbox of late, whereas you,
dear boy, can always be relied upon
to tell the truth. So rest content!
Be punctual in your habits as here-
tofore; shine to the utmost of your
ability whatever those stupid wander-
clouds may do, and try to overcome
that trick of blushing. Our young
Moon sees things as remarkable as
you do, and has never been known to
blush.”
“Our young Moon, O Father, can-
not blush because he is subject to
fits and because he lacks ”
“Does he?” interposed Menetha.
“We shall soon see what he lacks.
Have patience, you red-faced inno-
cent; just a little more patience. I
know more about him than any of
you do.”
“And so you ought, dear Sister,”
replied the Sun, with a bland smile.
“The rest of us can only judge by
outward appearances. If he lacks
nothing, you can perhaps explain why
he is so anxious to hide away a cer-
tain region in which all other gods
take pride and pleasure. Night after
night he contrives to keep that quar-
ter of himself in the dark, even from
mortal eyes. Why?”
“Wait and see.” said Menetha.
“The poor boy is only shy.”
“Shy!” echoed some of the others,
laughing uproariously. “Only shy!
What with?”
“You are right, Menetha dear,”
said the Great Mother. “But let
them joke and laugh. I feel sure
you can put-him-to-rights in time.”
“I have already done so,” whis-
pered Menetha. “They shall soon
learn the result. Then it will be my
turn to joke and laugh.”
The Voice pursued:
“And now, you three Goddesses,
listen! You have had your answer
to-day. If we are to be disturbed
again about trifles of this kind, you
shall taste the consequences.” There-
upon the divine lineaments softly
faded away.
“I feared so,” said Menetha.
Her sister Derceto, while the Sun
was already glinting downwards,
pulled him back viciously by the long-
est of his yellow rays and asked:
“Tell me, prying mischief-maker
—as you glanced over Askalon just
now, did you see anything unusual?”
“You are keeping me from my
work. Always on the loose with
young mortals. I saw you! Leave
me alone, you bawdy fish.”
“Not until you answer.”
“Well then, yes. I did. There
was smoke and burning, a deal of it.
Now please let go that beam of
mine. What a life!”
Perplexed and furious, the great
Fish-Goddess herself turned to de-
part—she knew not whither. Nor
had she proceeded far before there
arose at her back a vast shout of
mirth and derision in the Celestial
Halls. The news of her mis-adven-
ture had spread and Immortals were
laughing heartily, none more so than
the Clatterer, whose melodious voice
she recognized and who had just re-
turned from his latest pastime of
plaguing the demon Deroudi, that
wild one, in some black mountain.
How he laughed! The young Moon
was also audible, he laughed less
boisterously, but more persistently;
in fact, he seemed to be quite incap-
able of controlling his hilarious emo-
tions. Would he never stop? Peal
after peal of high squeaky notes rang
out, each louder than the last; they
ended, suddenly, in a piercing
scream.
He had laughed himself into a fit.

He gets on best with women who best knows how to get on without them.
A sweetheart is a bottle of wine; a wife is a wine-bottle.

Age, with his eyes in the back of his head, thinks it wisdom to see the bogs
through which he has floundered.

Religions turn madly about sexual questions.

Dialogue.—God : Who has made you man ? Man : Who has made you
God?
Twelve Great Passions
IV.	Nadir Shah and Sitara, the Hindu Slave-Girl
By J. A. BRENDON
I
THE great Mogul Empire lay
helpless at his feet. Victory
had been overwhelming in its com-
pleteness. Nadir Shah lay back
among the cushions in his tent and
laughed a laugh of grim satisfaction.
Soon he would find himself in the po-
sition of Alexander the Great, sigh-
ing for fresh worlds to conquer. Ah,
but it was a pleasant thought; the
consciousness of triumph—there is
no sensation more exhilarating. For
a moment, the warrior’s stern, black-
bearded face relaxed into an almost
tender smile.
And surely, he had every reason
to be satisfied. A Turkoman by
birth; a soldier of fortune by inclina-
tion; by profession a freebooter, he
had risen by the aid of his magnetic
personality and military daring, until
at last, in 1736, at the age of forty-
nine, he became Shah of Persia.
Not even was the career of Napo-
leon more meteoric.
When Nadir ascended the throne
he found Persia in a state of disrup-
tion. Enemies beset the kingdom on
every hand, Turks, Russians, Af-
ghans. Sedition and anarchy reigned
everywhere supreme. But, out of
disorder, the new ruler, by super-
human efforts, soon created order,
and, as the head of a united people,
established himself the terror of a
continent. And now he had invaded
India, and crushed the Mogul Em-
peror.
That very day, in fact, his proud
adversary had come in person to his
camp to sue for peace; had come in
person and been sent away humiliat-
ed, humbled to the dust; he, the
mighty ruler who once had dared to
hurl insults at the upstart Shah of
Persia.
Yes—success, indeed, was very
sweet; but revenge far sweeter. So
Nadir drained another goblet of
wine, nestled further back among his
cushions, and proceeded to discuss
plans for the future with Ali Akbar
and Ahmed Khan, his two great
Ministers.
No, he declared, nothing was fur-
ther from his mind than the intention
to appropriate the Emperor’s do-
minion; to attempt that would be
merely courting trouble. All he de-
sired was to humiliate his rival, to
humiliate him utterly. So soon, then,
as the army had recovered of its fa-
tigue, he would march on Delhi. For
a while, as victor, he would occupy
the city; then formally restore to the
Emperor his regal dignity, and him
self return northwards.
Aye—but he had another purpose
also. Delhi was rich. War was ex-
pensive; and his own subjects already
were groaning under the burden of
taxation—he dared not oppress
them further. Why, then, should
not the vanquished pay the price of
his ambition? Why not indeed?
Besides, with the riches of Delhi in
his coffers, he could see no limit to
his future conquests.
And Nadir again laughed, grimly.
Suddenly he stopped. From with-
out the tent came the sound of voices
and tramping feet. The Shah sat
up and listened; he had been waiting
for that sound. A moment later the
curtain was pulled aside, and a serv-
ant entered, stepping noiselessly
across carpets on the floor.
“What is it?” Nadir asked.
The man made deep obeisance.
The Mogul Emperor, he said, had
just sent his promised tribute—an
elephant, some horses, fifty slave-
boys, and as many of India’s fairest
women.
Nadir rose to his feet immediate-
ly. The gift was already overdue;
he had been eagerly awaiting its ar-
rival. It was too dark now — be-
sides, he was too tired—to inspect
the horses. He would leave them
until the morning.
But the women—he was anxious
to see them, very anxious; he had
heard much of Indian maidens. Had
not Ahmed Khan told him of them:
that they were as slender as cypress
trees, as graceful as deer, and that
their eyes shone as the very stars of
night? And Ahmed Khan was a na-
tive of Kandahar, which is near to
Hindustan. He then most surely
ought to know.
So Nadir did not delay one min-
ute. Forthwith he left his tent, and
moved towards that in which the
captive women were assembled. No
sooner had he entered than he saw
that they did not belie their reputa-
tion. Among them were many
graceful forms and many lovely
faces. But Nadir had eyes only for
one of them; she stood in the middle
of the line; a tall, slim girl whose
complexion was almost European in
its fairness.
But now a bright flush glowed in
her cheeks, and she turned on the
conqueror a look of proud defiance
which compelled his gaze.
“Who is that girl?” he asked.
“My lord, a maiden of the Raj-
puts,” replied an obsequious eunuch.
“Maiden indeed!” And the girl
laughed contemptuously. “Maiden
indeed!” she repeated, “I have been
a wife!”
The eunuch, dismayed by the
girl’s audacity, moved forward as if
to strike with his slipper the lips
which had dared to utter this imper-
tinence. Suddenly he drew back.
Sitara—for such was her name—
had drawn a dagger from her
bosom, and held it menacingly.
There was no mistaking the meaning
of her attitude.
And Nadir laughed. The girl’s
action had pleased his present hu-
mour. Then he addressed her per-
sonally.
“Give me that knife,” he said.
Sitara stood motionless.
“Give me that knife,” he said
again; this time more sternly.
The girl hesitated, but only for a
moment. There was command in
Nadir’s voice. So she obeyed. And
Nadir took the weapon, thrust it in
his girdle; then, without another
word, passed slowly down the line of
captive women.
 II
Jack in his own tent again, the
Shah sat for a long while wrap-
ped in thought. He could not banish
from his mind the incident with Si-
tara. And as he sat silent, toying
with the dagger he had taken from
her, a faint smile played upon his
lips. The woman interested him.
He, who had known and loved
many women, had never before met
one like this. She possessed the
courage of ten men, and her beauty
—ah! he had never seen the like of
it. A sudden fire leapt into the
man's eyes, intense and passionate.
He must see her again, he told him-
self ; see her immediately—and
alone. He rose to his feet, and
called for a servant.
“Send the Agha Bashi to me,” he
commanded. And the servant, no-
ticing the look on his royal master’s
face, hastened to do his bidding.
A moment later, the Agha Bashi,
or chief official of the harem, en-
tered the tent; he was a tall, sad-
faced negro.
Peremptorily Nadir told him of
his wishes. The man looked trou-
bled. He was a loyal servant, de-
voted to his master, and he remem-
bered only too well Sitara’s reckless
courage. Was it right that the Shah
should be left with her alone? He
thought not; and ventured to make
a protest. But Nadir checked him.
“Send the girl to me,” he said; “I
want her—now."
Then the faithful eunuch bowed
his head. “As the Shah wills,” he
muttered, and passed out.
Nadir watched him go; then he
rose to his feet again, and for a few
restless minutes paced his tent. The
stillness of the night oppressed him.
So he resumed his seat, and waited.
Presently the curtain was flung
aside. The man’s eyes rested on it,
fascinated. And a moment later the
slave-girl entered. She walked with
timid, anxious steps, and her head
was bowed; but there wras dignity
in her carriage, although her bosom
heaved and her lips moved tremu-
lously. Nadir gazed at her spell-
bound. She was more beautiful
than she had seemed before, a thou-
sandfold more beautiful. His eyes
feasted upon her. And in the dim
lamplight her flimsy draperies seem-
ed only to accentuate her loveliness.
In the middle of the tent she stop-
ped, standing motionless. Then
Nadir spoke to her.
“Come nearer, girl,” he said.
“Look at me! What is it? You
are frightened?”
And Sitara shot him one quick,
fearful glance. She was frightened;
and well might she have been, for
she was moving, so she thought, to
punishment, to death.
And she did not want to die; an
hour ago she would not have cared.
But now! She wanted now to live,
now that she had found a reason for
it. Hitherto her lot had been
thrown among, effeminate puppets
and sycophants, but now she stood
before a man, a man such as she had
often dreamed of, strong and mas-
terful; and she longed, then and
there, to throw herself before his
feet and swear to serve him always.
For his love she dared not to ask.
What right had she? To serve him
—that alone would be enough; to
die for him if need be.
Some instinct within him told
Nadir that this was so, and he loved
the girl the more for it. Women
usually looked to him only for fa-
vours. But this one refused to plead
with him even for her life.
And that, as Nadir was man
enough to know, required real cour-
age. So, with all the gentleness at
his command, he sought to put her
at her ease, assuring her of his for-
giveness, talking to her. Then he
made her tell him her life’s history.
She, too, it seemed, had no affec-
tion for the Moguls. She had been
born a Hindu, but, when still a child,
had been captured and married to
a Mogul warrior. From him she
had escaped, and, after many ad-
ventures, had found refuge with a
band of Marwari traders. They, in
due course, had brought her to
Delhi. There, one of the Emper-
or’s wives, a woman of her own
country, had taken pity on her, and
in her service she had remained until
that very day.
For a while, after the conclusion
of this narrative, Nadir was silent.
Then he spoke, and his voice qua-
vered with emotion. Henceforth
she could be a queen herself, he said,
a queen before whom all the world
should bow. Would she? Would
she? Sitara’s senses reeled. She
who had come to him as a suppliant
found the conqueror himself plead-
ing before her, offering her honour,
riches, power, when even the littlest
word of tenderness would have
meant bliss sublime. Would she in-
deed? Impulsively she threw her-
self before his feet, showering them
with kisses, hot, passionate kisses, of
gratitude and love.
But Nadir raised her up. She
was to be his Queen, he said, not his
servant; all other women should be
as the dust on which she walked; she
must not humiliate herself.
Then he sent for the Agha Bashi
and the Agha Bashi sent for the
priest. And a few minutes later
Sitara left the tent the honoured
wife of the greatest soldier of the
day, sparkling with jewels, diamonds
and emeralds and pearls.
The news spread quickly through,
the camp, and idle tongues wagged
maliciously. But Sitara heeded not
these things; she was too happy, ah!
much too happy. At this time the
all-consuming love she bore for
Nadir filled her life utterly; she
could think of nothing else. Nor
did she wish to. Lonely, it is true,
she felt sometimes. That was in-
evitable. A stranger among a
strange people, how could she be
aught but lonely?
But she rejoiced in her solitude;
she loved those long, hot days when
she could lie in her tent alone, and
think, and dream, and wait for the
approach of evening. For at night-
fall she knew that Nadir would come
to her, and come not as a king, but
as a man; and from then, till dawn
once more called him forth to duty,
he would be hers, hers absolutely,
and she his.
And at nightfall he always came.
Then again, she soon made
friends among the other women in
the camp. How could she help it?
Very simple, very lovable, it was not
easy even for jealous rivals to be-
grudge her courtesy. Yet this, her
very simplicity and charm, earned
for her also at least one relentless
enemy, Shirazai, a former favourite,
whom she had deposed from the
place of honour in the Shah’s esteem.
Now Shirazai hated Sitara with
all the fierce hatred of an Oriental,
and swore to herself that she would
never rest till she had worked some
hideous vengeance on her rival. But
of these intentions Sitara guessed
nothing. Nor did Shirazai mean
her to; she was much too cunning.
Instead, she posed as the girl’s
friend, masking her true feelings be-
hind soft speeches and kindly ges-
tures, and so sought to gain her con-
fidence.
The time would come, she
thought, when that confidence might
be of service to her. Till then she
could afford to wait—and watch.
Now, Shirazai was a factor to be
reckoned with, for she happened to
be none other than a sister of Ali
Akbar.
But Sitara little knew what grim
troubles the future was storing up
for her. And, had she known, would
she have cared? “Unborn To-mor-
row and dead Yesterday”—was not
the present sweet enough for her?
Yes, yes; a thousand times, yes. She
had found a love such as woman
never before had known or even
dreamed of. What else mattered?
One moment of that love would am-
ply compensate for years of torment.
Even Nadir’s courtiers marvelled
at their monarch’s constancy, sagely
nodding their heads, wondering
what the end would be.
III
And so the victorious army rested,
day following day in quick succes-
sion. But for Nadir the time passed
all too quickly. His troops, he knew,
already had remained inactive over-
long; further delay might cause
them to grow lazy and ill-disciplined.
So he aroused himself.
On the morrow, he declared, he
would set out for Delhi; prepara-
tions for the journey, .therefore,
must begin immediately. Forthwith
they began. It was a busy day for
everybody. And at nightfall, when
he went as usual to Sitara’s tent,
Nadir was tired and fretful; he felt
like a man just awakened from some
happy dream, as, indeed, the call of
duty had awakened him. A great
wave of self-pity passed over him,
flooding his heart with sadness.
That sweet companionship with the
woman whom he loved, he now saw
could never be again what it had
been; in future there would be other
claims upon him—the claims of gov-
ernment and war.
Why then, he asked himself, had
he not delayed just one more week?
A woman’s love—how much more
precious he thought it then than all
the sterling gifts of power. Idle
dalliance, perchance, had softened
the man’s heart.
Nor did his sadness escape Si-
tara’s notice. She wondered at it
greatly; nor, try as she would, could
she dispel it.
But then, she knew not what it
was that made him sad; not until
suddenly he took from his turban a
superb and priceless diamond, which
he had worn always there as a mas-
cot, and begged her to accept it as
a gift.
“And,” he said, “if you want to
come to me at any time, but send
this stone, and you shall always be
received.”
Then Sitara took the stone—but
sorrowfully; until then it had not oc-
curred to her that she might ever
have need for such a charm.
Yet, even so, it seemed merely to
be a passing cloud which for a mo-
ment had overhung her happiness—
this sudden thought of fear. On the
next day began the march to Delhi.
And to Sitara that journey was a
week of new and wonderful experi-
ences ; she enjoyed every moment of
it, as she rode in triumaph by her
lover’s side, and then, at the end,
with him entered the city.
That was at once the proudest and
the saddest moment in her life. She
had left Delhi a captive; she return-
ed a Queen, and found herself
lodged in the “Palace of Joy” amid
every luxury, as befitted the con-
queror’s most favoured consort.
Then, on the following day, the
Mogul Queen—she, whose hand-
maiden Sitara once had been—be-
sought an interview, and, on her
bended knees, implored the girl to
use her influence with the Shah to
spare the city. And Sitara prom-
ised.
The world had dealt very kindly
with her; she felt she could afford
now to be indulgent. So, when
Nadir came to her that night, she
told him of her promise; and laugh-
ingly he conceded it. But she need
not have asked, he said; already he
had issued orders to the troops, for-
bidding violence and plunder. Nor,
he added, were they likely to ignore
those orders. Whilst from the cit-
izens of Delhi he feared nothing;
defeat had cowed them utterly.
But not as utterly as Nadir
thought. So it came about that, a
few days later, Sitara suddenly was
aroused by the sounds of shouts and
tumult. What had happened? Had
Nadir forgotten his promise to her?
No; surely not that. Then what
had happened? She questioned the
Agha Bashi, and was told that the
mob had risen in insurrection and
were now being punished.
Punished—too well Sitara knew
the meaning of that word. So she
sent word to Nadir, begging him to
stay his hand, and spare the hapless
city. Then she waited for a reply.
None came. In despair, at last she
sent the diamond.
But still the awful carnage seemed
to continue unabated. Never a word
did she receive from Nadir. Was
he angry with her ? Had he ignored
her prayer? Or, had she interfered
where she had no right to interfere?
Poor girl! she felt sad and disap-
pointed. Once, only once, had she
asked a favour, and it had been re-
fused. No wonder she was filled
with sorrow.
But then, she did not know the
truth. She did not know that all
that day her prayer had throbbed in
Nadir’s pulses, and that the captains
had wondered at his moderation. She
did not know this till later, when
Nadir told her so himself. But it
was more even than this sure proof
of his great love could do to dispel
her sorrow, or make her to forget
the hideous fate of the city which
once had been her home, and which
she had given her solemn word to
save from hurt.
She was glad, therefore, when at
length the Persian army again mov-
ed northwards, its coffers filled with
the wealth of Delhi. This, she felt,
was the beginning of a new life in-
deed; and, every moment, the past
and all its memories receded further,
further in the distance.
The road before her led to a
strange land, to new interests, new
hopes, and, perhaps, new dangers
also; but Sitara had no fears—no,
although thenceforth her lot would
be cast among an alien people who,
she knew, detested her. With Nadir
at her side, nothing mattered; and
by her side he rode, proud, dignified,
every inch a soldier, whilst in his
turban blazed the great Koh-i-nur
diamond, the stone which now
adorns the Imperial Crown of Brit-
ain. Sitara adored the man; and be-
fore long was able to prove to him
the strength of her devotion.
After many weary miles of march-
ing, the army at length reached the
waters of the Indus, and there for
a while, on the banks of the river,
Nadir decided to let his forces rest.
It was his intention to turn the defiles
of the Khyber by the country of the
Yusufzai, and so proceed north-
wards. With this aim in view, he
had spent a busy day negotiating
with the headmen of the tribe; and
evening found him tired and irri-
table, until at last, just before mid-
night, he sank into a restless sleep.
The night was very hot. From
without the tent not a sound came,
not even the rustling of a leaf. All
was as still as death. And the very
weight of the atmosphere was op-
pressive. Sitara could not sleep.
For a long while she lay on her
couch, thinking.
Suddenly she sat up. Some one
was moving. She was sure of it.
Stealthily she rose, crept towards the
door of the tent; then looked out.
For a moment she could see nothing.
But as her eyes became accustomed
to the darkness she was able to dis-
cern a form gliding along the
ground, and then another, and an-
other. Next, the flash of steel
caught her eye. Suspicion became
certainty. She slipped back into the
tent, and gently roused Nadir; but
only just in time. In another mo-
ment the assassins would have been
upon him.
But, as it happened, hearing the
sound of movements, they had fled
precipitately. And the murdered
bodies of the guards outside alone
were left to prove that Sitara’s fears
had not deceived her. It was she
who had given the alarm; she who
had saved her lover’s life. Nadir
did not forget the service.
Perhaps this was well. Not yet
had Shirazai forgiven her rival for
stealing the Shah’s affections. Nor
had she been plotting all this time in
vain. And now her opportunity for
vengeance was at hand.
IV
At Herat, glad news reached Nadir.
Reza Khan, the Vali Ahd, or heir
apparent—so messengers announced
—was hastening with all speed to
meet the home-coming army; and
expected on the morning of the fol-
lowing day to be able to extend in
person a welcome to his father.
Now Nadir had long been looking
forward to this meeting; two years
had passed since last he had seen
his son, and during that time, if ru-
mour spoke aright, the Prince had
grown from boyhood into manhood,
splendid manhood too. The Shah
had heard nothing but good report
concerning him; how that he had
proved himself a truly able regent,
worthy to be the heir to his soldier
father.
But, alas! on the morrow, when
the son and father met, a cloud mar-
red the splendour and happiness of
the occasion—that insidious cloud
mistrust. Had not the Prince per
haps become too manly, too inde-
pendent, too self-reliant? A great
anxiety seized hold of Nadir. The
boy, he feared, instead of being a
help to him, might prove a menace;
and he looked in vain to find loyalty
or affection in his eyes. And of his
son’s popularity with the people,
there could be no doubt. He had
won their love and admiration; the
Shah himself held only their respect
and fear. Hence Nadir was jealous.
Nor could he conceal his jealousy.
Now Reza Khan too had reason
for resentment. The Shah’s return
would mean a diminution in his
own authority; henceforth no longer
could he be an autocrat, but must
accept orders from another, and
would be expected to obey them un-
questiohingly. Could he do this ? he
asked himself. Would he? That is
what Nadir asked. And until the
future should find an answer to these
questions, there could be no bond
between the two men either of trust
or friendship.
Now Sitara, conscious of Nadir's
disappointment, and seeing how
trivial really were the causes which
estranged him from his son, tried,
hard to effect a reconciliation.
But this was an ill-judged policy
on her part. In the first place,
Nadir resented her interference, and
her impartiality he resented even
more. He had done much for Sitara,
and in return, he felt, she owed him
at least her whole-hearted sympathy,
now that he needed it.
Then again, why should she seek
to reconcile him to his son? A sud-
den fear flashed through his mind.
Could it be that the Prince and his
party had won or bought her to their
side? Could it be? Was she being
false to him—Sitara? No, no; this
he could not, would not believe. Still,
somewhere within his heart, the seed
of suspicion had taken root, and
suspicion, like ivy, grows apace,
clinging where it grows.
And then it was that Shirazai,
ever watchful, saw that at last her
opportunity had come. She had wait-
ed patiently for this hour, timing the
moment of her vengeance carefully;
and her plans were laid with fiendish
cunning. First, then, she sought to
reinstate herself in Nadir’s favour.
This did not prove difficult. She
had but to offer him the sympathy
he asked for in his quarrel with his
son; the fascination of her woman-
hood achieved the rest. Thus, inch
by inch, she stole the Shah’s affec-
tions from Sitara.
And the latter, ignorant of the
plot, sorrowed at his changed regard
for her. What had she done to of-
fend him ? That night, she decided,
she would ask her lover and so dis-
pel the cloud which hung between
them.
That night! Sitara, alas! already
had delayed her question overlong;
and now she had lost the opportu-
nity of asking, it. That night Nadir
did not come to her; in vain she
waited for him. The hour of his
usual coming came and went, but still
she was alone; yet still she waited,
still she hoped. Nor did she despair
until at length she heard the sound
of laughter and of voices in Shira-
zai’s tent. Then suddenly she real-
ized the hideous truth; and, throw-
ing herself upon her couch, she sob-
bed and sobbed till Sleep took pity
on her.
Such is the common fate of East-
ern women. Sitara knew it; hers
were tears of disappointment, not of
anger.
But for Shirazai, merely to re-
kindle the fickle flame of Nadir’s
passion, that alone was not enough;
she must bring ruin also to her rival.
This she had sworn long ago, and
the purpose still was strong within
her.
Cunningly, then, she dallied with
the Vali Ahd, employing all her
many wiles and fascinations to gain
his confidence. This once gained,
the rest was easy. She had but to
adapt his secrets to her own require-
ments, and then betray them to the
Shah. And in this way, by abomi-
nable double dealing, she gradually
regained her lost prestige, and
poisoned Nadir’s mind against the
girl whose love still and in spite of
all was the most precious gift the
world had offered him. No act was
so mean that she would not commit
it; no lie so false that she would not
make use of it.
Then came the climax. A few days
later, yet another attempt was made
on Nadir’s life; an unseen hand fired
on him while crossing a ravine. So
soon as the first shot had been fired,
Sitara, it is true, hastened to his side,
and stood between him and danger,
now, as on the former occasion,
shielding him fearlessly from death.
But during the days which fol-
lowed, Nadir forgot this. Lately he
had heard much of seditious plots
and murderous intentions. He was
too angry to feel grateful or remem-
ber obligations. The culprit must
be found, found at all cost, and held
up to the world as an example. This
was his determination.
And Shirazai, with all the cun-
ning of her sex, undertook to help in
the quest.
By the aid of false witnesses, well
paid to serve her purpose, she con-
trived at last to bring the suspicion
of guilt to rest on the shoulders of
the Vali Ahd. The shot, she main-
tained, had been fired at his instiga-
tion, by one of his servants; he was
responsible. And such was her evi-
dence that it seemed utterly damning
and conclusive.
But this was too terrible. That
his own son should seek to murder
him; Nadir could not believe it. Yet,
reason as he would, he could find no
flaw in the evidence brought forward
by Shirazai. Every little detail
pointed relentlessly to one conclu-
sion. And motives for the crime
were only too apparent; jealousy,
ambition, pride; aye—there were
also many others, and amongst them,
the vague suspicion that Reza Khan
coveted his father’s Queen, that he
wanted Sitara, and Sitara him. To
Nadir, this came as a crueller blow
than even the knowledge of his son’s
treachery, as a baser act of treason.
Yet nothing could shake the sworn
testimony of the witnesses.
Fiercely, then, love and anger
struggled for supremacy in Nadir’s
heart. But the result was inevitable.
An offence had been committed
against his royal person which no
circumstance could justify. And one
punishment only seemed adequate.
But death—could he put to death
the son he loved most dearly? No
—even Nadir’s iron determination
flinched before passing such a sen-
tence.
None the less, the Prince must be
punished, punished heavily, and for
the future be rendered powerless at
any rate. His son’s eyes, then,
should be burnt from out his head.
That surely was a punishment which
would meet the crime; a punishment
more horrible perhaps than death.
Yet to the father it seemed kinder.
Besides, he reflected bitterly, it might
serve also as a constant warning to
Sitara. A blind lover—could she
find charm in him?
And so his royal decree went
forth. And a great gladness filled
Shirazai’s heart. Her plot was
working admirably. Forthwith, then,
she hastened to the unhappy Prince’s
mother, with words of tender sym-
pathy. Alas! she could offer noth-
ing more, she said; her influence
with the Shah had gone. Then she
paused for a minute.
“But Sitara. . . .”
And those words raised sudden
hopes in the distracted woman’s
heart. Sitara—yes, she might help.
Forthwith the wretched mother
sought her out and told the pathetic
story of her grief. Nor did her mis-
sion prove in vain. Sitara listened
sympathetically; and then, despite
misgivings, promised to plead with
Nadir. She knew that she was act-
ing very foolishly; that her supplica-
tion must prove futile. Still she felt
she had a duty to perform. Yes—
and she would perform it.
Boldly, therefore, she craved an
audience. Nadir granted it imme-
diately, bidding her come to him.
She went; and found the Shah sitting
in his tent alone, his face hard and
set. He had guessed the reason of
Sitara’s visit; nor wrongly; and, as
the girl spoke, his expression grew
yet still more stem and still more
sad.
It had hurt him greatly to pass
sentence on his son, but that she
should plead against that sentence
hurt him more. His worst fears he
saw being realized, and Shirazai’s
dark insinuations taking certain
shape within his mind. Sitara’s ac-
tion, he felt, one motive only could
have prompted. She loved his son.
Her very intercession proved her
faithlessness and came to Nadir as
the culmination of his sorrows. For
a moment he was silent. Then he
spoke.
“Go!” he said fiercely, “or I will
have you blinded too!”
But still the girl pleaded, clinging
to his arm. “My lord,” she begged,
“have pity; have pity; he is your
son! Oh! spare the Prince, my lord,
I pray you.”
This was more than Nadir could
endure. At last his sorrow found
relief in anger; a fierce wave of
wrath passed over him. He rose to
his feet and, convulsed with rage,
struck at Sitara. The axe fell heavi-
ly; and, beneath its weight, the de-
fenceless girl sank, with a thud, to
the ground, and there lay motionless,
while from her forehead welled a
stream of blood, ominous and dark.
For a while the Shah gazed at her
prostrate form in horror, stupefied.-
What had he done ? Was she dead ?
Had he killed her? Fear soothed
his savage wrath; and sinking down
upon his cushions, great warrior
though he was, he wept as though his
heart would break.
V.
Meanwhile the faithful Agha
Bashi took Sitara gently in his arms,
and bore her to the doctor. She was
not dead. But the negro, for he
loved the girl and knew not the true
circumstances of the quarrel, deemed
it wise to keep this secret from the
Shah. He acted on his own respon-
sibility. For several days Sitara lay
unconscious, hovering between life
and death. Then slowly she regained
her reason. But, when at last she
could speak and move again, she was
already many miles from Nadir.
The Agha Bashi had sent her to
the house of an Armenian family
who readily had invited her to share
their home until it might be safe to
tell the Shah that still she lived; and
there she settled down to face the
future.
But one month passed; then yet
another; and still bad tidings only
came from Court. To tell the Shah
that Sitara was still alive, reports
maintained, would certainly spell
ruin to all concerned. He had for-
bidden even her name to be men-
tioned in his presence, and his fury
lately had been uncontrollable.
Now, the courtiers thought that
anger caused this fury. So also did
Sitara. Shirazai—she only knew the
truth; that it was grief which made
him mad, grief and disappointment.
Nadir had loved Sitara, nay, he
loved her still, and with a love such
as Eastern men rarely feel for wo-
men. Besides, since that day on
which foully he had murdered Love,
nothing would go well with him. His
mind, he felt, had lost its old pre-
cision, his brain its cunning. There
seemed to be no one he could trust,
and every day his enemies increased
in strength and numbers. Supersti-
tious fancies harassed him.
The truth is, Nemesis at last had
overtaken the great warrior. And,
although he grappled desperately
with Fate—the fate which he had
prepared for himself through long,
fierce years' of conquest—he fought
in vain. The reins of empire, now
too big for one man’s hands, were
slipping from his grasp. He knew
it, but was powerless to restrain
them. And his courtiers moved
round him warily in very terror of
their lives.
Thus months passed into years,
and still Sitara received no word
from him. Then despair entered
her soul, strangling hope, and she
walked like one for whom life held
no more joys. But her great love
for Nadir still burned as true as
ever. She bore no malice towards
the man who had struck her down.
No, womanlike—his sudden cruelty
had only intensified her love; and
she longed, longed with a longing
which nothing could efface, for that
day on which she and he again
might be united.
Yet would that day ever come?
The Shah's love for her, she asked
—how could it still live? There
were women in the world fairer than
she, whose love he could enjoy. Be-
sides, did he not think her dead;
that he himself had murdered her?
Now, at length, it came about that
Nadir, while campaigning, happened
to pass near to the little Armenian
village which for three long years
had given shelter to Sitara. And to
the girl the temptation now to
go to the man she loved proved irre-
sistible.
In vain, friends urged her to be
cautious; in vain, they pleaded.
Sitara was obdurate. Go to him she
would, whatever might be the cost.
Determination was strong within
her; and death—she feared not
death; to die by Nadir’s hand would
be happiness indeed, compared to
still more years of purposeless exist-
ence.
Besides, in her inmost heart she
felt that Nadir needed her, was call-
ing to her, even as she needed him.
And so she sought out a trusty emis-
sary and sent him with a letter to the
Persian camp, and, with it, that stone
which Nadir had given her now
many years ago. Then she waited.
And her woman’s intuition had
guided her aright. Nadir had not
forgotten. Nadir did need her. In-
deed, nothing could describe the joy
he felt on learning that Sitara, his
loved Sitara, had come to life again.
Forthwith he sent to her a royal es-
cort, and begged her hasten to him
with all speed. But this request was
quite superfluous. Sitara did not de-
lay one minute; and two days later
entered the Persian camp in all her
splendour as a Queen.
There Nadir met her. And in
that rapturous moment of reunion
the past and all its sufferings faded
like the memory of some awful
dream at dawn. Henceforth there
was no more separation. The broken
link soon mended, and made the
chain of love, which bound her and
the Shah together, stronger than it
had ever been.
But the days of Nadir’s greatness
now were numbered—and with
them his days of happiness. Destiny
had proved too strong for him; he
was struggling now for very life;
and among his own followers were
to be found his bitterest enemies.
The end was inevitable; and very
soon it came.
Suddenly, in the still darkness of
a night, while she was sitting watch-
ing by the bedside of her wearied
lord, Sitara heard suspicious move-
ments outside the tent.
Immediately she rose to her feet.
But this time the sounds had reached
her ears too late. Before she could
move, before even she could scream,
the assassins were with her in the
tent and had pinioned down the
sleeping warrior.
And later, when the tardy guards
arrived, they found their ruler lying
dead upon the floor, and, stretched
on his giant form, the young body of
the woman he had loved, an evil-
pointed dagger buried deep within
her heart.
Maggie, a Girl of the
Streets
By STEPHEN CRANE
AVERY little boy stood upon
a heap of gravel for the hon-
our of Rum Alley. He was throw-
ing stones at howling urchins from
Devil’s Row, who were circling mad-
ly about the heap and pelting him.
His infantile countenance was
livid with the fury of battle. His
small body was writhing in the de-
livery of oaths.
“Run, Jimmie, run! Dey'll git
yehs!' screamed a retreating Rum
Alley child.
“Naw,” responded Jimmie with a
valiant roar, “dese mugs can’t make
me run.”
 Howls of renewed wrath went up
from Devil’s Row throats. Tattered
gamins on the right made a furious
assault on the gravel heap. On their
small convulsed faces shone the grins
of true assassins. As they charged,
they threw stones and cursed in shrill
chorus.
The little champion of Rum Alley
stumbled precipitately down the
other side. His coat had been torn
to shreds in a scuffle and his hat was
gone. He had bruises on twenty
parts of his body, and blood was
dripping from a cut in his head. His
wan features looked like those of a
tiny insane demon.
On the ground, children from
Devil’s Row closed in on their an-
tagonist. He crooked his left arm
defensively about his head and
fought with madness. The little
boys ran to and fro, dodging, hurling
stones, and swearing in barbaric
trebles.
From a window of an apartment-
house that uprose from amid squat
ignorant stables there leaned a curi-
ous woman. Some labourers, un-
loading a scow at a dock at the
river, paused for a moment and re-
garded the fight. The engineer of
a passive tugboat hung lazily over a
railing and watched. Over on the
island a worm of yellow convicts
came from the shadow of a grey
ominous building and crawled slowly
along the river’s bank.
A stone had smashed in Jimmie’s
mouth. Blood was bubbling over his
chin and down upon his ragged shirt.
Tears made furrows on his dirt-
stained cheeks. His thin legs had
begun to tremble and turn weak,
causing his small body to reel. His
roaring curses of the first part of the
fight had changed to a blasphemous
chatter.
In the yells of the whirling mob
of Devil’s Row children there were
notes of joy like songs of triumphant
savagery. The little boys seemed to
leer gloatingly at the blood upon the
other child’s face.
Down the avenue came boastfully
sauntering a lad of sixteen years, al-
though the chronic sneer of an ideal
manhood already sat upon his lips.
His hat was tipped over his eye with
an air of challenge. Between his
teeth a cigar stump was tilted at the
angle of defiance. He walked with
a certain swing of the shoulders
which appalled the timid. He
glanced over into the vacant lot in
which the little raving boys from
Devil’s Row seethed about the
shrieking and tearful child from
Rum Alley.
“Gee!” he murmured with inter-
est, “a scrap. Gee!”
He strode over to the cursing
circle, swinging his shoulders in a
manner which denoted that he held
victory in his fists. He approached
at the back of one of the most deep-
ly engaged of the Devil’s Row chil-
dren.
“Ah, what d’ h—l,” he said, and
smote the deeply engaged one on the
back of the head. The little boy
fell to the ground and gave a tre-
mendous howl. He scrambled to his
feet, and perceiving, evidently, the
size of his assailant, ran quickly off,
shouting alarms. The entire Devil’s
Row party followed him. They
came to a stand a short distance
away and yelled taunting oaths at
the boy with the chronic sneer. The
latter, momentarily, paid no atten-
tion to them.
“What’s wrong wi’che, Jimmie?”
he asked of the small champion.
Jimmie wiped his blood-wet fea-
tures with his sleeve.
“Well, it was dis way, Pete, see!
I was goin’ teh lick dat Riley kid and
dey all pitched on me.”
Some Rum Alley children now
came forward. The party stood for
a moment exchanging vainglorious
remarks with Devil’s Row. A few
stones were thrown at long distances,
and words of challenge passed be-
tween small warriors. Then the
Rum Alley contingent turned slowly
in the direction of their home street.
They began to give, each to each,
distorted versions of the fight.
Causes of retreat in particular cases
were magnified. Blows dealt in the
fight were enlarged to catapultian
power, and stones thrown were al-
leged to have hurtled with infinite
accuracy. Valour grew strong again,
and the little boys began to brag
with great spirit.
“Ah, we blokies kin lick d’ hull
d—n Row,” said a child, swagger-
ing.
Little Jimmie was trying to stanch
the flow of blood from his cut lips.
Scowling, he turned upon the speak-
er.
“Ah, where was yehs when I was
doin’ all deh fightin’?” he demand-
ed. “Youse kids makes me tired.”
“Ah, go ahn!” replied the other
argumentatively.
Jimmie replied with heavy con-
tempt. “Ah, youse can’t fight, Blue
Billie! I kin lick yeh wid one han’.”
“Ah, go ahn!” replied Billie again.
“Ah!” said Jimmie threateningly.
“Ah!” said the other in the same
tone.
They struck at each other, clinch-
ed, and rolled over on the cobble-
stones.
“Smash ’im, Jimmie, kick d’ face
off ’im!” yelled Pete, the lad with
the chronic sneer, in tones of delight.
The small combatants pounded
and kicked, scratched and tore.
They began to weep and their curses
struggled in their throats with sobs.
The other little boys clasped their
hands and wriggled their legs in ex-
citement. They formed a bobbing
circle about the pair.
A tiny spectator was suddenly
agitated.
“Cheese it, Jimmie, cheese it!
Here comes yer fader,” he yelled.
The circle of little boys instantly
parted. They drew away and wait-
ed in ecstatic awe for that which was
about to happen. The two little
boys, fighting in the modes of four
thousand years ago, did not hear
the warning.
Up the avenue there plodded
slowly a man with sullen eyes. He
was carrying a dinner-pail and smok-
ing an apple-wood pipe.
As he neared the spot where the
little boys strove, he regarded them
listlessly. But suddenly he roared
an oath and advanced upon the roll-
ing fighters.
“Here, you Jim, git up, now,
while I belt yer life out, yeh dis-
orderly brat.”
He began to kick into the chaotic
mass on the ground. The boy Billie
felt a heavy boot strike his head.
He made a furious effort and disen-
tangled himself from Jimmie. He
tottered away.
Jimmie arose painfully from the
ground and confronting his father
began to curse him. His parent
kicked him. “Come home, now,”
he cried, “an’ stop yer jawin’, er I’ll
lam the everlasting head off yehs.”
They departed. The man paced
placidly along, with the apple-wood
emblem of serenity between his teeth.
The boy followed a dozen feet in
the rear. He swore luridly, for he
felt that it was degradation for one
who aimed to be some vague kind
of a soldier, or a man of blood with
a sort of sublime licence, to be taken
home by a father.
II.
EVENTUALLY they entered a
dark region where, from a.
careening building, a dozen grue-
some doorways gave up loads of
babies to the street and the gutter.
A wind of early autumn raised yel-
low dust from cobbles and swirled
it against a hundred windows. Long
streamers of garments fluttered from
fire-escapes. In all unhandy places
there were buckets, brooms, rags
and bottles. In the street infants
played or fought with other infants
or sat stupidly in the way of vehicles.
Formidable women, with uncombed
hair and disordered dress, gossiped
while leaning on railings, or scream-
ed in frantic quarrels. Withered
persons, in curious postures of sub-
mission to something, sat smoking
pipes in obscure corners. A thou-
sand odours of cooking food came
forth to the street. The building
quivered and creaked from the
weight of humanity stamping about
in its bowels.
A small ragged girl dragged a
red, bawling infant along the crowd-
ed ways. He was hanging back,
baby-like, bracing his wrinkled, bare
legs.
The little girl cried out:	“Ah,
Tommie, come ahn. Dere’s Jimmie
and fader. Don’t be a-pullin’ me
back.”
She jerked the baby’s arm impa-
tiently. He fell on his face, roar-
ing. With a second jerk she pulled
him to his feet, and they went on.
With the obstinacy of his order, he
protested against being dragged in
a chosen direction. He made heroic
endeavours to keep on his legs, de-
nounced his sister, and consumed a
bit of orange-peeling which he chew-
ed between the times of his infantile
orations.
As the sullen-eyed man, followed
by the blood-covered boy, drew near
the little girl burst into reproachful
cries. “Ah, Jimmie, youse bin
fightin’ agin.”
The urchin swelled disdainfully.
“Ah, what d’ h—l, Mag. See?”
The little girl upbraided him.
“You’se allus fightin’, Jimmie, an’
yeh knows it puts mudder out when
yehs come home half dead, an’ it’s
like we’ll all get a poundin’.”
She began to weep. The babe
threw back his head and roared at
his prospects.
“Ah,” cried Jimmie, “shut up er
I’ll smack yer mout’. See?”
As his sister continued her lamen-
tations, he suddenly struck her. The
little girl reeled, and, recovering her-
self, burst into tears and quaveringly
cursed him. As she slowly retreated,
her brother advanced, dealing her
cuffs. The father heard, and turned
about.
“Stop that, Jim, d’yeh hear?
Leave yer sister alone on the street.
It’s like I can never beat any sense
into yer wooden head.”
The urchin raised his voice in de-
fiance to his parent, and continued
his attacks. The babe bawled tre-
mendously, protesting with great
violence. During his sister’s hasty
manoeuvres he was dragged by the
arm.
Finally the procession plunged in-
to one of the gruesome doorways.
They crawled up dark stairways and
along cold, gloomy halls. At last
the father pushed open a door, and
they entered a lighted room in which
a large woman was rampant.
She stopped in a career from a
seething stove to a pan-covered table.
As the father and children filed in
she peered at them.
“Eh, what? Been fightin’ agin !”
She threw herself upon Jimmie. The
urchin tried to dart behind the
others, and in the scuffle the babe,
Tommie, was knocked down. He
protested with his usual vehemence
because they had bruised his tender
shins against a table leg.
The mother’s massive shoulders -
heaved with anger. Grasping the
urchin by the neck and shoulder she
shook him until he rattled. She
dragged him to an unholy sink, and,
soaking a rag in water, began to
scrub his lacerated face with it. Jim-
mie screamed in pain, and tried to
twist his shoulders out of the clasp
of the huge arms.
The babe sat on the floor watch-
ing the scene, his face in contortions
like that of a woman at a tragedy.
The father, with a newly ladened
pipe in his mouth, sat in a backless
chair near the stove. Jimmie’s cries
annoyed him. He turned about and
bellowed at his wife:
“Let the kid alone for a minute,
will yeh, Mary? Yer alius poundin’
’im. When I come nights I can’t get
no rest ’cause yer alius poundin’ a
kid. Let up, d’yeh hear? Don’t be
allus poundin’ a kid.”
The woman’s operations on the
urchin instantly increased in violence.
At last she tossed him to a corner,
where he limply lay weeping.
The wife put her immense hands
on her hips, and with a chieftainlike
stride approached her husband.
“Ho!” she said, with a great
grunt of contempt. “An’ what in
the devil are you stickin’ your nose
for?”
The babe crawled under the table,
and, turning, peered out cautiously.
The ragged girl retreated, and the
urchin in the corner drew his legs
carefully beneath him.
The man puffed his pipe calmly
and put his great muddied boots on
the back part of the stove.
“Go t’ h—l,” he said tranquilly.
The woman screamed, and shook
her fists before her husband’s eyes.
The rough yellow of her face and
neck flared suddenly crimson. She
began to howl.
He puffed imperturbably at his
pipe for a time, but finally arose and
went to look out of the window into
the darkening chaos of back yards.
“You’ve been drinkin’, Mary,” he
said. “You’d better let up on the
bot', ol’ woman, or you’ll git done.”
“You’re a liar. I ain’t had a
drop,” she roared in reply. They
had a lurid altercation.
The babe was staring out from
under the table, his small face work-
ing in his excitement. The ragged
girl went stealthily over to the
comer where the urchin lay.
“Are yehs hurted much, Jimmie?”
she whispered timidly.
“Not a little bit. See!” growled
the little boy.
“Will I wash d’ blood?”
“Naw!”
“Will I ”
“When I catch dat Riley kid I’ll
break ’is face! Dat’s right! See?”
He turned his face to the wall as
if resolved grimly to bide his time.
In the quarrel between husband
and wife the woman was victor. The
man seized his hat and rushed from
the room, apparently determined
upon a vengeful drunk. She fol-
lowed to the door and thundered at
him as he made his way downstairs.
She returned and stirred up the
room until her children were bobbing
about like bubbles.
“Git outa d’ way,” she bawled
persistently, waving feet with their
dishevelled shoes near the heads of
her children. She shrouded herself,
puffing and snorting, in a cloud of
steam at the stove, and eventually
extracted a frying-pan full of pota-
toes that hissed.
She flourished it. “Come t’ yer
suppers, now,” she cried with sudden
exasperation. “Hurry up, now, er
I’ll help yeh!”
The children scrambled hastily.
With prodigious clatter they ar-
ranged themselves at table. The
babe sat with his feet dangling high
from a precarious infant’s chair and
gorged his small stomach. Jimmie
forced, with feverish rapidity, the
grease-enveloped pieces between his
wounded lips. Maggie, with side
glances of fear of interruption, ate
like a small pursued tigress.
The mother sat blinking at them.
She delivered reproaches, swallowed
potatoes, and drank from a yellow-
brown bottle. After a time her
mood changed, and she wept as she
carried little Tommie into another
room and laid him to sleep, with his
fists doubled, in an old quilt of faded
red and green grandeur. Then she
came and moaned by the stove. She
rocked to and fro upon a chair, shed-
ding tears and crooning miserably to
the two children about their “poor
mother” and “yer fader, d—n ’is
soul.”
The little girl plodded between
the table and the chair with a dish
pan on it. She tottered on her small
legs beneath burdens of dishes.
Jimmie sat nursing his various
wounds. He cast furtive glances at
his mother. His practised eye per-
ceived her gradually emerge from a
mist of muddled sentiment until her
brain burned in drunken heat. He
sat breathless.
Maggie broke a plate.
The mother started to her feet as
if propelled.
“Good Gawd!” she howled. Her
glittering eyes fastened on her child
with sudden hatred. The fervent
red of her face turned almost to
purple. The little boy ran to the
halls, shrieking like a monk in an
earthquake.
He floundered about in darkness
until he found the stairs. He stum-
bled, panic-stricken, to the next floor.
An old woman opened a door. A
light behind her threw a flare on the
urchin’s face.
“Eh, child, what is it dis time ? Is
yer fader bearin’ yer mudder, or yer
mudder bearin’ yer fader?”
JIMMIE and the old woman
listened long in the hall. Above
the muffled roar of conversation, the
dismal waitings of babies at night,
the thumping of feet in unseen corri-
dors and rooms, and the sound of
varied hoarse shoutings in the street
and the rattling of wheels over cob-
bles, they heard the screams of the
child and the roars of the mother
die away to a feeble moaning and a
subdued bass muttering.
The old woman was a gnarled
and leathery personage who could
don at will an expression of great
virtue. She possessed a small music-
box capable of one tune, and a col-
lection of “God bless yehs” pitched
in assorted keys of fervency. Each
day she took a position upon the
stones of Fifth Avenue, where she
crooked her legs under her and
crouched, immovable and hideous,
like an idol. She received daily a
small sum in pennies. It was con-
tributed, for the most part, by per-
sons who did not make their homes
in that vicinity.
Once, when a lady had dropped
her purse on the sidewalk, the
gnarled woman had grabbed it and
smuggled it with great dexterity be-
neath her cloaks When she was ar-
rested she had cursed the lady into a
partial swoon, and with her aged
limbs, twisted from rheumatism, had
kicked the breath out of a huge
policeman whose conduct upon that
occasion she referred to when she
said, “The police, d—n ’em!”
“Eh, Jimmie, it’s a shame,” she
said. * “Go, now, like a dear, an’
buy me a can, an’ if yer mudder
raises ’ell all night yehs can sleep
here.”
Jimmie took a tendered tin pail
and seven pennies and departed. He
passed into the side door of a saloon
and went to the bar. Straining up
on his toes he raised the pail and
pennies as high as his arms would
let him. He saw two hands thrust
down to take them. Directly the
same hands let down the filled pail,
and he left.
In front of the gruesome door-
way he met a lurching figure. It was
his father, swaying about on uncer-
tain legs.
“Give me deh can. See?” said
the man.
“Ah, come off! I got dis can fer
dat ol’ woman, an’ it ’ud be dirt teh
swipe it. See?” cried Jimmie.
The father wrenched the pail from
the urchin. He, grasped it in both
hands and lifted it to his mouth. He
glued his lips to the under edge and
tilted his head. His throat swelled
until it seemed to grow near his chin.
There was a tremendous gulping
movement and the beer was gone.
The man caught his breath and
laughed. He hit his son on the head
with the empty pail. As it rolled
clanging into the street, Jimmie be-
gan to scream, and kicked repeated-
at his father’s shins.
“Look at deh dirt what yeh done
me,” he yelled. “Deh ol’ woman
’ill be trowin’ fits.”
He retreated to the middle of the
street, but the old man did not pur-
sue. He staggered towards the
door.
“I’ll paste yeh when I ketch yeh!”
he shouted, and disappeared.
During the evening he had been
standing against a bar drinking
whiskies, and declaring to all comers
confidentially: “My home reg’lar
livin’ h—l! Why do I come an
drin’ whisk’ here thish way? ’Cause
home reg’lar livin’ h—l!”
Jimmie waited a long time in the
street and then crept warily up
through the building. He passed
with great caution the door of the
gnarled woman, and finally stopped
outside his home and listened.
He could hear his mother moving
heavily about among the furniture
of the room. She was chanting in a
mournful voice, occasionally inter-
jecting bursts of volcanic wrath at
the father, who, Jimmie judged, had
sunk down on the floor or in a
comer.
“Why deh blazes don’ chere try
teh keep Jim from fightin’? I’ll
break yer jaw!” she suddenly bel-
lowed.
The man mumbled with drunken
indifference. “Ah, w’ats bitin’ yeh?
W’a’s odds? Wha’ makes kick?”
“Because he tears ’is clothes, yeh
fool!” cried the woman in supreme
wrath.
The husband seemed to become
aroused. “Go chase yerself!” he
thundered fiercely in reply. There
was a crash against the door and
something broke into clattering frag-
ments. Jimmie partially suppressed
a yell and darted down the stairway.
Below he paused and listened. He
heard howls and curses, groans and
shrieks—a confused chorus as if a
battle were raging. With it all there
was the crash of splintering furni-
ture. The eyes of the urchin glared
in his fear that one of them would
discover him.
Curious faces appeared in door-
ways, and whispered comments pass-
ed to and fro. “Ol' Johnson’s
playin’ horse agin.”
Jimmie stood until the noises
ceased and the other inhabitants of
the tenement had all yawned and
shut their doors. Then he crawled
upstairs with the caution of an in-
vader of a panther’s den. Sounds of
laboured breathing came through the
broken door panels. He pushed the
door open and entered, quaking.
A glow from the fire threw red
hues over the bare floor, the cracked
and soiled plastering, and the over-
turned and broken furniture.
In the middle of the floor lay his
mother asleep. In one corner of the
room his father’s limp body hung
across the seat of a chair.
The urchin stole forward. He
began to shiver in dread of awaken-
ing his parents. His mother’s great
chest was heaving painfully. Jim-
mie paused and looked down at her.
Her face was inflamed and swollen
from drinking. Her yellow brows
shaded eyelids that had grown blue.
Her tangled hair tossed in waves
over her forehead. Her mouth was
set in the same lines of vindictive
hatred that it had, perhaps, borne
during the fight. Her bare, red
arms were thrown out above her
head in an attitude of exhaustion,
something, mayhap, like that of a
sated villain.
The urchin bent over his mother.
He was fearful lest she should open
her eyes, and the dread within him
was so strong that he could not for-
bear to stare, but hung as if fascin-
ated over the woman’s grim face.
Suddenly her eyes opened. The
urchin found himself looking straight
into an expression, which, it would
seem, had the power to change his
blood to salt. He howled piercingly
and fell backward.
The woman floundered for a mo-
ment, tossed her arms about her
head as if in combat, and again be-
gan to snore.
Jimmie crawled back into the
shadows and waited. A noise in the
next room had followed his cry at
the discovery that his mother was
awake. He grovelled in the gloom,
his eyes riveted upon the interven-
ing door.
He heard it creak, and then the
sound of a small voice came to him.
“Jimmie! Jimmie! Are yehs dere?”
it whispered. The unrchin started.
The thin, white face of his sister
looked at him from the doorway of
the other room. She crept to him
across the floor.
The father had not moved, but
lay in the same death-like sleep. The
mother writhed in an uneasy slum-
ber, her chest wheezing as if she
were in the agonies of strangulation.
Out at the window a florid moon was
peering over dark roofs, and in the,
distance the waters of a river glim-
mered pallidly.
The small frame of the. ragged
girl was quivering. Her features,
were haggard from weeping, and
her eyes gleamed with fear. She
grasped the urchin’s arm in her lit-
tle trembling hands and they huddled
in a comer. The eyes of both were
drawn, by some force, to stare at the
woman’s face, for they thought she
need only to awake and all the fiends
would come from below.
They crouched until the ghost
mists of dawn appeared at the win-
dow, drawing close to the panes, and
looking in at the prostrate, heaving
body of the mother.
IV.
THE babe, Tommie, died.  He
went away in an insignificant
coffin, his small waxen hand clutch-
ing a flower that the girl, Maggie,
had stolen from an Italian.
She and Jimmie lived.
The inexperienced fibres of the
boy’s eyes were hardened at an early
age. He became a young man of
leather. He lived some red years
without labouring. During that time
his sneer became chronic. He stud-
ied human nature in the gutter, and
found it no worse than he thought
he had reason to believe it. He
never conceived a respect from the
world, because he had begun with no
idols that it had smashed.
He clad his soul in armour by
means of happening hilariously in at
a mission church where a man com-
posed his sermons of “yous.” Once
a philosopher asked this man why he
did not say “we” instead of “you.”
The man replied, “What?”
While they got warm at the stove
he told his hearers just where he cal-
culated they stood with the Lord.
Many of the sinners were impatient
over the pictured depths of their de-
gradation. They were waiting for
soup-tickets.
A reader of the words of wind
demons might have been able to see
the portions of a dialogue pass to
and fro between the exhorter and his
hearers.
“You are damned,” said the
preacher. And the reader of sounds
might have seen the reply go forth
from the ragged people: “Where’s
our soup?”
Jimmie and a companion sat in a
rear seat and commented upon the
things that didn’t concern them, with
all the freedom of English tourists.
When they grew thirsty and went
out, their minds confused the speak-
er with Christ.
Momentarily, Jimmie was sullen
with thoughts of a hopeless altitude
where grew fruit. His companion
said that if he should ever go to
heaven he would ask for a million
dollars and a bottle of beer.
Jimmie’s occupation for a long
time was to stand at street corners
and watch the world go by, dream-
ing blood-red dreams at the passing
of pretty women. He menaced man-
kind at the intersections of streets.
At the comers he was in life and
of life. The world was going on
and he was there to perceive it.
He maintained a belligerent atti-
tude towards all well-dressed men.
To him fine raiment was allied to
weakness, and all good coats cov-
ered faint hearts. He and his orders
were kings, to a certain extent, over
the men of untarnished clothes, be-
cause these latter dreaded, perhaps,
to be either killed or laughed at.
Above all things he despised ob-
vious Christians and ciphers with the
chrysanthemums of aristocracy in
their button-holes. He considered
himself above both of these classes.
He was afraid of nothing.
When he had a dollar in his
pocket his satisfaction with existence
was the greatest thing in the world.
So, eventually, he felt obliged to
work. His father died and his moth-
er’s years were divided up into pe-
riods of thirty days.
He became a truck-driver. There
was given to him the charge of a
painstaking pair of horses and a
large rattling truck. He invaded the
turmoil and tumble of the down-
town streets, and learned to breathe
maledictory defiance at the police,
who occasionally used to climb up,
drag him from his perch, and punch
him.
In the lower part of the city he
daily involved himself in hideous
tangles. If he and his team chanced
to be in the rear he preserved a de-
meanour of serenity, crossing his
legs and bursting forth into yells
when foot passengers took danger-
ous dives beneath the noses of his
champing horses. He smoked his
pipe calmly, for he knew that his
pay was marching on.
If his charge was in the front, and
if it became the key-truck of chaos,
he entered terrifically into the quar-
rel that was raging to and fro among
the drivers on their high seats, and
sometimes roared oaths and violent-
ly got himself arrested.
After a time his sneer grew so that
it turned its glare upon all things.
He became so sharp that he believed
in nothing. To him the police were
always actuated by malignant im-
pulses, and the rest of the world was
composed, for the most part, of
despicable creatures who were all
trying to take advantage of him, and
with whom, in defence, he was
obliged to quarrel on all possible oc-
casions. He himself occupied a
down-trodden position, which had a
private but distinct element of gran-
deur in its isolation.
The greatest cases of aggravated
idiocy were, to his mind, rampant
upon the front platforms of all of
the street cars. At first his tongue
strove with these beings, but he even-
tually became superior. In him grew
a majestic contempt for those strings
of street cars that followed him like
intent bugs.
He fell into the habit, when start-
ing on a long journey, of fixing his
eye on a high and distant object,
commanding his horses to start and
then going into a trance of observa-
tion. Multitudes of drivers might
howl in his rear, and passengers
might load him with opprobrium, but
he would not awaken until some blue
policeman turned red and began
frenziedly to seize bridles and beat
the soft noses of the responsible
horses.
When he paused to contemplate
the attitude of the police towards
himself and his fellows, he believed
that they were the only men in the
city who had no rights. When driv-
ing about he felt that he was held
liable by the police for anything that
might occur in the streets, and that
he was the common prey of all en-
ergetic officials. In revenge, he re-
solved never to move out of the way 
of anything, until formidable circum
stances or a much larger man than
himself forced him to it.
Foot passengers were mere pester-
ing flies with an insane disregard for 
their legs and his convenience. He 
could not comprehend their desire to
cross the streets. Their madness 
smote him with eternal amazement.
He was continually storming at them
from his throne. He sat aloft
and denounced their frantic leaps,
plunges, dives, and straddles.
When they would thrust at, or
parry, the noses of his champing
horses, making them swing their
heads and move their feet, and thus
disturbing a stolid, dreamy repose,
he swore at the men as fools, for he
himself could perceive that Provi-
dence had caused it clearly to be
written that he and his team had the
unalienable right to stand in the
proper path of the sun chariot, and
if they so minded, to obstruct its mis-
sion or take a wheel off.
And if the god driver had had a
desire to step down, put up his flame-
coloured fists, and manfully dispute
the right of way, he would have
probably been immediately opposed
by a scowling mortal with two sets
of hard knuckles.
It is possible, perhaps, that this
young man would have derided, in
an axle-wide alley, the approach of a
flying ferry-boat. Yet he achieved a
respect for a fire-engine. As one
charged towards his truck, he would
drive fearfully upon a side-walk,
threatening untold people with an-
nihilation. When an engine struck a
mass of blocked trucks, splitting it
into fragments, as a blow annihilates
a cake of ice, Jimmie’s team could
usually be observed high and safe,
with whole wheels, on the side-walk.
The fearful coming of the engine
could break up the most intricate
muddle of heavy vehicles at which
the police had been storming for
half-an-hour.
A fire-engine was enshrined in his
heart as an appalling thing that he
loved with a distant, dog-like devo-
tion. It had been known to over-
turn a street car. Those leaping
horses, striking sparks from the cob-
bles in their forward lunge, were
creatures to be ineffably admired.
The clang of the gong pierced his
breast like a noise of remembered
war.
When Jimmie was a little boy he
began to be arrested. Before he
reached a great age, he had a fair
record.
He developed too great a ten-
dency to climb down from his truck
and fight with other drivers. He had
been in quite a number of miscella-
neous fights, and in some general
bar-room rows that had become
known to the police. Once he had
been arrested for assaulting a China-
man. Two women in different parts
of the city, and entirely unknown to
each other, caused him considerable
annoyance by breaking forth simul-
taneously, at fateful intervals, into
wailings about marriage and support
and infants.
Nevertheless, he had, on a certain
star-lit evening, said wonderingly
and quite reverently “Deh moon
looks like h—l, don’t it?”
V.
THE girl, Maggie, blossomed in
a mud puddle. She grew to be
a most rare and wonderful produc-
tion of a tenement district, a pretty
girl.
None of the dirt of Rum Alley
seemed to be in her veins. The phi-
losophers upstairs, downstairs, and
on the same floor, puzzled over it.
When a child, playing and fighting
with gamins in the street, dirt dis-
gusted her. Attired in tatters and
grime, she went unseen.
There came a time, however,
when the young men of the vicinity
said, “Dat Johnson goil is a puty
good looker.” About this period
her brother remarked to her: “Mag,
I’ll tell yeh dis! See? Yeh’ve ed-
der got t’ go on d’ toif er go t’
work!” Whereupon she went to
work, having the feminine aversion
to the alternative.
By a chance, she got a position in
an establishment where they made
collars and cuffs. She received a
stool and a machine in a room where
sat twenty girls of various shades of
yellow discontent. She perched on
the stool and treadled at her machine
all day, turning out collars with a
name which might have been noted
for its irrelevancy to anything con-
nected with collars. At night she
returned home to her mother.
Jimmie grew large enough to take
the vague position of head of the
family. As incumbent of that office,
he stumbled upstairs late at night, as
his father had done before him. He
reeled about the room, swearing at
his relations, or went to sleep on the
floor.
The mother had gradually arisen
to such a degree of fame that she
could bandy words with her acquaint-
ances among the police justices.
Court officials called her by her first
name. When she appeared they pur-
sued a course which had been theirs
for months. They invariably grin-
ned, and cried out, “Hello, Mary,
you here again?” Her grey head
wagged in many courts. She always
besieged the bench with voluble ex-
cuses, explanations, apologies, and
prayers. Her flaming face and roll-
ing eyes were a familiar sight on the
island. She measured time by means
of sprees, and was swollen and
dishevelled.
One day the young man Pete, who
as a lad had smitten the Devil’s Row
urchin in the back of the head and
put to flight the antagonists of his
friend Jimmie, strutted upon the
scene. He met Jimmie one day on
the street, promised to take him to a
boxing match in Williamsburg, and
called for him in the evening.
Maggie observed Pete.
He sat on a table in the Johnson
home, and dangled his checked legs
with an enticing nonchalance. His
hair was curled down over his fore-
head in an oiled bang. His pugged
nose seemed to revolt from contact
with a bristling moustache of short,
wire-like hairs. His blue, double-
breasted coat, edged with black
braid, was buttoned close to a red
puff tie, and his patent leather shoes
looked like weapons.
His mannerisms stamped him as a
man who had a correct sense of his
personal superiority. There were
valour and contempt for circum-
stances in the glance of his eye. He
waved his hands like a man of the
world who dismisses religion and
philosophy, and says “Rats!” He
had certainly seen everything, and
with each curl of his lip he declared
that it amounted to nothing. Mag-
gie thought he must be a very “ele-
gant” bar-tender.
He was telling tales to Jimmie.
Maggie watched him furtively,
with half-closed eyes, lit with a vague
interest.
“Hully gee! Dey makes me
tired,” he said. “Mos’ e’ry day some
farmer comes in an’ tries t’ run d’
shop. See? But d’ gits t’rowed
right out. I jolt dem right out in
d’ street before dey knows where dey
is. See?”
“Sure,” said Jimmie.
“Dere was a mug come in d’ place
d* odder day wid an idear he wus
goin’ t’ own d’ place. Hully gee!
he wus goin’t’ own d’ place. I see
he had a still on, an’ I didn’ wanna
giv ’im no stuff, so I says, ‘Git outa
here an’ don’ make no trouble,’ I
says like dat. See? ‘Git outa here
an’ don’ make no trouble;’ like dat.
‘Git outa here,’ I says. See ?”
Jimmie nodded understandingly.
Over his features played an eager
desire to state the amount of his
valour in a similar crisis, but the
narrator proceeded.
“Well, deh blokie he says: ‘T’
blazes wid it! I a in’ lookin’ for no
scrap,’ he says—see? ‘but,’ he says,
‘I’m ,’spectable cit’zen an’ I wanna
drink, an’ quick, too.’ See? ‘Aw,
goahn!’ I says, like dat. ‘Aw, goahn,*
I says. See ? ‘Don’ make no trouble,’
I says, like dat. ‘Don’ make no
trouble.' See? Den d' mug he
squared off an’ said he was fine as
silk wid his dukes—see ? an* he
wanned a drink—quick. Dat’s what
he said. See ?”
“Sure,” repeated Jimmie.
Pete continued. “Say, I jes*
jumped d’ bar, an’d’ way I plunked
dat blokie was outa sight. See?
Dat’s right! In d’ jaw! See? Hully
gee! he t’rowed a spittoon true d’
front windee. Say, I taut I’d drop
dead. But d’ boss, he comes in af-
ter, an’ he says: ‘Pete, yehs done
jes’ right! Yeh’ve gota keep order,
an’ it’s all right.’ See? ‘It’s all
right,’ he says. Dat’s what he said.”
The two held a technical discus-
sion.
“Dat bloke was a dandy,” said
Pete, in conclusion, “but he hadn’
oughta made no trouble. Dat’s what
I says t’ dem: ‘Don’ come in here an’
make no trouble,’ I says, like dat.
‘Don’ make no trouble.’ See?”
As Jimmie and his friend ex-
changed tales descriptive of their
prowess, Maggie leaned back in the
shadow. Her eyes dwelt wonder-
ingly and rather wistfully upon
Pete’s face. The broken furniture,
grimy walls, and general disorder
and dirt of her home of a sudden ap-
peared before her and began to take
a potential aspect. Pete’s aristo-
cratic person looked as if it might
soil. She looked keenly at him, oc-
casionally wondering if he was feel-
ing contempt. But Pete, seemed to
be enveloped in reminiscence.
“Hully gee!” said he, “dose mugs
can’t phase me. Dey knows I kin
wipe up d’ street wid any tree of
dem.”
When he said, “Ah, what d'
h—l!” his voice was burdened with
disdain for the inevitable and con-
tempt for anything that fate might
compel him to endure.
Maggie perceived that here was
the ideal man. Her dim thoughts
were often searching for far-away
lands where the little hills sing to-
gether in the morning. Under the
trees of her dream-gardens there
had always walked a lover.
VI;
PETE took note of Maggie.
“Say, Mag, I’m stuck on yer
shape. It’s outa sight,” he said
parenthetically, with an affable grin.
As he became aware that she was
listening closely, he grew still more
eloquent in his description of various
happenings in his career. It ap-
peared that he was invincible in
fights.
“Why,” he said, referring to a
man with whom he had had a mis-
understanding, “dat mug scrapped
like a dago. Dat’s right. He was
dead easy. See? He taut he was a
scrapper. But he foun’ out diff’ent.
Hully gee!”
He walked to and fro in the small
room, which seemed then to grow
even smaller and unfit to hold his
dignity, the attribute of a supreme
warrior. That swing of the shoul-
ders which had frozen the timid
when he was but a lad had increased
with his growth and education in the
ratio of ten to one. It, combined
with the sneer upon his mouth, told
mankind that there was nothing in
space which could appal him. Mag-
gie marvelled at him and surround-
ed him with greatness. She vague-
ly tried to calculate the altitude of
the pinnacle from which he must
have looked down upon her.
“I met a chump deh odder day
way up in deh city,” he said. “I was
goin’ teh see a frien’ of mine. When
I was a-crossing deh street deh
chump runned plump inteh me, an’
den he turns aroun’ an’ says, ‘Yer
insolen’ ruffin!’ he says, like dat.
‘Oh, gee!’ I says, ‘oh, gee! git off d’
eart’!’ I says, like dat. See? ‘Git off
d’ eart’!’ like dat. Den deh blokie
he got wild. He says I was a con-
tempt’ble scoun’el, er somethin’ like
dat, an’ he says I was doom’ teh
everlastin’ pe’dition, er somethin’
like dat. ‘Gee!’ I says, ‘gee! Yer
joshin’ me,’ I says. ‘Yer joshin’ me.'
An’ den I slugged ’im. See?”
With Jimmie in his company,
Pete departed in a sort of blaze of
glory from the Johnson home. Mag-
gie, leaning from the window, watch-
ed him as he walked down the street.
Here was a formidable man who
disdained the strength of a world
full of fists. Here was one who
had contempt for brass-clothed pow-
er; one whose knuckles could ring
defiantly against the granite of law.
He was a knight. -
The two men went from under
the glimmering street lamp and
passed into shadows.
Turning, Maggie contemplated
the dark, dust-stained walls, and the
scant and crude furniture of her
home. A clock, in a splintered and
battered oblong box of varnished
wood, she suddenly regarded as an
abomination. She noted that it tick-
ed raspingly. The almost vanished
flowers in the carpet pattern, she
conceived to be newly hideous. Some
faint attempts which she had made
with blue ribbon to freshen the ap-
pearance of a dingy curtain, she now
saw to be piteous.
She wondered what Pete dined on.
She reflected upon the collar-and-
cuff factory. It began to appear to
her mind as a dreary place of end-
less grinding. Pete’s elegant occu-
pation brought him, no doubt, into
contact with people who had money
and manners. It was probable that
he had a large acquaintance with
pretty girls. He must have great
sums of money to spend.
To her the earth was composed of
hardships and insults. She felt in-
stant admiration for a man who
openly defied it. She thought that
if the grim angel of death should
clutch his heart, Pete would shrug
his shoulders and say, “Oh, ev’y-
t’ing goes.”
She anticipated that he would
come again shortly. She spent some
of her week’s pay in the purchase of
flowered cretonne for a lambrequin.
She made it with infinite care, and
hung it to the slightly careening man-
tel over the stove in the kitchen. She
studied it with painful anxiety from
different points in the room. She
wanted it to look well on Sunday
night when, perhaps, Jimmie’s friend
would come. On Sunday night, how-
ever, Pete did not appear.
Afterwards the girl looked at it
with a sense of humiliation. She was
now convinced that Pete was su-
perior to admiration for lambre-
quins.
A few evenings later Pete entered
with fascinating innovations in his
apparel. As she had seen him twice
and he wore a different suit each
time, Maggie had a dim impression
that his wardrobe was prodigious.
“Say, Mag,” he said, “put on yer
bes’ duds Friday night an’ I’ll take
yehs t’d’ show. See?”
He spent a few moments in flour-
ishing his clothes, and then vanished
without having glanced at the lam-
brequin.
Over the eternal collars and cuffs
in the factory Maggie spent the most
of three days in making imaginary
sketches of Pete and his daily en-
vironment. She imagined some half-
dozen women in love with him, and
thought he must lean dangerously to-
wards an indefinite one, whom she
pictured as endowed with great
charms of person, but with an alto-
gether contemptible disposition.
She thought he must live in a blare
of pleasure. He had friends and
people who were afraid of him.
She saw the golden glitter of the
place where Pete was to take her.
It would be an entertainment of
many hues and many melodies,
where she was afraid she might ap-
pear small and mouse-coloured.
Her mother drank whisky all Fri-
day morning. With lurid face and
tossing hair she cursed and de-
stroyed furniture all Friday after-
noon. When Maggie came home at
half-past six her mother lay asleep
amid the wreck of chairs and a table.
Fragments of various household
utensils were scattered about the
floor. She had vented some phase
of drunken fury upon the lambre-
quin. It lay in a bedraggled heap
in the comer.
“Hah!” she snorted, sitting up
suddenly, “where yeh been? Why
don’ yeh come home earlier? Been
loafin’ ’round d’ streets. Yer get-
tin’t’ be a reg’lar devil.”
When Pete arrived, Maggie, in a
worn black dress, was waiting for
him in the midst of a floor strewn
with wreckage. The curtain at the
window had been pulled by a heavy
hand and hung by one tack, dangling
to and fro in the draught through
the cracks at the sash. The knots of
blue ribbons appeared like violated
flowers. The fire in the stove had
gone out. The displaced lids and
open doors showed heaps of sullen
grey ashes. The remnants of a
meal, ghastly, lay in a corner. Mag-
gie’s mother, stretched on the floor,
blasphemed, and gave her daughter
a bad name.
VII.
AN orchestra of yellow silk wo-
men and bald-headed men, on
an elevated stage near the centre of
a great green-hued ball, played a
popular waltz. The place was
crowded with people grouped about
little tables. A battalion of waiters
slid among the throng, carrying trays
of beer-glasses, and making change
from the inexhaustible vaults of
their trousers pockets. Little boys;
in the costumes of French chefs,
paraded up and down the irregular
aisles vending fancy cakes. There
was a low rumble of conversation
ahd a subdued clinking of glasses.
Clouds of tobacco smoke rolled and
wavered high in air above the dull
gilt of the chandeliers.
The vast crowd had an air
throughout of having just quitted
labour. Men with calloused hands,
and attired in garments that showed
the wear of an endless drudging for
a living, smoked their pipes content-
edly and spent five, ten, or perhaps
fifteen cents for beer. There was a
mere sprinkling of men who smoked
cigars purchased elsewhere. The
great body of the crowd was com-
posed of people who showed that all
day they strove with their hands.
Quiet Germans, with maybe their
wives and two or three children, sat
listening to the music, with the ex-
pressions of happy cows. An occa-
sional party of sailors from a war-
ship, their faces pictures of sturdy
health, spent the earlier hours of the
evening at the small round tables.
Very infrequent tipsy men, swollen
with the value of their opinions, en-
gaged their companions in earnest
and confidential conversation. In the
balcony, and here and there below,
shone the impassive faces of women.
The nationalities of the Bowery
beamed upon the stage from all di-
rections.
Pete walked aggressively up a side
aisle and took seats with Maggie at
a table beneath the balcony.
“Two beehs!”
Leaning back, he regarded with
eyes of superiority the scene before
them. This attitude affected Maggie
strongly. A man who could regard
such a sight with indifference must
be accustomed to very great things.
It was obvious that Pete had visit-
ed this place many times before, and
was very familiar with it. A knowl-
edge of this fact made Maggie feel
little and new.
He was extremely gracious and
attentive. He displayed the consid-
eration of a cultured gentleman who
knew what was due.
“Say, what’s eatin’ yeh? Bring d’
lady a big glass! What use is dat
pony?”
“Don’t be fresh, now,” said the
waiter, with some warmth, as he de-
parted.
“Ah, git off d’ eart’!” said Pete,
after the other’s retreating form.
Maggie perceived that Pete
brought forth all his elegance and
all his knowledge of high-class cus-
toms for her benefit. Her heart
warmed as she reflected upon his
condescension.
The orchestra of yellow silk wo-
men and bald-headed men gave vent
to a few bars of anticipatory music,
and a girl, in a pink dress with short
skirts, galloped upon the stage. She
smiled upon the throng as if in ac-
knowledgment of a warm welcome,
and began to walk to and fro, mak-
ing profuse gesticulations, and sing-
ing, in brazen soprano tones, a song
the words of which were inaudible.
When she broke into the swift rat-
tling measures of a chorus some
half-tipsy men near the stage joined
in the rollicking refrain, and glasses
were pounded rhythmically upon the
tables. People leaned forward to
watch her and to try to catch the
words of the song. When she van-
ished there were long rollings of
applause.
Obedient to more anticipatory
bars, she reappeared among the half-
suppressed cheering of the tipsy
men. The orchestra plunged into
dance music, and the laces of the
dancer fluttered and flew in the glare
of gas-jets. She divulged the fact
that she was attired in some half-
dozen skirts. It was patent that any
one of them would have proved ade-
quate for the purpose for which
skirts are intended. An occasional
man bent forward, intent upon the
pink stockings. Maggie wondered
at the splendour of the costume and
lost herself in calculations of the cost
of the silks and laces.
The dancer’s smile of enthusiasm
was turned for ten minutes upon the
faces of her audience. In the finale
she fell into some of those grotesque
attitudes which were at the time pop-
ular among the dancers in the thea-
tres up-town giving to the Bowery
public the diversions of the aristo-
cratic theatre-going public at reduced
rates.
“Say, Pete,” said Maggie, lean-
ing forward, “dis is great.”
“Sure!” said Pete, with proper
complacence.
A ventriloquist followed the danc-
er. He held two fantastic dolls on
his knees. He made them sing
mournful ditties and say funny things
about geography and Ireland.
“Do dose little men talk?” asked
Maggie.
“Naw,” said Pete, “it’s some big
jolly. See?”
Two girls, set down on the bills
as sisters, came forth and sang a
duet which is heard occasionally at
concerts given under church auspices.
They supplemented it with a dance,
which, of course, can never be seen
at concerts given under church
auspices.
After they had retired, a woman
of debatable age sang a negro melo-
dy. The chorus necessitated some
grotesque waddlings supposed to be
an imitation of a plantation darky,
under the influence, probably, of
music and the moon. The audience
was just enthusiastic enough over it
to make her return and sing a sor-
rowful lay, whose lines told of a
mother’s love, and a sweetheart who
waited, and a young man who was
lost at sea under harrowing circum-
stances. From the faces of a score
or so in the crowd the self-contained
look faded. Many heads were bent
forward with eagerness and sym-
pathy. As the last distressing senti-
ment of the piece was brought forth,
it was greeted by the kind of ap-
plause which rings as sincere.
As a final effort, the singer ren-
dered some verses which described a
vision of Britain annihilated by
America, and Ireland bursting her
bonds. A carefully prepared climax
was reached in the last line of the
last verse, when the singer threw out
her arms and cried, “The star-
spangled banner.” Instantly a great
cheer swelled from the throats of
this assemblage of the masses, most
of them of foreign birth. There was
a heavy rumble of booted feet
thumping the floor. Eyes gleamed
with sudden fire, and calloused hands
waved frantically in the air.
After a few moments' rest, the or-
chestra played noisily, and a small,
fat man burst out upon the stage. He
began to roar a song and to stamp
back and forth before the foodights,
wildly waving a silk hat and throw-
ing leers broadcast. He made his
face into fantastic grimaces until he
looked like a devil on a Japanese
kite. The crowd laughed gleefully.
His short, fat legs were never still
a moment. He shouted and roared
and bobbed his shock of red wig un-
til the audience broke out in excited
applause.
Pete did not pay much attention
to the progress of events upon the
stage. He was drinking beer and
watching Maggie.
Her cheeks were blushing with ex-
citement and her eyes were glisten-
ing. She drew deep breaths of pleas-
ure. No thoughts of the atmosphere
of the collar-and-cuff factory came to
her.
With the final crash of the orches-
tra they jostled their way to the
sidewalk in the crowd. Pete took
Maggie’s arm and pushed a way for
her, offering to fight with a man or
two. They reached Maggie’s home
at a late hour and stood for a mo-
ment in front of the gruesome door-
way.
“Say, Mag,” said Pete, “give us
a kiss for takin’ yeh t’d’ show, will
yer?”
Maggie laughed, as if startled,
and drew away from him.
“Naw, Pete,” she said, “dat
wasn’t in it.”
“Ah, why wasn’t it?” urged Pete.
The girl retreated nervously.
“Ah, go ahn !” repeated he.
Maggie darted into the hall, and
up the stairs. She turned and smiled
at him, then disappeared.
Pete walked slowly down the
street. He had something of an as-
tonished expression upon his fea-
tures. He paused under a lamppost
and breathed a low breath of sur-
prise.
“Gee!” he said, “I wonner if I’ve
been played fer a duffer.”
VIII
AS thoughts of Pete came to
Maggie’s mind, she began to
have an intense dislike for all of her
dresses.
“What ails yeh? What makes ye
be allus fixin' and fussin’ ?” her moth-
er would frequently roar at her:
She began to note with more in-
terest the well-dressed women she
met on the avenues. She envied
elegance and soft palms. She craved
those adornments of person which
she saw every day on the street, con-
ceiving them to be allies of vast im-
portance to women.
Studying faces, she thought many
of the women and girls she chanced
to meet smiled with serenity as
though for ever cherished and watch-
ed over by those they loved.
The air in the collar-and-cuff es-
tablishment strangled her. She knew
she was gradually and surely shrivel-
ling in the hot, stuffy room. The be-
grimed windows rattled incessantly
from the passing of elevated trains.
The place was filled with a whirl of
noises and odours.
She became lost in thought as she
looked at some of the grizzled wo-
men in the room, mere mechanical
contrivances sewing seams and grind-
ing out, with heads bent over their
work, tales of imagined or real girl-
hood happiness, or of past drunks,
or the baby at home, and unpaid
wages. She wondered how long her
youth would endure. She began to
see the bloom upon her cheeks as
something of value.
She imagined herself, in an exas-
perating future, as a scrawny woman
with an eternal grievance. She
thought Pete to be a very fastidious
person concerning the appearance of
women.
She felt that she should love to
see somebody entangle their fingers
in the oily beard of the fat foreigner
who owned the establishment. He
was a detestable creature. He wore
white socks with low shoes. He sat
all day delivering orations in the
depths of a cushioned chair. His
pocket-book deprived them of the
power of retort.
“What do you sink I pie fife dolla
a week for? Play? No, py damn!"
Maggie was anxious for a friend
to whom she could talk about Pete.
She would have liked to discuss his
admirable mannerisms with a relia-
ble mutual friend. At home, she
found her mother often drunk and
always raving. It seemed that the
world had treated this woman very
badly, and she took a deep revenge
upon such portions of it as came
within her reach. She broke furni-
ture as if she were at last getting her
rights. She swelled with virtuous
indignation as she carried the lighter
articles of household use, one by
one, under the shadows of the three
gilt balls, where Hebrews chained
them with chains of interest.
Jimmie came when he was obliged
to by circumstances over which he
had no control. His well-trained legs
brought him staggering home, and
put him to bed some nights when he
would rather have gone elsewhere.
Swaggering Pete loomed like a
golden sun to Maggie. He took her
to a dime museum, where rows of
meek freaks astonished her. She
contemplated their deformities with
awe, and thought them a sort of
chosen tribe.
Pete, racking his brains for
amusement, discovered the Central
Park Menagerie and the Museum of
Arts. Sunday afternoons would
sometimes find them at these places.
Pete did not appear to be particu-
larly interested in what he saw. He
stood around looking heavy, while
Maggie giggled in glee.
Once at the menagerie he went
into a trance of admiration before
the spectacle of a very small monkey
threatening to thrash a cageful be-
cause one of them had pulled his tail
and he had not wheeled about quick-
ly enough to discover who did it.
Ever after Pete knew that monkey
by sight, and winked at him, trying
to induce him to fight with other and
larger monkeys.
At the museum, Maggie said,
“Dis is outa sight!"
“Aw, rats!" said Pete; “wait till
next summer an' I'll take yehs to a
picnic.”
While the girl wandered in the
vaulted rooms, Pete occupied him-
self in returning stony stare for stony
stare, the appalling scrutiny of the
watch-dogs of the treasures. Occa-
sionally he would remark in loud
tones, “Dat jay has got glass eyes,”
and sentences of the sort. When he
tired of this amusement he would go
to the mummies and moralise over
them.
Usually he submitted with silent
dignity to all that he had to go
through, but at times he was goaded
into comment.
“Aw!” he demanded once. “Look
at all dese little jugs! Hundred jugs
in a row! Then rows in a case, an'
'bout a t'ousand cases! What d'
blazes use is dem?”
In the evenings of week days he
often took her to see plays in which
the dazzling heroine was rescued
from the palatial home of her
treacherous guardian by the hero
with the beautiful sentiments. The
latter spent most of his time out at
soak in pale-green snowstorms, busy
with a nickel-plated revolver rescu-
ing aged strangers from villains.
Maggie lost herself in sympathy
with the wanderers swooning in
snow-storms beneath happy-hued
church windows, while a choir with-
in sang “Joy to the World.” To
Maggie and the rest of the audience
this was transcendental realism. Joy
always within, and they, like the ac-
tor, inevitably without. Viewing it,
they hugged themselves in ecstatic
pity of their imagined or real condi-
tion.
The girl thought the arrogance
and granite-heartedness of the mag-
nate of the play were very accurate-
ly drawn. She echoed the maledic-
tions that the occupants of the gal-
lery showered on this individual
when his lines compelled him to ex-
pose his extreme selfishness.
Shady persons in the audience re-
volted from the pictured villainy of
the drama. With untiring zeal they
hissed vice and applauded virtue.
Unmistakably bad men evinced an
apparently sincere admiration for
virtue. The loud gallery was over-
whelmingly with the unfortunate and
the oppressed. They encouraged the
struggling hero with cries, and
jeered the villain, hooting and call-
ing attention to his whiskers. When
anybody died in the pale-green snow-
storms, the gallery mourned. They
sought out the painted misery and
hugged it as. akin.
In the hero’s erratic march from
poverty in the first act, to wealth
and triumph in the final one, in which
he forgives all the enemies that he
has left, he was assisted by the gal-
lery, which applauded his generous
and noble sentiments and confound-
ed the speeches of his opponents by
making irrelevant but very sharp re-
marks. Those actors who were
cursed with the parts of villains were
confronted at every turn by the gal-
lery. If one of them rendered lines
containing the most subtile distinc-
tions between right and wrong, the
gallery was immediately aware that
the actor meant wickedness, and de-
nounced him accordingly.
The last act was a triumph for
the hero, poor and of the masses, the
representative of the audience, over
the villain and the rich man, his
pockets stuffed with bonds, his heart
packed with tyrannical purposes, im-
perturbable amid suffering.
Maggie always departed with
raised spirits from these melo-
dramas. She rejoiced at the way in
which the poor and virtuous eventu-
ally overcame the wealthy and wick-
ed. The theatre made her think.
She wondered if the culture and- re-
finement she had seen imitated, per-
haps grotesquely, by the heroine on
the stage, could be acquired by a girl
who lived in a tenement house and
worked in a shirt factory.
IX.
A GROUP of urchins were in-
tent upon the side door of a
saloon. Expectancy gleamed from
their eyes. They were twisting their
fingers in excitement.
“Here she comes!” yelled one of
them suddenly.
The group of urchins burst in-
stantly asunder and its individual
fragments were spread in a wide,
respectable half circle about the
point of interest. The saloon door
opened with a crash, and the figure
of a woman appeared upon the
threshold. Her grey hair fell in
knotted masses about her shoulders.
Her face was crimsoned and wet
with perspiration. Her eyes had a
rolling glare.
“Not a cent more of me money
will yehs ever get—not a red! I
spent me money here fer t’ree years,
an’ now yehs tells me yeh’ll sell me
no more stuff! Go fall on yerself,
Johnnie Murckre! ‘Disturbance?’
Disturbance be blowed! Go fall on
yerself, Johnnie ”
The door received a kick of ex-
asperation from within, and the wo-
man lurched heavily out on the side-
walk.
The gamins in the half circle be-
came violently agitated. They be-
gan to dance about and hoot and yell
and jeer. A wide dirty grin spread
over each face.
The woman made a furious dash
at a particularly outrageous cluster
of little boys. They laughed de-
lightedly, and scampered off a short
distance, calling out to her over their
shoulders. She stood tottering on
the curbstone and thundered at
them.
“Yeh devil’s kids!” she howled,
shaking her fists. The little boys
whooped in glee. As she started up
the street they fell in behind and
marched uproariously. Occasionally
she wheeled about and made charges
on them. They ran nimbly out of
reach and taunted her.
In the frame of a gruesome door-
way she stood for a moment cursing
them. Her hair straggled, giving her
red features a look of insanity. Her
great fists quivered as she shook
them madly, in the air.
The urchins made terrific noises
until she turned and disappeared.
Then they filed off quietly in the way
they had come.
The woman floundered about in
the lower hall of the tenement house,
and finally stumbled up the stairs.
On an upper hall a door was opened
and a collection of heads peered cu-
riously out, watching her. With a
wrathful snort the woman confront-
ed the door, but it was slammed
hastily in her face and the key was
turned.
She stood for a few minutes, de-
livering a frenzied challenge at the
panels.
“Come out in deh hall, Mary
Murphy, if yehs want a scrap! Come
ahn! yeh overgrown terrier, come
ahn!”
She began to kick the door. She
shrilly defied the universe to appear
and do battle. Her cursing trebles
brought heads from all doors save
the one she threatened. Her eyes
glared in every direction. The air
was full of her tossing fists.
“Come ahn! deh hull gang of
yehs, come ahn!” she roared at the
spectators. An oath or two, cat-
calls, jeers, and bits of facetious ad-
vice were given in reply. Missiles
clattered about her feet.
“What’s wrong wi’ che?” said a
voice in the gathered gloom, and
Jimmie came forward. He carried
a tin dinner-pail in his hand and un-
der his arm a truckman’s brown
apron done in a bundle. “What’s
wrong?” he demanded.
“Come out! all of yehs, come
out,” his mother was howling.
“Come ahn an’ I’ll stamp yer faces
true d’ floor.”
“Shet yer face, an’ come home,
yeh old fool!” roared Jimmie at her.
She strode up to him and twirled
her fingers in his face. Her eyes
were darting flames of unreasoning
rage and her frame trembled with
eagerness for a fight.
“An’ who are youse? I ain’t givin’
a snap of me fingers fer youse!” she
bawled at him. She turned her huge
back in tremendous disdain and
climbed the stairs to the next floor.
Jimmie followed, and at the top
of the flight he seized his mother’s
arm and started to drag her towards
the door of their room.
“Come home!” he gritted be-
tween his teeth.
“Take yer hands off me! Take
yer hands off me!” shrieked his
mother.
She raised her arm and whirled
her great fist at her son’s face. Jim-
mie dodged his head and the blow
struck him in the back of the neck.
“Come home!” he gritted again. He
threw out his left hand and writhed
his fingers about her middle arm.
The mother and the son began to
sway and struggle like gladiators.
“Whoop!” said the Rum Alley
tenement house. The hall filled with
interested spectators.
“Hi, ol’ lady, dat was a dandy!”
“T’ree t’ one on d’ red!”
“Ah, quit yer scrappin’!”
The door of the Johnson home
opened and Maggie looked out. Jim-
mie made a supreme cursing effort
and hurled his mother into the room.
He quickly followed and closed the
door. The Rum Alley tenement
swore disappointedly and retired.
The mother slowly gathered her-
self up from the floor. Her eyes
glittered menacingly upon her chil-
dren.
“Here now,” said Jimmie, “we’ve
had enough of dis. Sit down, an’
don’ make no trouble.”
He grasped her arm, and twisting
it, forced her into a creaking chair.
“Keep yer hands off me!” roared
his mother again.
"Say, yeh ol’ bat! Quit dat!”
yelled Jimmie, madly. Maggie
shrieked and ran into the other
room. To her there came the sound
of a storm of "crashes and curses.
There was a great final thump and
Jimmie’s voice cried: “Dere now!
Stay still.”
Maggie opened the door now, and
went warily out. “Oh, Jimmie!”
He was leaning against the wall
and swearing. Blood stood upon
bruises on his knotty forearms where
they had scraped against the floor or
the walls in the scuffle. The mother
lay screeching on the floor, the tears
running down her furrowed face.
Maggie, standing in the middle of
the room, gazed about her. The
usual upheaval of the tables and
chairs had taken place. Crockery
was strewn broadcast in fragments.
The stove had been disturbed on its
legs, and now leaned idiotically to
one side. A pail had been upset and
water spread in all directions.
The door opened and Pete ap-
peared. He shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, gee!” he observed.
He walked over to Maggie and
whispered in her ear: “Ah, what d’
h—l, Mag? Come ahn and we’ll
have a outa sight time.”
The mother in the corner up-
reared her head and shook her
tangled locks.
“Aw yer bote no good, needer of
yehs,” she said, glowering at her
daughter in the gloom. Her eyes
seemed to burn balefully. “Yeh’ve
gone t’d’ devil, Mag Johnson, yehs
knows yehs have gone t’ d’ devil.
Yer a disgrace t’ yer people. An'
now, git out an’ go ahn wid dat doe-
faced jude of yours. Go wid him,
curse yeh, an’ a good riddance. Go,
an’ see how yeh likes it.”
Maggie gazed long at her mother.
“Go now, an’ see how yeh likes it.
Git out. I won’t have sech as youse
in me house! Git out, d’ yeh hear!
D—n yeh, git out!”
The girl began to tremble.
At this instant Pete came forward.
“Oh, what d’ h—l, Mag, see,” whis-
pered he sofdy in her ear. “Dis all
blows over. See? D’ ol’ woman ’ill
be all right in d’ momin’. Come
ahn out wid me! We’ll have a outa
sight time.”
The woman on the floor cursed.
Jimmie was intent upon his bruised
fore-arms. The girl cast a glance
about the room filled with a chaotic
mass of debris, and at the writhing
body of her mother.
“Git th’ devil outa here.”
Maggie went.
X.
JIMMIE had an idea it wasn’t
common courtesy for a friend to
come to one’s home and ruin one’s
sister. But he was not sure how
much Pete knew about the rules of
politeness.
The following night he returned
home from work at a rather late
hour in the evening. In passing
through the halls he came upon the
gnarled and leathery old woman who
possessed the music-box. She was
grinning in the dim light that drifted
through dust-stained panes. She
beckoned to him with a smudged
forefinger.
“Ah, Jimmie, what do yehs t’ink
I tumbled to, las’ night! It was deh
funnies’ t’ing I ever saw,” she cried,
coming close to him and leering. She
was trembling with eagerness to tell
her tale. “I was by me door las’
night when yer sister and her jude
feller came in late, oh, very late. An'
she, the dear, she was a-cryin’ as if
her heart would break, she was. It
was deh funnies’ t’ing I ever saw.
An’ right out here by me door she
asked him did he love her, did he.
An’ she was a-crying as if her heart
would break, poor t’ing. An’ him, I
could see be deh way what he said it
dat she had been askin’ orften; he
says, ‘Oh, gee, yes,’ he says, says he,
‘Oh, gee, yes.’ ”
Storm clouds swept over Jimmie’s
face, but he turned from the leathery
old woman and plodded on upstairs.
“Oh, gee, yes,” she called after
him. She laughed a laugh that was
like a prophetic croak.
There was no one in at home. The
rooms showed that attempts had
been made at tidying them. Parts
of the wreckage of the day before
had been repaired by an unskilled
hand. A chair or two and the table
stood uncertainly upon legs. The
floor had been newly swept. The
blue ribbons had been restored to the
curtains, and the lambrequin, with its
immense sheaves of yellow wheat
and red roses of equal size, had been
returned, in a worn and sorry state,
to its place at the mantel. Maggie’s
jacket and hat were gone from the
nail behind the door.
Jimmie walked to the window and
began to look through the blurred
glass. It occurred to him to wonder
vaguely, for an instant, if some of
the women of his acquaintance had
brothers.
Suddenly, however, he began to
swear.
“But he was me frien’! I brought
’im here! Dat’s d’ devil of it!”
'He fumed about the room, his
anger gradually rising to the furious
pitch.
“I’ll kill deh jay! Dat’s what I’ll
do! I’ll kill deh jay !”
He clutched his hat and sprang
towards the door. But it opened and
his mother’s great form blocked the
passage.
“What’s d’ matter wid yeh?” ex-
claimed she, coming into the rooms.
Jimmie gave vent to a sardonic
curse and then laughed heavily.
“Well, Maggie’s gone teh d’
devil! Are yehs deaf?” roared Jim-
mie, impatiently.
“Aw, git out!” murmured the
mother, astounded.
Jimmie grunted, and then began
to stare out of the window. His
mother sat down in a chair, but a
moment later sprang erect and de-
livered a maddened whirl of oaths.
Her son turned to look at her as she
reeled and swayed in the middle of
the room, her fierce face convulsed
with passion, her blotched arms
raised high in imprecation.
“May she be cursed for ever!”
she shrieked. “May she eat nothin’
but stones and deh dirt in deh street.
May she sleep in deh gutter an’
never see deh sun shine again. D’
bloomin’ 
“Here now,” said her son. “Go
fall on yerself, an’ quit dat.”
The mother raised lamenting eyes
to the ceiling.
“She’s d’ devil’s own chil’, Jim-
mie,” she whispered. “Ah, who
would tink such a bad girl could
grow up in our fambly, Jimmie, me
son. Many d’ hour I’ve spent in
talk wid dat girl an’ tol’ her if she
ever went on d’ streets I’d see her
d--- d. An’ after all her bringin’
up an’ what I tol’ her and talked wid
her, she goes teh d’ bad, like a duck
teh water.”
The tears rolled down her fur-
rowed face. Her hands trembled.
“An’ den when dat Sadie Mac-
Mallister next door to us was sent
teh d’ devil by dat feller what work-
ed in d’ soap factory, didn’t I tell our
Mag dat if she ”
“Ah, dat’s anudder story,” inter-
rupted the brother. “Of course, dat
Sadie was nice an’ all dat—but—see
—it ain’t dessame as if—well, Mag-
gie was dilf’ent—see—she was diff’-
ent.”
He was trying to formulate a the-
ory that he had always unconscious-
ly held, that all sisters, excepting his
own, could, advisedly, be ruined.
He suddenly broke out again. “I’ll
go t’ump d’ mug what done her d’
harm. I’ll kill ’im! He tinks he
kin scrap, but when he gits me
a-chasin’ ’im he’ll fin’ out where he’s
wrong, d’ big stuff! I’ll wipe up d*
street wid ’im.”
In a fury he plunged out of the
doorway. As he vanished the moth-
er raised her head and lifted both
hands, entreating.
“May she be cursed for ever!”
she cried.
In the darkness of the hall-way
Jimmie discerned a knot of women
talking volubly. When he strode by
they paid no attention to him.
“She allus was a bold thing,” He
heard one of them cry in an eager
voice. “Dere wasn’t a feller come
teh deh house but she’d try teh mash
’im. My Annie says deh shameless
t’ing tried teh ketch her feller, her
own feller, what we useter know his
fader.”
“I could a’ tol’ yehs dis two years
ago,” said a woman, in a key of tri-
umph. “Yes, sir, it was over two
years ago dat I says teh my ol’ man,
I says, ‘Dat Johnson girl ain’t
straight,’ I says. ‘Oh, rats!’ he says.
‘Oh, h—1!’ ‘Dat’s all right,’ I says,
‘but I know what I knows,’ I says,
an’ it’ll coma out later. You wait
‘an’ it’ll come out later. You wait
“Anybody what had eyes could
see dat dere was somethin’ wrong
wid dat girl. I didn’t like her ac-
tions.”
On the street Jimmie met a friend.
“What’s wrong?” asked the latter.
Jimmie explained. “An’ I’ll t’ump
*im till he can’t stand.”
“Oh, go ahn!” said the friend.
“What’s deh use! Yeh’ll git pulled
in! Everybody ’ill be onto it! An*
ten plunks! Gee!”
Jimmie was determined. “He
t’inks he kin scrap, but he’ll fin’ out
diff’ent.”
“Gee!” remonstrated the friend
“what’s d’ use?”
XI.
ON a comer a glass-fronted
building shed a yellow glare
upon the pavements. The open
mouth of a saloon called seductively
to passengers to enter and annihilate
sorrow or create rage.
The interior of the place was pa-
pered in olive and bronze tints of
imitation leather. A shining bar of
counterfeit massiveness extended
down the side of the room. Behind
it a great mahogany-imitation side-
board reached the ceiling. Upon its
shelves rested pyramids of shimmer-
ing glasses that were never dis-
turbed. Mirrors set in the face of
the sideboard multiplied them. Lem-
ons, oranges, and paper napkins, ar-
ranged with mathematical precision,
sat among the glasses. Many-hued
decanters of liquor perched at regu-
lar intervals on the lower shelves.
A nickel-plated cash register occu-
pied a place in the exact centre of the
general effect. The elementary senses
of it all seemed to be opulence and
geometrical accuracy.
Across from the bar a smaller
counter held a collection of plates
upon which swarmed frayed frag-
ments of crackers, slices of boiled
ham, dishevelled bits of cheese, and
pickles swimming in vinegar. An
odour of grasping, begrimed hands
and munching mouths pervaded all.
Pete, in a white jacket, was behind
the bar bending expectantly toward a
quiet stranger. “A beeh,” said the
man. Pete drew a foam-topped glass-
ful, and set it dripping upon the bar.
At this moment the light bamboo
doors at the entrance swung open
and crashed against the wall. Jim-
mie and a companion entered. They
swaggered unsteadily but belligerent-
ly toward the bar, and looked at
Pete with bleared and blinking eyes.
“Gin,” said Jimmie. 
“Gin,” said the companion.
Pete slid a bottle and two glasses
along the bar. He bent his head
sideways as he assiduously polished
away with a napkin at the gleaming
wood. He wore a look of watchful-
ness.
Jimmie and his companion kept
their eyes upon the bar-tender and
conversed loudly in tones of con-
tempt.
“He’s a dandy masher, ain’t he?”
laughed Jimmie.
“Well, ain’t he!” said the com-
panion, sneering. “He’s great, he is.
Git onto deh mug on deh blokie.
Dat’s enough to make a feller turn
handsprings in ’is sleep.”
The quiet stranger moved himself
and his glass a trifle farther away
and maintained an attitude of oblivi-
ousness.
“Gee! ain’t he hot stuff?”
“Git onto his shape!”
“Hey!” cried Jimmie, in tones of
command. Pete came along slowly,
with a sullen dropping of the under
lip.
“Well,” he growled, “what’s
eatin’ yehs?”
“Gin,” said the companion.
As Pete confronted them with the
bottle and the glasses they laughed
in his face. Jimmie’s companion,
evidently overcome with merriment,
pointed a grimy forefinger in Pete’s
direction.
“Say, Jimmie,” demanded he,
“what’s dat behind d’ bar?”
“Looks like some chump,” replied
Jimmie. They laughed loudly. Pete
put down a bottle with a bang and
turned a formidable face toward
them. He disclosed his teeth and his
shoulders heaved restlessly.
“You fellers can’t guy me,” he
said. “Drink yer stuff an’ git out
an’ don’ make no trouble.”
Instantly the laughter faded from
the faces of the two men, and ex-
pressions of offended dignity imme-
diately came.
“Aw, who has said anyt’ing t’
you?” cried they in the same breath.
The quiet stranger looked at the
door calculatingly.
“Ah, come off,” said Pete to the
two men. “Don’t pick me up for no
jay. Drink yer rum an’ git out an’
don’ make no trouble.”
“Aw, go ahn!” airily cried Jim-
mie.
“Aw, go ahn!” airily repeated his
companion.
“We goes when we git ready!
See ?” continued Jimmie.
“Well,” said Pete in a threaten-
ing voice, “don’ make no trouble.”
Jimmie suddenly leaned forward
with his head on one side. He
snarled like a wild animal.
“Well, what if we does? See?”
said he.
Hot blood flushed into Pete’s
face, and he shot a lurid glance at
Jimmie.
“Well, den we’ll see who’s d’ bes’
man, you or me,” he said.
The quiet stranger moved modest-
ly toward the door.
Jimmie began to swell with val-
our.
“Don’ pick me up fer no tender-
foot. When yeh tackles me yeh
tackles one of d’ bes’ men in d’ city.
See? I’m a scrapper, I am. . Ain’t
dat right, Billie?”
“Sure, Mike,” responded his com-
panion in tones of conviction.
“Aw!” said Pete, easily. “Go
fall on yerself.”
The two men again began to
laugh.
“What is dat talking?” cried the
companion.
“Don’ ast me,” replied Jimmie
with exaggerated contempt.
Pete made a furious gesture. “Git
outa here now, an’ don’ make no
trouble. See? Youse fellers er
lookin’ fer a scrap, an’ it’s like yeh’ll
fin’ one if yeh keeps on shootin’ off
yer mout’s. I know yehs! See? I
kin lick better men dan yehs ever
saw in yer lifes. Dat’s right! See?
Don’ pick me up fer no stuff, er yeh
might be jolted out in d’ street be-
fore yeh knows where yeh is. When
I comes from behind dis bar, I
t’rows yehs boat inteh d’ street.
See?”
“Ah, go ahn!” cried the two men
in chorus.
The glare of a panther came into
Pete’s eyes. “Dat’s what I said!
Unnerstan’ ?”
He came through a passage at the
end of the bar and swelled down
upon the two men. They stepped
promptly forward and crowded close
to him.
They bristled like three roosters.
They moved their heads pugnacious-
ly and kept their shoulders braced.
The nervous muscles about each
mouth twitched with a forced smile
of mockery.
“Well, what yer goin’ t’ do?”
gritted Jimmie.
Pete stepped warily back, waving
his hands before him to keep the
men from coming too near.
“Well, what yer goin’t’ do?” re-
peated Jimmie’s ally. They kept
close to him, taunting and leering.
They, strove to make him attempt the
initial blow.
“Keep back now! Don’ crowd
me,” said Pete ominously.
Again they chorused in contempt.
“Aw, go ahn!”
In a small, tossing group, the
three men edged for positions like
frigates contemplating battle.
“Well, why don’ yeh try t’ t’row
us out?” cried Jimmie and his ally
with copious sneers.
The bravery of bulldogs sat upon
the faces of the men. Their clinch-
ed fists moved like eager weapons.
The allied two jostled the bar-
tender’s elbows, glaring at him with
feverish eyes and forcing him to-
ward the wall.
Suddenly Pete swore furiously.
The flash of action gleamed from his
eyes. He threw back his arm and
aimed a tremendous, lightning-like
blow at Jimmie’s face. His foot
swung a step forward and the weight
of his body was behind his fist. Jim-
mie ducked his head, Bowery-like,
with the quickness of a cat. The
fierce, answering blows of Jimmie
and his ally crushed on Pete’s bowed
head.
The quiet stranger vanished.
The arms of the combatants
whirled in the air like flails. The
faces of the men, at first flushed to
flame-coloured anger, now began to
fade to the pallor of warriors in the
blood and heat of a battle. Their
lips curled back and stretched tight-
ly over the gums in ghoul-like grins.
Through their white, gripped teeth
struggled hoarse whisperings of
oaths! Their eyes glittered with
murderous fire.
Each head was huddled between
its owner’s shoulders, and arms were
swinging with marvellous rapidity.
Feet scraped to and fro with a loud
scratching sound upon the sanded
floor. Blows left crimson blotches
upon the pale skin. The curses of
the first quarter-minute of the fight
died away. The breaths of the fight-
ers came wheezing from their lips
and the three chests were straining
and heaving. Pete at intervals gave
vent to low, laboured hisses, that
sounded like a desire to kill. Jim-
mie’s ally gibbered at times like a
wounded maniac. Jimmie was silent,
fighting with the face of a sacrificial
priest. The rage of fear shone in
all their eyes and their blood-col-
oured fists whirled.
At a critical moment a blow from
Pete’s hand struck the ally and he
crashed to the floor. He wriggled
instantly to his feet, and grasping
the quiet stranger’s beer glass from
the bar, hurled it at Pete’s head.
High on the wall it burst like a
bomb, shivering fragments flying in
all directions. Then missiles came
to every man’s hand. The place had
heretofore appeared free of things
to throw, but suddenly glasses and
bottles went singing through the air.
They were thrown point-blank at
bobbing heads. The pyramids of
shimmering glasses, that had never
been disturbed, changed to cascades
as heavy bottles were flung into
them. Mirrors splintered to noth-
ing.
The three frothing creatures on
the floor buried themselves in a
frenzy for blood. There followed
in the wake of missiles and fists some
unknown prayers, perhaps for death.
The quiet stranger had. sprawled
very pyro-technically out on the side-
walk. A laugh ran up and down the
avenue for the half of a block.
“Dey’ve t'rowed a bloke inteh deh
street.”
People heard the sound of break-
ing glass and shuffling feet within the
saloon and came running. A small
group, bending down to look under
the bamboo doors, and watching the
fall of glass and three pairs of vio-
lent legs, changed in a moment to a
crowd.
A policeman came charging down
the sidewalk and bounced through
the doors into the saloon. The crowd
bent and surged in absorbing anxiety
to see.
Jimmie caught the first sight of
the oncoming interruption. On his
feet he had the same regard for a
policeman that, when on his truck,
he had for a fire-engine. He howled
and ran for the side door.
The officer made a terrific ad-
vance, club in hand. One compre-
hensive sweep- of the long night stick
threw the ally to the floor and forced
Pete to a comer. With his disen-
gaged hand he made a furious effort
at Jimmie’s coattails. Then he re-
gained his balance and paused.
“Well, well, you are a pair of pic-
tures. What have ye been up to?”
Jimmie, with his face drenched in
blood, escaped up a side street, pur-
sued a short distance by some of the
more law-loving or excited individu-
als of the crowd.
Later, from a safe dark comer, he
saw the policeman, the ally, and the
bar-tender emerge from the saloon.
Pete locked the doors and then fol-
lowed up the avenue in the rear of
the crowd-encompassed policeman
and his charge.
At first Jimmie, with his heart
throbbing at battle heat, started to
go desperately to the rescue of his
friend, but he halted.
“Ah, what’s d’ use?” he demand-
ed of himself.
XII,
IN a hall of irregular shape sat
Pete and Maggie drinking beer.
A submissive orchestra, dictated to
by a spectacled man with frowsy hair
and in soiled evening dress, indus-
triously followed the bobs of his
head and the waves of his baton. A
ballad singer, in a gown of flaming
scarlet sang in the inevitable voice of
brass. When she vanished, men seat-
ed at the tables near the front ap-
plauded loudly, pounding the polish-
ed wood with their beer glasses. She
returned attired in less gown, and
sang again. She received another
enthusiastic encore. She reappeared
in still less gown and danced. The
deafening rumble of glasses and
clapping of hands that followed her
exit indicated an overwhelming de-
sire to have her come on for the
fourth time, but the curiosity of the
audience was not gratified.
Maggie was pale. From her eyes
had been plucked all look of self-
refiance. She leaned with a depend-
ent air toward her companion. She
was timid, as if fearing his anger or
displeasure. She seemed to beseech
tenderness of him.
Pete’s air of distinguished valour
had grown upon him until it threat-
ened to reach stupendous dimensions.
He was infinitely gracious to the girl.
It was apparent to her that his con-
descension was a marvel.
He could appear to strut even
while sitting still, and he showed that
he was a lion of lordly characteristics
by the air with which he spat.
With Maggie gazing at him won-
deringly, he took pride in command-
ing the waiters, who were, however,
indifferent, or deaf.
“Hi, you, git a russle on yehs!
What yehs lookin’ at? Two more
beehs, d’ yeh hear?”
He leaned back and critically re-
garded the person of a girl with a
straw-coloured wig who was flinging
her heels about up on the stage in
somewhat awkward imitation of a
well-known danseuse.
At times Maggie told Pete long
confidential tales of her former
home life, dwelling upon the esca-
pades of the other members of the
family and the difficulties she had
had to combat in order to obtain a
degree of comfort. He responded
in the accents of philanthropy. He
pressed her arm with an air of re-
assuring proprietorship.
“Dey was cursed jays,” he said,
denouncing the mother and brother.
The sound of the music which,
through the efforts of the frowsy-
headed leader, drifted to her ears
in the smoke-filled atmosphere, made
the girl dream. She thought of her
former Rum Alley environment and
turned to regard Pete’s strong pro-
tecting fists. She thought of a col-
lar-and-cuff manufactory and the
eternal moan of the proprietor:
“What een hale do you sink I pie
fife dolla a week for? Play? No,
py tamn!” She contemplated Pete’s
man-subduing eyes and noted that
wealth and prosperity were indicated
by his clothes. She imagined a fu-
ture, rose-tinted, because of its dis-
tance from all that she had experi-
enced before.
As to the present she perceived
only vague reasons to be miserable.
Her life was Pete’s, and she consid-
ered him worthy of the charge. She
would be disturbed by no particular
apprehensions so long as Pete adored
her as he now said he did. She did
not feel like a bad woman. To her
knowledge she had never seen any
better.
At times men at other tables re-
aware of it, nodded to her and grin-
ned. He felt proud.
“Mag, yer a bloomin’ good-look-
er,” he remarked, studying her face
through the haze. The men made
Maggie fear, but she blushed at
Pete’s words as it became apparent
to her that she was the apple of his
eye.
Grey-headed men, wonderfully
pathetic in their dissipation, stared
at her through clouds. Smooth-
cheeked boys, some of them with
faces of stone and mouths of sin, not
nearly so pathetic as the grey heads,
tried to find the girl’s eyes in the
smoke wreaths. Maggie considered
she was not what they thought her.
She confined her glances to Pete and
the stage.
The orchestra played negro melo-
dies, and a versatile drummer pound-
ed, whacked, clattered, and scratched
on a dozen machines to make noise.
Those glances of the men shot at
Maggie from under half-closed lids
made her tremble. She thought
them all to be worse men than Pete.
“Come, let’s go,” she said.
As they went out Maggie per-
ceived two women seated at a table
with some men. They were painted,
and their cheeks had lost their round-
ness. As she passed them the girl,
with a shrinking movement, drew
back her skirts.
 XIII
JIMMIE did not return home
for a number of days after the
fight with Pete in the saloon. When
he did, he approached with extreme
caution.
   He found his mother raving.
Maggie had not returned home.
The parent continually wondered
how her daughter could come to
such a pass. She had never consid-
ered Maggie as a pearl dropped un-
stained into Rum Alley from
Heaven, but she could not conceive
how it was possible for her daughter
to fall so low as to bring disgrace
upon her family. She was terrific in
denunciation of the girl’s wickedness.
The fact that the neighbours talk-
ed of it maddened her. When wo-
men came in, and in the course of
their conversation casually asked,
“Where’s Maggie dese days?” the
mother shook her fuzzy head at
them and appalled them with curses.
Cunning hints inviting confidence she
rebuffed with violence.
“An’ wid all d’ bringing up she
had, how could she ?” moaningly she
asked of her son. “Wid all d’
talkin’ wid her I did an’ d’ t’ings I
tol’ her to remember. When a girl
is bringed up d’ way I bringed up
Maggie, how kin she go teh d*
devil?” .
Jimmie was transfixed by these
questions. He could not conceive
how, under the circumstances, his
mother’s daughter and his' sister
could have been so wicked.
His mother took a drink from a
bottle that sat on the table. She
continued her lament.
“She had a bad heart dat girl did,
Jimmie. She was wicked t’d’ heart
an’ we never knowed it.”
Jimmie nodded, admitting the
fact.
“We lived in d’ same house wid
her an’ I brought her up, an’ we
never knowed how bad she was.”
Jimmie nodded again.
“Wid a home like dis an’ a mud-
der like me, she went teh d’ bad,”
cried the mother, raising her eyes.
One day Jimmie came home, sat
down in a chair, and began to wrig-
gle about with a new and strange
nervousness. At last he spoke
shamefacedly.
“Well, look-a-here, dis t’ing queers
us! See? We’re queered! An’
maybe it ’ud be better if I—-well, I
t’ink I kin look ’er up an’—maybe
it ’ud be better if I fetched her home
 
an-------
The mother started from her
chair and broke forth into a storm
of passionate anger.
“What! Let ’er come an’ sleep
under deh same roof wid her mud-
der agin! Oh, yes, I will, won’t I!
Sure? Shame on yehs, Jimmie
Johnson, fer sayin’ such a t’ing teh
yer own mudder! Little did I t’ink
when yehs was a babby playin’ about
me feet dat ye’d grow up teh say
sech a t’ing teh yer mudder—yer
own mudder. I never taut ”
Sobs choked her and interrupted
her reproaches.
“Dere ain’t nottin' teh make sech
trouble about,” said Jimmie. “I
on’y says it ’ud be better if we keep
dis t’ing dark, see? It queers us!
See?”
His mother laughed a laugh that
seemed to ring through the city and
be echoed and re-echoed by countless
other laughs. “Oh, yes, I will, won’t
I! Sure!”
“Well, yeh must take me fer a
d—n fool?” said Jimmie, indignant
at his mother for mocking him. “I
didn’t say we-’d make ’er inteh a lit-
tle tin angel, ner nottin’, but deh way
it is now she can queer us! Don’che
see?”
“Aye, she’ll git tired of deh life
atter a while an’ den she’ll wanna be
a-comin’ home, won’ she, deh beast!
I’ll let ’er in den, won’ I?”
“Well, I didn’t mean none of dis
prod’gal bus’ness anyway,” explained
Jimmie.
“It wa’n’t no prod’gal dauter, yeh
fool,” said the mother. “It was
prod’gal son, anyhow.”
“I know dat,” said Jimmie. *
For a time they sat in silence.
The mother’s eyes gloated on the
scene which her imagination called
before her. Her lips were set in a
vindictive smile.
“Aye, she’ll cry, won’ she, an’
carry on, an’ tell how Pete, or some
odder feller, beats ’er, an’ she’ll say
she’s sorry an’ all dat, an’ she ain’t
happy, she ain’t, and she wants to
come home agin, she does.”
With grim humour the mother
imitated the possible wailing notes of
the daughter’s voice.
“Den I’ll take ’er in, won’t I?
She kin cry ’er two eyes out on deh
stones of deh street before I’ll dirty
d’ place wid her. She abused an’
ill-treated her own mudder—her
own mudder what loved her, and
she’ll never git anodder chance.”
Jimmie thought he had a great
idea of women’s frailty, but he could
not understand why any of his kin
should be victims.
“Curse her!” he said fervidly.
Again he wondered vaguely if
some of the women of his acquaint-
ance had brothers. Nevertheless,
his mind did not for an instant
confuse himself with those brothers
nor his sister with theirs. After the
mother had, with great difficulty,
suppressed the neighbours, she went
among them and proclaimed her
grief. “May Heaven forgive dat
girl,” was her continual cry. To at-
tentive ears she recited the whole
length and breadth of her woes.
“I bringed ’er up deh way a dauter
oughta be bringed up, an’ dis is how
she served me! She went teh deh
devil deh first chance she got! May
Heaven forgive her.”
When arrested for drunkeness she
used the story of her daughter’s
downfall with telling effect upon the
police justices. Finally one of them
said to her, peering down over his
spectacles: “Mary, the records of
this and other courts show that you
are the mother of forty-two daugh-
ters who have been ruined. The
case is unparalleled in the annals of
this court, and this court thinks—”
The mother went through life
shedding large tears of sorrow. Her
red face was a picture of agony.
Of course Jimmie publicly damned
his sister that he might appear on a
higher social plane. But, arguing
with himself, stumbling about in
ways that he knew not, he, once, al-
most came to a conclusion that his
sister would have been more firmly
good had she better known why.
However, he felt that he could not
hold such a view. He threw it
hastily aside.
 XIV
IN a hilarious hall there were
twenty-eight tables and twenty-
eight women and a crowd of smok-
ing men. Valiant noise was made
on a stage at the end of the hall by
an orchestra composed of men who
looked as if they had just happened
in. Soiled waiters ran to and fro,
swooping down like hawks on the
unwary in the throng; clattering
along the aisles with trays covered
with glasses; stumbling over wo-
men’s skirts and charging two prices
for everything but beer, all with a
swiftness that blurred the view of
the cocoanut palms and dusty mon-
strosities painted upon the walls of
the room. A “bouncer,” with an
immense load of business upon his
hands, plunged about in the crowd,
dragging bashful strangers to prom-
inent chairs, ordering waiters here
and there, and quarrelling furiously
with men who wanted to sing with
the orchestra.
The usual smoke cloud was pres-
ent, but so dense that heads and
arms seemed entangled in it. The
rumble of conversation was replaced
by a roar. Plenteous oaths heaved
through the air. The room rang
with the shrill voices of women bub-
bling over with drink laughter. The
chief element in the music of the or-
chestra was speed. The musicians
played in intent fury. A woman was
singing and smiling upon the stage,
but no one took notice of her. The
rate at which the piano, comet, and
violins were going, seemed to impart
wildness to the half-drunken crowd.
Beer glasses were emptied at a gulp
and conversation became a rapid
chatter. The smoke eddied and
swirled like a shadowy river hurry-
ing toward some unseen falls. Pete
and Maggie entered the hall and
took chairs at a table near the door.
The woman who was seated there
made an attempt to occupy Pete’s
attention, and, failing, went away.
Three weeks had passed since the
girl had left home. The air of
spaniel-like dependence had been
magnified and showed its direct effect
in the peculiar off-handness and
ease of Pete’s ways toward her.
She followed Pete’s eyes with hers,
anticipating with smiles gracious
looks from him.
A woman of brilliance and au-
dacity, accompanied by a mere boy,
came into the place and took a seat
near them.
At once Pete sprang to his feet,
his face beaming with glad surprise.
“Hully gee, dere’s Nellie !” he
cried.
He went over to the table and
held out an eager hand to the wo-
man.
“Why, hello, Pete, me boy, how
are you?” said she, giving him her
fingers.
Maggie took instant note of the
woman. She perceived that her
black dress fitted her to perfection.
Her linen collar and cuffs were spot-
less. Tan gloves were stretched
over her well-shaped hands. A hat
of a prevailing fashion perched
jauntily upon her dark hair. She
wore no jewelry and was painted
with no apparent paint. She looked
clear-eyed through the stares of the
men.
“Sit down, and call your lady
friend over,” she said to Pete. At
his beckoning Maggie came and sat
between Pete and the mere boy.
“I thought yeh were gone away
fer good,” began Pete, at once.
“When did yeh git back?’ How did
dat Buff’lo bus’ness turn out?” 
The woman shrugged her shoul-
ders. “Well, he didn’t have as
many stamps as he tried to make out,
so I shook him, that’s all.”
“Well, I’m glad teh see yehs back
in deh city,” said Pete, with gallan-
try.
He and the woman entered into
a long conversation, exchanging rem-
iniscences of days together. Maggie
sat still, unable to formulate an in-
telligent sentence as her addition to
the conversation and painfully aware
of it.
She saw Pete’s eyes sparkle as he
gazed upon the handsome stranger.
He listened smilingly to all she said.
The woman was familiar with all
his affairs, asked him about mutual
friends, and knew the amount of his
salary.
She paid no attention to Maggie,
looking toward her once or twice
and apparently seeing the wall be-
yond.
The mere boy was sulky. In the
beginning he had welcomed the ad-
ditions with acclamations.
“Let’s all have a drink! What’ll
you take, Nell? And you, Miss
What’s-your-name. Have a drink,
Mr. you, I mean.”
He had shown a sprightly desire
to do the talking for the company
and tell all about his family. In a
loud voice he declaimed on various
topics. He assumed a patronising
air toward Pete. As Maggie was
silent, he paid no attention to her.
He made a great show of lavishing
wealth upon the woman of brilliance
and audacity.
“Do keep still, Freddie! You
talk like a clock,” said the woman
to him. She turned away and de-
voted her attention to Pete.
“We’ll have many a good time
together again, eh?”
“Sure, Mike,” said Pete, enthusi-
astic at once.
“Say,” whispered she, leaning for-
ward, “let’s go over to Billie’s and
have a time.”
“Well, it’s dis way! See?” said
Pete. “I got dis lady frien’ here.”
“Oh, g’way with her,” argued the
woman. Pete appeared disturbed.
“All right,” said she, nodding her
head at him. “All right for you!
We’ll see the next time you ask me
to go anywheres with you.”
Pete squirmed.
“Say,” he said, beseechingly,
“come wid me a minit an’ I’ll tell
yer why.”
The woman waved her hand.
“Oh, that’s all right, you needn’t
explain, you know. You wouldn’t
come merely because you wouldn’t
come, that’s all.”
To Pete’s visible distress she turn-
ed to the mere boy, bringing him
speedily out of a terrific rage. He
had been debating whether it would
be the part of a man to pick a
quarrel with Pete, or would he be
justified in striking him savagely with
his ,beer glass without warning. But
he recovered himself when the wo-
man turned to renew her smilings.
He beamed upon her with an ex-
pression that was somewhat tipsy
and inexpressibly tender.
"Say, shake that Bowery jay,” re-
quested he, in a loud whisper.
“Freddie, you are so funny,” she
replied.
Pete reached forward and touched
the woman on the arm.
“Come out a minit while I tells
yeh why I can’t go wid yer.. Yer
doin’ me dirt, Nell! I never taut
ye’d do me dirt, Nell. Come on,
will yer?” He spoke in tones of
injury.
“Why, I don’t see why I should
be interested in your explanations,”
said the woman, with a coldness that
seemed to reduce Pete to a pulp.
His eyes pleaded with her. “Come
out a minit while I tells yeh. On
d’ level, now.”
The woman nodded slightly at
Maggie and the mere boy, saying,
“’Scuse me.”
The mere boy interrupted his lov-
ing smile and turned a shrivelling
glare upon Pete. His boyish coun-
tenance flushed and he spoke in a
whine to the woman:
“Oh, I say, Nellie, this ain’t a
square deal, you know. You aren’t
goin’ to leave me and go off with
that duffer, are you? I should
think ”
“Why, you dear boy, of course
I’m not,” cried the woman, affection-
ately. She bent over and whispered
in his ear. He smiled again and
settled in his chair as if resolved to
wait patiently.
As the woman walked down be-
tween the rows of tables, Pete was
at her shoulder talking earnestly, ap-
parently in explanation. The woman
waved her hands with studied airs of
indifference. The doors swung be-
hind them, leaving Maggie and the
mere boy seated at the table.
Maggie was dazed. She could
dimly perceive that something stu-
pendous had happened. She won-
dered why Pete saw fit to remon-
strate with the woman, pleading for-
giveness with his eyes. She thought
she noted an air of submission about
her leonine Pete. She was astound-
ed.
The mere boy occupied himself
with cocktails and a cigar. He was
tranquilly silent for half-an-hour.
Then he bestirred himself and spoke.
“Well,” he said, sighing, “I knew
this was the way it would be. They
got cold feet.” There was another
stillness. The mere boy seemed to
be musing.
“She was pulling m’ leg. That’s
the whole amount of it,” he said
suddenly. “It’s a bloomin’ shame the
way that girl does. Why, I’ve spent
over two dollars in drinks tonight.
And she goes off with that plug-ugly,
who looks as if he had been hit in
the face with a coin die. I call it
rocky treatment for a fellah like me.
Here, waiter, bring me a cocktail,
and make it strong.”
Maggie made no reply. She was
watching the doors. “It’s a mean
piece of business,” complained the
mere boy. He explained to her how
amazing it was that anybody should
treat him in such a manner. “But
I’ll get square with her, you bet.
She won’t get far ahead of yours
truly, you know,” he added, winking.
“I’ll tell her plainly that it was
bloomin’ mean business. And she
won’t come it over me with any of
her ‘now-Freddie-dears.’ She thinks
my name is Freddie, you know, but
of course it ain’t. I always tell these
people some name like that, because
if they got onto your right name they
might use it some time. Under-
stand? Oh, they don’t fool me
much.”
Maggie was paying no attention,
being intent upon the doors. The
mere boy relapsed into a period of
gloom, during which he exterminat-
ed a number of cocktails with a de-
termined air, as if replying defiantly
to fate. He occasionally broke forth
into sentences composed of invectives
joined together in a long chain.
The girl was still staring at the
doors. After a time the mere boy
began to see cobwebs just in front
of his nose. He spurred himself in-
to being agreeable and insisted upon
her having a charlotte russe and a
glass of beer.
“They’s gone,” he remarked,
“they’s gone.” He looked at her
through the smoke wreaths. “Shay,
lil' girl, we mightish well make bes’
of it. You ain’t such bad-lookin’
girl, y’know. Not half bad. Can’t
come up to Nell, though. No, can’t
do it! Well, I should shay not!
Nell fine-lookin’ girl! F—i—n—ine.
You look bad longsider her, but by
y’self ain’t so bad. Have to do any-
how. Nell gone. O’ny you left.
Not half bad though.”
Maggie stood up.
“I’m going home,” she said.
The mere boy started.
“Eh? What? Home,” he cried,
struck with amazement. “I beg
pardon, did hear say home?”
“I’m going home,” she repeated.
“Great heavens! what hav’a
struck?” demanded the mere boy of
himself, stupefied.
In a semi-comatose state he con-
ducted her on board an up-town car,
ostentatiously paid her fare, leered
kindly at her through the rear win-
dow, and fell off the steps.
XV
AFORLORN woman went
along a lighted avenue. The
street was filled with people desper-
ately bound on missions. An endless
crowd darted at the elevated station
stairs, and the horse cars were
thronged with owners of bundles.
The pace of the forlorn woman
was slow. She was apparently
searching for some one. She loiter-
ed near the doors of saloons and
watched men emerge from them.
She furtively scanned the faces in
the rushing stream of pedestrians.
Hurrying men, bent on catching
some boat or train, jostled her el-
bows, failing to notice her, their
thoughts fixed on distant dinners.
The forlorn woman had a peculiar
face. Her smile was no smile. But
when in repose her features had a
shadowy look that was like a sar-
donic grin, as if some one had
sketched with cruel forefinger in-
delible lines about her mouth.
Jimmie came strolling up the ave-
nue. The woman encountered him
with an aggrieved air.
“Oh, Jimmie, I’ve been lookin’ all
over for yehs ” she began.
Jimmie made an impatient gesture
and quickened his pace.
“Ah, don’t bodder me!” he said,
with the savageness of a man whose
life is pestered.
The woman followed him along
the sidewalk in somewhat the man-
ner of a supplicant.
“But, Jimmie,” she said, “yehs
told me yehs--------- ”
Jimmie turned upon her fiercely,
as if resolved to make a last stand
for comfort and peace.
“Say, Hattie, don’ foller me from
one end of deh city teh de odder.
Let up, will yehs! Give me a min-
ute’s fes’, can’t yehs? Yehs makes
me tired, alius taggin’ me. See?
Ain’ yehs got, no sense ? Do yehs
want people teh get onto me? Go
chase yerself.”
The woman stepped closer and
laid her fingers on his arm. “But,
look-a-here ”
Jimmie snarled. “Oh, go teh
blazes!”
He darted into the front door of
a convenient saloon and a moment
later came out into the shadows that
surrounded the side door. On the
brilliantly lighted avenue he per-
ceived the forlorn woman dodging
about like a scout. Jimmie laughed
with an air of relief and went away.
When he arrived home he found
his mother clamouring. Maggie had
returned. She stood shivering be-
neath the torrent of her mother’s
wrath.
“Well, I’m d—d!” said Jimmie in
greeting.
His mother, tottering about the
room, pointed a quivering fore-
finger.
“Look ut her, Jimmie, look ut
her. Dere’s yer sister, boy. Dere’s
yer sister. Look ut her! Look ut
her!”
She screamed at Maggie with
scoffing laughter.
The girl stood in the middle of
the room. She edged about as if
unable to find a place on the floor
to put her feet.
“Ha, ha, ha!” bellowed the moth-
er. “Dere she stands! Ain’t she
purty? Look ut her! Ain’ she
sweet, deh beast? Look ut her! Ha,
ha! look ut her!”
She lurched forward and put her
red and seamed hands upon her
daughter’s face. She bent down and
peered keenly up into the eyes of the
girl.
“Oh, she’s jes’ dessame as she ever
was, ain’ she? She’s her mudder’s
putty darlin’ yit, ain’ she? Look ut
her, Jimmie. Come here and look
ut her.”
The loud, tremendous railing of
the mother brought the denizens of
the Rum Alley tenement to their
doors. Women came in the hall-
ways. Children scurried to and fro.
“What’s up? Dat Johnson party
on anudder tear?”
“Naw! Young Mag’s come
home!”
“Git out!”
Through the open doors curious
eyes stared in at Maggie. Children
ventured into the room and ogled
her as if they formed the front row
at a theatre. Women, without, bent
toward each other and whispered,
nodding their heads with airs of pro-
found philosophy.
A baby, overcome with curiosity
concerning this object at which all
were looking, sidled forward and
touched her dress, cautiously, as if
investigating a red-hot stove. Its
mother’s voice rang out like a warn-
ing trumpet. She rushed forward
and grabbed her child, casting a ter-
rible look of indignation at the girl.
Maggie’s mother paced to and
fro, addressing the doorful of eyes,
expounding like a glib showman.
Her voice rang through the building.
“Dere she stands,” she cried,
wheeling suddenly and pointing with
dramatic finger. ‘‘Dere she stands!
Look ut her! Ain’ she a dindy? An*
she was so good as to come home
teh her mudder, she was! Ain’ she
a beaut’? Ain’ she a dindy?”
The jeering cries ended in another
burst of shrill laughter.
' The girl seemed to awaken.
“Jimmie ”
He drew hastily back from her. -
“Well, now, yer a t’ing, ain'
yeh?” he said, his lips curling in
scorn. Radiant virtue sat upon his
brow and his repelling hands ex-
pressed horror of contamination.
Maggie turned and went.
The crowd at the door fell back
precipitately.
A baby falling down in front of
the door wrenched a scream like that
of a wounded animal from its moth-
er. Another woman sprang forward
and picked it up with a chivalrous
air, as if rescuing a human being
from an oncoming express train.
As the girl passed down through
the hall, she went before open doors
framing more eyes strangely micro-
scopic, and sending broad beams of
inquisitive light into the darkness of
her path. On the second floor she
met the gnarled old woman who pos-
sessed the music-box.
“So,” she cried, “ ’ere yehs are
back again, are yehs? An’ dey’ve
kicked yehs out? Well, come in an'
stay wid me t’-night. I ain’ got no
moral standin’.”
From above came an unceasing
babble of tongues, over all of which
rang the mother’s derisive laughter.
XVI.
PETE did not consider that he
had ruined Maggie. If he had
thought that her soul could never,
smile again, he would have believed
the mother and brother, who were
pyrotechnic over the affair, to be
• responsible for it.
Besides, in his world, souls did not
insist upon being able to smile.
“What d’ h—1?”
He felt a trifle entangled. It dis-
tressed him. Revelations and scenes
might bring upon him the wrath of
the owner of the saloon, who insist-
ed upon respectability of an ad-
vanced type.
“What do dey wanna’ raise such a
smoke about it fer?” demanded he
of himself, disgusted with the atti-
tude of the family. He saw no ne-
cessity that people should lose their
equilibrium merely because their sis-
ter or their daughter had stayed
away from home.
Searching about in his mind for
possible reasons for their conduct,
he came upon the conclusion that
Maggie’s motives were correct, but
that the two others wished to snare
him. He felt pursued.
The woman whom he had met in
the hilarious hall showed a disposi-
tion to ridicule him.
“A little pale thing with no
spirit,” she said. “Did you note the
expression of her eyes? There was
something in them about pumpkin-
pie and virtue. That is a peculiar
way the left comer of her mouth
has of twitching, isn't it? Dear, dear,
Pete, what are you coming to ?”
Pete asserted at once that he
never was very much interested in
the girl. The woman interrupted
him, laughing.
“Oh, it's not of the slightest con-
sequence to me, my dear young man.
You needn’t draw maps for my ben-
efit. Why should I be concerned
about it?”
But Pete continued with his ex-
planations. If he was laughed at
for his tastes in women, he felt
obliged to say that they were only
temporary or indifferent ones.
The morning after Maggie had
departed from home Pete stood be-
hind the bar. He was immaculate
in white jacket and apron and his
hair was plastered over his brow
with infinite correctness. No cus-
tomers were in the place. Pete was
twisting his napkined fist slowly in a
beer glass, softly whistling to him-
self, and occasionally holding the ob-
ject of his attention between his eyes
and a few weak beams of sunlight
that found their way over the thick
screens and into the shaded rooms.
With lingering thoughts of the
woman of brilliance and audacity,
the bar-tender raised his head and
stared through the varying cracks
between the swaying bamboo doors.
Suddenly the whistling pucker fad-
ed from his lips. He saw Maggie
walking slowly past. He gave a
great start, fearing for the previous-
ly mentioned eminent respectability
of the place.
He threw a swift, nervous glance
about him, all at once feeling guilty.
No one was in the room.
He went hastily over to the side
door. Opening it and looking out,
he perceived Maggie standing, as if
undecided, at the corner. She was
searching the place with her eyes.
As she turned her face toward
him, Pete beckoned to her hurried-
ly, intent upon returning with speed
to a position behind the bar, and to
the atmosphere of respectability
upon which the proprietor insisted.
Maggie came to him, the anxious
look disappearing from her face and
a smile wreathing her lips.
“Oh, Pete ” she began bright-
ly.
The bar-tender made a violent
gesture of impatience.
“Oh, say,” cried he vehemently.
“What d’ yeh wanna hang aroun'
here fer? Do yer wanna git me
inteh trouble?” he demanded with
an air of injury.
Astonishment swept over the girl’s
features. “Why, Pete! yehs tol'
me ”
Pete’s glance expressed profound
irritation. His countenance reddened
with the anger of a man whose re-
spectability is being threatened.
“Say, yehs makes me tired! See?
What d’ yeh wanna tag aroun' atfer
me fer? Yeh’ll do me dirt wid d'
ol’ man and dey'll be trouble! If he
sees a woman roun' here he'll go
crazy an' I’ll lose me job! See ? Ain'
yehs got no sense? Don' be alius
bodderin' me. See? Yer brudder
came in here an' made trouble an'
d’ ol’ man hada put up fer it! An'
now I’m done! See ? I'm done.”
The girl's eyes stared into his
face. “Pete, don' yeh remem-----"
“Oh, go ahn!” interrupted Pete,
anticipating.
The girl seemed to have a strug-
gle with herself. She was apparent-
ly bewildered and could not find
speech. Finally she asked in a low
voice, “But where kin I go?”
The question exasperated Pete be-
yond the powers of endurance. It
was a direct attempt to give him
some responsibility in a matter that
did not concern him. In his indig-
nation he volunteered information.
“Oh, go to h-—l!” cried he. He
slammed the door furiously and re-
turned, with an air of relief, to his
respectability.
Maggie went away.
She wandered aimlessly for sever-
al blocks. She stopped once and ask-
ed aloud a question of herself:
“Who?”
A man who was passing near her
shoulder humorously took the ques-
tioning word as intended for him.
“Eh? What? Who? Nobody!
I didn’t say anything,” he laughing-
ly said, and continued his way.
Soon the girl discovered that if
she walked with such apparent aim-
lessness, some men looked at her
with calculating eyes. She quickened
her steps, frightened. As a protec-
tion, she adopted a demeanour of in-
tentness as if going somewhere.
After a time she left rattling ave-
nues and passed between rows of
houses with sternness and stolidity
stamped upon their features. She
hung her head, for she felt their eyes
grimly upon her.
Suddenly she came upon a stout
gentleman in a silk hat and a chaste
black coat, whose decorous row of
buttons reached from his chin to his
knees. The girl had heard of the
grace of God and she decided to ap-
proach this man.
His beaming, chubby face was a
picture of benevolence and kind-
heartedness. His eyes shone good-
will.
But as the girl timidly accosted
him, he made a convulsive movement
and saved his respectability by a
vigorous side step. He did not risk
it to save a soul. For how was he to
know that there was a soul before
him that needed saving?
XVII.
UPON a wet evening, several
months after the last chapter,
two interminable rows of cars, pulled
by slipping horses, jangled along a
prominent side street. A dozen
cabs, with coat-enshrouded drivers,
clattered to and fro. Electric lights,
whirring softly, shed a blurred radi-
ance. A flower-dealer, his feet tap-
ping impatiently, his nose and his
wares glistening with raindrops,
stood behind an array of roses and
chrysanthemums. Two or three
theatres emptied a crowd upon the
storm-swept pavements. Men pulled
their hats over their eyebrows and
raised their collars to their ears. Wo-
men shrugged impatient shoulders in
their warm cloaks and stopped to
arrange their skirts for a walk
through the storm. People who had
been constrained to comparative si-
lence for two hours burst into a roar
of conversation, their hearts still
kindling from the glowings of the
stage.
The pavements became tossing
seas of umbrellas. Men stepped
forth to hail cabs or cars, raising
their fingers in varied forms of po-
lite request or imperative demand.
And endless procession wended to-
wards elevated stations. An atmo-
sphere of pleasure and prosperity
seemed to hang over the throng,
born, perhaps, of good clothes and
of two hours in a place of forgetful-
ness.
In the mingled light and gloom of
an adjacent park, a handful of wet
wanderers, in attitudes of chronic de-
jection, were scattered among the
benches.
A girl of the painted cohorts of
the city went along the street. She
threw changing glances at men who
passed her, giving smiling invitations
to those of rural or untaught pattern
and usually seeming sedately uncon-
scious of the men with a metropoli-
tan seal upon their faces.
Crossing glittering avenues, she
went into the throng emerging from
the places of forgetfulness. She hur-
ried forward through the crowd as
if intent upon reaching a distant
home, bending forward in her hand-
some cloak, daintily lifting her skirts,
and picking for her well-shod feet
the dryer spots upon the pavements.
The restless doors of saloons,
 clashing to and fro, disclosed ani-
mated rows of men before bars and
hurrying bar-keepers.
A concert-hall gave to the street
faint sounds of swift, machine-like
music, as if a group of phantom
musicians were hastening.
A tall young man, smoking a
cigarette with a sublime air, strolled
near the girl. He had on evening
dress, a moustache, a chrysanthe-
mum, and a look of ennui, all of
which he kept carefully under his
eye. Seeing the girl walk on as if
such a young man as he was not in
existence, he looked back transfixed
with interest. He stared glassily for
a moment, but gave a slight convul-
sive start when he discerned that she
was neither new, Parisian, nor thea-
trical. He wheeled about hastily
and turned his stare into the air, like
a sailor with a searchlight.
A stout gentleman, with pompous
and philanthropic whiskers, went
stolidly by, the broad of his back
sneering at the girl.
A belated man in business clothes,
and in haste to catch a car, bounced
against her shoulder. “Hi, there,
Mary, I beg your pardon! Brace up,
old girl.” He grasped her arm to
steady her, and then was away run-
ning down the middle of the street.
The girl walked on out of the
realm of restaurants and saloons.
She passed more glittering avenues
and went into darker blocks than
those where the crowd travelled.
A young man in light overcoat and
Derby hat received a glance shot
keenly from the eyes of the girl. He
stopped and looked at her, thrusting
“his hands in his pockets and making
a mocking smile curl his lips. “Come,
now, old lady,” he said, “you don’t
mean to tell me that you sized me
up for a farmer?”
A labouring man marched along
with bundles under his arms. To
her remarks, he replied, “It’s a fine
evenin’, ain’t it?”
She smiled squarely into the face
of a boy who was hurrying by with
his hands buried in his overcoat
pocket, his blonde locks bobbing on
his youthful temples, and a cheery
smile of unconcern upon his lips. He
turned his head and smiled back at
her, waving his hands.
“Not this eve—some other eve.’*
A drunken man, reeling in her
pathway, began to roar at her. “I
ain’ ga no money!” he shouted, in a
dismal voice. He lurched on up the
street, wailing to himself: “I ain’ ga
no money. Ba’ luck. Ain’ ga no
more money.”
The girl went into gloomy districts
near the river, where the tall black
factories shut in the street and only
occasional broad beams of light fell
across the pavements from saloons.
In front of one of these places,
whence came the sound of a violin
vigorously scraped, the patter of feet
on boards and the ring of loud
laughter, there stood a man with
blotched features.
Further on in the darkness she
met a ragged being with shifting,
bloodshot eyes and grimy hands.
She went into the blackness of the
final block. The shutters of the tall
buildings were closed like grim lips.
The structures seemed to have eyes
that looked over them, beyond them,
at other things. Afar off the lights
of the avenues glittered as if from
an impossible distance. Street-car
bells jingled with a sound of merri-
ment.
At the feet of the tail buildings
appeared the deathly black hue of
the river. Some hidden factory sent
up a yellow glare, that lit for a mo-
ment the waters lapping oilily
against timbers. The varied sounds
of life, made joyous by distance and
seeming unapproachableness, came
faintly and died away to a silence.
IN a partitioned-off section of a
saloon sat a man with a half-
dozen women, gleefully laughing,
hovering about him. The man had
arrived at that stage of drunkenness
where affection is felt for the uni-
verse.
“I’m good f’ler, girls,” he said,
convincingly. “I’m good f’ler. An’-
body treats me right, I alius trea’s
zem right! See?”
The women nodded their heads
approvingly. “To be sure,” they
cried in hearty chorus. “You’re the
kind of a man we like, Pete. You’re
outa sight! What yeh goin’ to buy
this time, dear?”
“An’t’ing yehs wants!” said the
man in an abandonment of goodwill.
His countenance shone with the true
spirit of benevolence. He was in the
proper mood of missionaries. He
would have fraternised with obscure'
Hottentots. And above all, he was
overwhelmed in tenderness for his
friends, who were all illustrious.
“An’t’ing yehs wants!” repeated
he, waving his hands with beneficent
recklessness. “I’m good f’ler, girls,;
an’ if an’body treats me right I---------
Here,” called he through an open
door to a waiter, “bring girls drinks.
What ’ill yehs have, girls? An’t’ing
yehs want.”
The waiter glanced in with the dis-
gusted look of the man who serves
intoxicants for the man who takes
too much of them. He nodded his
head shordy at the order from each
individual, and went.
“W’re havin’ great time,” said the
man. “I like you girls! Yer right
sort! See ?”
He spoke at length and with feel-
ing concerning the excellences of his
assembled friends.
“Don’ try pull man’s leg, but have
a good time! Das right! Das way
teh do! Now? if I sawght yehs try-
in’ work me fer drinks, wouldn’ buy
not’ing! But yer right sort! Yehs
know how ter treat a f’ler, an’ I
stays by yehs ’til spen’ las’ cent! Das
right! I’m good f’ler an’ I knows
when an’body treats me right!”
Between the times of the arrival
and departure of the waiter, the man
discoursed to the women on the ten-
der regard he felt for all living
things. He laid stress upon the purity
of his motives in all dealings with
men in the world, and spoke of the
fervour of his friendship for those
who were amiable. Tears welled
slowly from his eyes. His voice
quavered when he spoke to his com-
panions.
Once when the waiter was about
to depart with an empty tray, the
man drew a coin from his pocket and
held it forth.
“Here,” said he, quite magnifi-
cently, “here’s quar’.”
The waiter kept his hands on his
tray.
“I don’t want yer money,” he
said.
The other put forth the coin with
tearful insistence.
“Here’s quar’!” cried he, “tak’t!
Yer goo’ f’ler an’ I wan’ yehs tak’t!”
“Come, come, now,” said the
waiter, with the sullen air of a man
who is forced into giving advice.
“Put yer mon in yer pocket! Yer
loaded an’ yehs on’y makes a fool of
yerself.”
As the latter passed out of the
door the man turned pathetically to
the women.
“He don’ know I’m goo’ f’ler,”
cried he, dismally.
“Never you mind, Pete, dear,”
said the woman of brilliance and au-
dacity, laying her hand with great af-
fection upon his arm. “Never you
mind, old boy! We’ll stay by you,
dear!”
“Das ri’ I” cried the man, his face
lighting up at the soothing tones of
the woman’s voice. “Das ri’; I’m
goo’ f’ler, an’ w’en any one trea’s
me ri’, I trea’s zem ri’! See?”
“Sure!’ cried the women. “And
we’re not goin’ back on you, old
man.”
The man turned appealing eyes to
the woman. He felt that if he could
be convicted of a contemptible action
he would die.
“Shay, Nell, I allus trea’s yehs
shquare, didn’ I? I allus been goo’
f’ler wi’ yehs, ain’t I, Nell?”
“Sure you have, Pete,” assented
the woman. She delivered an ora-
tion to her companions. “Yessir,
that’s a fact. Pete’s a square fellah,
he is. He never goes back on a
friend. He’s the right kind an’ we
stay by him, don’t we, girls?”
“Sure !” they exclaimed. Looking
lovingly at him they raised their
glasses and drank his health.
“Girlsh,” said the man, beseech-
ingly, “I allus trea’s yehs ri’, didn’
I? I’m goo’ f’ler, ain’ I, girlsh?”
“Sure!” again they chorused.
“Well,” said he finally, “le’s have
nozzer drink, zen.”
“That’s right,” hailed a woman,
“that’s right. Yer no bloomin’ jay!
Yer spends yer money like a man.
Dat’s right.”
The man pounded the table with
his quivering fists.
“Yessir,” he cried, with deep
earnestness, as if some one disputed
him. “I’m goo’ f’ler, an’ w’en any
one trea’s me ri’, I allus trea’s—le’s
have nozzer drink.”
He began to beat the wood with
his glass.
“Shay!” howled he, growing sud-
denly impatient. As the waiter did
not then come, the man swelled with
wrath.
“Shay!” howled he again.
The waiter appeared at the door.
“Bringsh drinksh,” said the man.
The waiter disappeared with the
orders.
“Zat f’ler fool!” cried the man.
“He insul’ me! I’m ge’man! Can’
stan’ be insul’! I’m goin’ lickim
when comes!”
“No, no!” cried the women,
crowding about and trying to subdue
him. “He’s all right! He didn’t
mean anything! Let it go! He’s a
good fellah!”
“Din’ he insul’ me?” asked the
man earnestly.
“No,” said they. “Of course he
didn’t! He’s all right!”
“Sure he didn’ insul’ me?” de-
manded the man, with deep anxiety
in his voice.
“No, no! We know him! He’s
a good fellah. He didn’t mean any-
thing.”
“Well, zen,” said the man reso-
lutely, “I’m go’ ’pol’gize!”
When the waiter came, the man
struggled to the middle of the floor.
“Girlsh shed you insul* me ! I shay
—lie! I ’pol’gize!”
“All right,” said the waiter.
The man sat down. He felt a
sleepy but strong desire to straighten
things out and have a perfect un-
derstanding with everybody.
“Nell, I alius trea’s yeh shquare,
din’ I? Yeh likes me, don’ yehs,
Nell? I’m goo’ f’ler?”
“Sure!” said the woman.
“Yeh knows I’m stuck on yehs,
don’ yehs, Nell?”
“Sure!” she repeated carelessly.
Overwhelmed by a spasm of
drunken adoration, he drew two or
three bills from his pocket, and with
the trembling fingers of an offering
priest, laid them on the table before
the woman.
“Yehs knows yehs kin have all I
got, ’cause I’m stuck on yehs, Nell,
I—I’m stuck on yehs, Nell—buy
drinksh—we’re havin’ great time—
w’en any one trea’s me ri’—I—Nell
—we’re havin’ heluva—time.”
Presently he went to sleep with his
swollen face fallen forward on his
chest.
The women drank and laughed,
not heeding the slumbering man in
the comer. Finally he lurched for-
ward and fell groaning to the floor.
The women screamed in disgust
and drew back their skirts.
“Come ahn!” cried one, starting
up angrily, “let’s get out of here.”
The woman of brilliance and
audacity stayed behind, taking up the
bills and stuffing them into a deep,
irregularly shaped pocket. A gut-
tural snore from the recumbent man
caused her to turn and look down at
him.
She laughed. “What a fool!” she
said, and went.
The smoke from the lamps settled
heavily down in the little compart-
ment, obscuring the way out. The
smell of oil, stifling in its intensity,
pervaded the air. The wine from an
overturned glass dripped softly
down upon the blotches on the man’s
neck.
 XIX.
IN a room a woman sat at a table
eating like a fat monk in a pic-
ture.
A soiled, unshaven man pushed
open the door and entered.
“Well,” said he, “Mag’s dead.”
“What?” said the woman, her
mouth filled with bread.
“Mag’s dead,” repeated the man.
“Deh blazes she is!” said the wo-
man. She continued her meal. When
she finished her coffee she began to
weep.
“I kin remember when her two
feet was no bigger dan yer thumb,
and she weared worsted boots,”
moaned she.
“Well, whata dat?” said the man.
“I kin remember when she weared
worsted boots,” she cried.
The neighbours began to gather in
the hall, staring in at the weeping
woman as if watching the contortions
of a dying dog. A dozen women en-
tered and lamented with her. Under
their busy hands the room took on
that appealing appearance of neat-
ness and order with which death is
greeted.
Suddenly the door opened and a
woman in a black gown rushed in
with outstretched arms. “Ah, poor
Mary!” she cried, and tenderly em-
 braced the moaning one.
“Ah, what ter’ble affliction is dis !”
continued she. Her vocabulary was
derived from mission churches. “Me
poor Mary, how I feel fer yehs! Ah,
what a ter’ble affliction is a dis-
obed’ent chile.”
Her good, motherly face was wet
with tears. She trembled in eager-
ness to express her sympathy. The
mourner sat with bowed head, rock-
ing her body heavily to and fro, and
crying out in a high, strained voice
that sounded like a dirge on some
forlorn pipe.
“I kin remember when she weared
worsted boots an’ her two feets was
no bigger dan yer tumb an’ she
weared worsted boots, Miss Smith,”
she cried, raising her streaming eyes.
“Ah, me poor Mary!” sobbed the
woman in black. With low, cod-
dling cries, she sank on her knees by
the mourner’s chair, and put her
arms about her. The other women
began to groan in different keys.
“Yer poor misguided chil’ is gone
now, Mary, an’ let us hope it’s fer
deh bes’. Yeh’ll fergive her now,
Mary, won’t yehs, dear, all her dis-
obed’ence? All her t’ankless be-
haviour to her mudder an’ all her
badness? She’s gone where her
ter’ble sins will be judged.”
The woman in black raised her
face and paused. The inevitable sun-
light came streaming in at the win-
dow and shed a ghastly cheerfulness
upon the faded hues of the room.
Two or three of the spectators were
sniffing, and one was weeping loudly.
The mourner arose and staggered
into the other room. In a moment
she emerged with a pair of faded
baby shoes held in the hollow of her
hand.
“I kin remember when she used
to wear dem!” cried she. The wo-
men burst anew into cries as if they
had all been stabbed. The mourner
turned to the soiled and unshaven
man.
“Jimmie, boy, go git yer sister!
Go git yer sister an’ we’ll put deh
boots on her feets!”
“Dey won’t fit her now, yeh fool,”
said the man.
“Go git yer sister, Jimmie!”
shrieked the woman, confronting
him fiercely.
The man swore sullenly. He went
over to a corner and slowly began
to put on his coat. He took his hat
and went out, with a dragging, re-
luctant step.
The woman in black came for-
ward and again besought the
mourner.
“Yeh’ll fergive her, Mary! Yeh’ll
fergive yer bad, bad chil’! Her life
was a curse an’ her days were black,
an’ yeh’ll fergive yer bad girl? She’s
gone where her sins will be judged.”
“She’s gone where her sins will be
judged!” cried the other women, like
a choir at a funeral.
“Deh Lord gives and deh Lord
takes away,” said the woman in
black, raising her eyes to the sun-
beams.
“Deh Lord gives and deh Lord
takes away,” responded the others.
“Yeh’ll fergive her, Mary?”
pleaded the woman in black. The
mourner essayed to speak but her
voice gave way. She shook her great
shoulders frantically, in an agony of
grief. The tears seemed to scald
her face. Finally her voice came
and arose in a scream of pain.
“Oh, yes, I’ll fergive her! I’ll
fergive her!”
The End
That Day She Seized
By W. H. DAVIES
That day she seized me like a bee,
To make me her weak blossom,
I felt her arms so strong that I
Lay helpless on her bosom.
But cunning I, by artful moves,
Soon had her in my power:
“Ah, Molly, who’s the strong bee now—
And who’s the poor weak flower!”
That time she thought I was a fly,
And she a' great big spider,
She held me fast, my breath was gone,
As I lay down beside her,
By cunning I, by artful moves,
Could laugh at last, and cry:
“Ah, Molly, who’s the spider now—
And who’s the poor weak fly!”
Ulysses
By JAMES JOYCE
Part Three (Continued)
V.
Pineapple rock, lemon platt,
butter scotch. A sugarsticky girl
shovelling scoopfuls of creams for a
Christian brother. Some school treat.
Bad for their tummies. Lozenge
and comfit manufacturer to His
Majesty the King. God. Save.
Our. Sitting on his throne, sucking
red jujubes white.
A sombre Y. M. C. A. young
man, watchful among the warm
sweet fumes of Graham Lemon’s,
placed a throwaway in a hand of
Mr. Bloom.
Heart to heart talks.
Bloo.... Me? No.
Blood of the Lamb.
His slow feet walked him river-
ward, reading. Are you saved? All
are washed in the blood of the lamb.
God wants blood victim. Birth,
hymen, martyr, war, foundation of
a building, sacrifice, kidney burnt-
offering, druids’ altars. Elijah is
coming. Dr. John Alexander Dow-
ie, restorer of the church in Zion, is
coming.
Is coming! Is coming !! Is coming !!!
All heartily welcome.
Paying game. Torry and Alex-
ander last year. Polygamy. His
wife will put the stopper on that.
Where was that ad some Birming-
ham firm the luminous crucifix ? Our
Saviour. Wake up in the dead of
night and see him on the wall, hang-
ing. Pepper’s ghost idea. Iron
nails ran in.
Phosphorus it must be done with.
If you leave a bit of codfish for in-
stance. I could see the bluey silver
over it. Night I went down to the
pantry in the kitchen. Don’t like all
the smells in it waiting to rush out.
What was it she wanted ? The Mal-
  aga raisins. Thinking of Spain. Be-
fore Rudy was born. The phophor-
escence, that bluey greeny. Very
good for the brain.
From Butler’s monument house
corner he glanced along Bachelor’s
walk. Dedalus’ daughter there still
outside Dillon’s auctionrooms. Must
be selling off some old furniture.
Knew her eyes at once from the
father. Lobbing about waiting for
him. Home always breaks up when
the mother goes. Fifteen children
he had. Birth every year almost.
That’s in their theology or the priest
won’t give the poor woman the con-
fession, the absolution. Increase and
multiply. Did you ever hear such
an idea? Eat you out of house and
home. No families themselves to
feed. Living on the fat of the land.
Their butteries and larders. I’d like
to see them do the black fast Yom
Kippur. Crossbuns. One meal and
a collation for fear he’d collapse on
the altar. A housekeeper of one of
those fellows if you could pick it out
of her. Never pick it out of her.
Like getting L. s. d. out of him.
Does himself well. No guests. All
for number one. Watching his
water. Bring your own bread and
butter. His reverence. Mum’s the
word.
Good Lord, that poor child’s dress
is in flitters. Underfed she looks
too. Potatoes and marge, marge
and potatoes. It’s after they feel it.
Proof of the pudding. Undermines
the constitution.
As he set foot on O’Connell
bridge a puffball of smoke plumed
up from the parapet. Brewery
barge with export stout. England.
Sea air sours it, I heard. Be inter-
esting some day get a pass through
Hancock to see the brewery. Regu-
lar world in itself. Vats of porter,
wonderful. Rats get in too. Drink
themselves bloated as big as a collie
floating. Dead drunk on the porter.
Drink till they puke again like Chris-
tians. Imagine drinking that Rats:
vats. Well of course if we knew
all the things.
Looking down he saw flapping
strongly, wheeling between the gaunt
quay walls, gulls. Rough weather
outside. If I threw myself down?
Reuben J’s son must have swallowed
a good bellyful of that sewage. One
and eightpence too much. Hhhhm.
It’s the droll way he comes out with
the things. Knows how to tell a
story too.
They wheeled lower. Looking for
grub. Wait.
He threw down among them a
crumpled paper ball. Elijah thirty-
two feet per sec is com. Not a bit.
The ball bobbed unheeded on the
wake of swells, floated under by the
bridge piers. Not such damn fools.
Also the day I threw that stale cake
out of the Erin’s King picked it up
in the wake fifty yards astern. Live
by their wits.   They wheeled, flap-
ping.
The hungry famished gull
Flaps o'er the waters dull.
That is how poets write, the simi-
lar sounds. But then Shakespeare
has no rhymes: blank verse. The
flew of the language- it is. The
thoughts. Solemn.
Hamlet, I am thy fathers spirit
Doomed for a certain time to walk
the earth.
—Two apples a penny! Two for
a penny!
His gaze passed over the glazed
apples serried on her stand. Aus-
tralians they must be this time of
year. Shiny peels: polishes them up
with a rag or a handkerchief.
Wait. Those poor birds.
He halted again and bought from
the old applewoman two Banbury
cakes for a penny and broke the
brittle paste and threw its fragments
down into the Liffey. See that?
The gulls swooped silently two, then
all, from their heights, pouncing on
prey. Gone. Every morsel.
Aware of their greed and cun-
ning he shook the powdery crumb
from his hands. They never expect-
ed that. Manna. Live on on fishy
flesh they have to, all sea birds,
gulls, seegoose. Swans from Anna
Liffey swim down here sometimes to
preen themselves. No accounting
for tastes. Wonder what kind is
swanmeat. Robinson Crusoe had
to live on them.
They wheeled, flapping weakly.
I’m not going to throw any more.
Penny quite enough. Lot of thanks
I get. Not even a caw. They
spread foot and mouth disease too.
If you cram a turkey, say, on chest-
nut meal it tastes like that. Eat pig
like pig. But they why is it that
saltwater fish are not salty? How is
that?
His eyes sought answer from the
river and saw a rowboat rock at
anchor on the treacly swells lazily its
plastered board.
Kino’s.
11/-.
Trousers.
Good idea that. Wonder if he
pays rent to the corporation. How
can you own water really? It’s al-
ways flowing in a stream, never the
same, which in the stream of life we
trace. Because life is a stream. All
kinds of places are good for ads.
That quack doctor used to be stuck
up in all the greenhouses. Never
see it now. Strictly confidential.
Dr. Hy Franks. Didn’t cost him
a red like Maginni in the dancing
master self advertisement. Got fel-
lows to stick them up or stick them
up himself for that matter on the
q. t. running in to loosen a button.
Fly by night. Just the place too.
POST NO BILLS. POST 110 PILLS.
Some chap burning.
If he . . .
O!
Eh?
No ... No.
No, no. I don’t believe it. He
wouldn’t surely?
No, no.
Mr. Bloom moved forward rais-
ing his troubled eyes. Think no
more about that. After one. Time-
ball on the ballast office is down.
Dunsink time. Fascinating little
book that is of Sir Robert Ball’s
Parallax. I never exactly understood.
There’s a priest. Could ask him.
Par it’s Greek: parallel, parallax.
Met him pikehoses she called it till
I told her about the transmigration.
O rocks!
Mr. Bloom smiled O rocks at two
windows of the ballast office. She’s
right after all. Only big words for
ordinary things on account of the
sound. She’s not exactly witty. Can
be rude too. Blurt out what I was
thinking. Still I don’t know. She
used to say Ben Dollard had a base
barreltone voice. He has legs like
barrels and you’d think he was sing-
ing into a barrel. Now, isn’t that
wit? They used to call him big Ben.
Not half as witty as calling him base
barreltone. Appetite like an alba-
tross. Get outside of a baron of
beef. Powerful man he was at stor-
ing away number one Bass. Barrel
of Bass. See? It all works out.
A procession of whitesmocked
men marched slowly towards him
along the gutter, scarlet across their
boards. Bargains. Like that priest
they are this morning: we have sin-
ned: we have suffered. He read the
scarlet letters on their five tall white
hats: H. E. L. Y. S. Wisdom
Hely’s. Y lagging behind drew a
chunk of bread from under his fore-
board, crammed it into his mouth
and munched as he walked. Our
staple food. Three bob a day,
walking along the gutters, street
after street. Just keep skin and bone
together, bread and skilly. They
are not Boyl: no M. Glade’s men.
Doesn’t bring in any business either.
I suggested to him about a trans-
parent show cart with two smart
girls sitting inside writing letters,
copybooks, envelopes, blotting pa-
per. I bet that would have caught
on. Smart girls writing something
catch the eye at once. Everyone
dying to know what she’s writing.
Get twenty of them round you if you
stare at nothing. Have a finger in
the pie. Women too. Curiosity.
Pillar of salt. Wouldn’t have it of
course because he didn’t think of it
himself first. Or the inkbottle I sug-
gested with a false stain of black
celluloid. His ideas for ads like
plumtree’s potted under the obitua-
ries, cold meat department. You
can’t lick ’em. What? Our envel-
opes. Hello! Jones, where are you
going? Can’t stop, Robinson, I am
hastening to purchase the only re-
liable inkeraser Kansell, sold by
Hely’s Ltd., 85 Dame Street. Well
out of that ruck I am. Devil of a job
it was collecting accounts of those
convents. Tranquilla convent. That
was a nice nun there, really sweet
face. Wimple suited her small head.
Sister? Sister? I am sure she was
crossed in love by her eyes. Very
hard to bargain with that sort of
woman. I disturbed her at her de-
votions that morning. But glad to
communicate with the outside world.
Our great day, she said. Feast of
Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Sweet
name too: caramel. She knew, I
think she knew by the way she. If
she had married she would have
changed. I suppose they really were
short of money. Fried everything in
the best butter all the same. No lard
for them. My heart’s broke eating
dripping. They like buttering them-
selves in and out. Molly tasting it,
her veil up. Sister? Pat Claffey, the
pawnbroker’s daughter. It was a
nun they say invented barbed wire.
He crossed Westmoreland street
when apostrophe S had plodded by.
Rover cycleshop. Those races are
on today. How long ago is that?
Year Phil Gilligan died. We were
in Lombard street west. Wait, was
in Thom’s. Got the job in Wisdom
Hely’s year we married. Six years.
Ten years ago: ninetyfour he did,
yes that’s right, the big fire at Ar-
nott’s. Val Dillon was lord mayor!
The Glencree dinner. Alterman
Robert O’Reilly emptying the port
into his his soup before the flag fell.
Bobbob lapping it for the inner al-
derman. Couldn’t hear what the
band played. For what we have al-
ready received may the Lord make
us. Milly was a kiddy then. Molly
had that elephantgrey dress with the
braided frogs. Mantailored with
selfcovered buttons. She didn’t like
it because I sprained my ankle first
day she wore choir picnic at the Sug-
arloaf. As if that. Old Goodwin’s
tall hat done up with some sticky
stuff. Flies’ picnic too. Never put a
dress on her back like it. Fitted her
like a glove, shoulder and hips. Just
beginning to plump it out well. Rab-
bit pie we had that day. People look-
ing after her.
Happy. Happier then. Snug lit-
tle room that was with the red wall-
paper, Dockrell’s, one and ninepence
a dozen. Milly’s tubbing night.
American soap I bought: elder-
flower. Cosy smell of her bathwater.
Funny she looked soaped all over.
Shapely, too. Now photography.
Poor papa’s daguerreotype atelier
he told me of. Hereditary taste.
He walked along the curbstone.
Stream of life. What was the
name of that priesty-looking chap
was always squinting in when he
passed? Weak eyes, woman. Stop-
ped in Citron’s saint Kevin’s parade.
Pen something. Pendennis? My
memory is getting. Pen . . . ? of
course it’s years ago. Noise of the
trams probably. Well, if he could-
n’t remember the dayfather’s name
that he sees every day.
Bartell d’Arcy was the tenor, just
coming out then. Seeing her home
after practice. Conceited fellow
with his waxedup mustache. Gave
her that song Winds that blow from
the south.
Windy night that was I went to
fetch her there was that lodge meet-
ing on about those lottery tickets
after Goodwin’s concert in the sup-
per room or oakroom of the mansion
house. He and I behind. Sheet of
her music blew out of my hand
against the high school railings.
Lucky it didn’t. Thing like that
spoils the effect of a night for her.
Professor Goodwin linking her in
front. Shaky on his pins, poor old
sot. His farewell concerts. Posi-
tively last appearance on any stage.
May be for months and may be for
never. Remember her laughing at
the wind, her blizzard collar up.
Corner of Harcourt road remember
that gust? Brrfoo! Blew up all her
skirts and her boa nearly smothered
old Goodwin. She did get flushed in
the wind. Remember when we got
home raking up the fire and frying
up those pieces of lap of mutton for
her supper with the Chutney sauce
she liked. And the mulled rum.
Could see her in the bedroom from
the hearth unclamping the busk of
her stays. White.
Swish and soft flop her stays
made on the bed. Always warm
from her. Always liked to let her-
self out. Sitting there after till near
two, taking out her hairpins. Milly
tucked up in beddyhouse. Happy.
Happy. That was the night . . .
—O, Mr. Bloom, how do you
do?
—O, how do you do, Mrs.
Breen?
—No use complaining. How is
Molly those times? Haven’t seen
her for ages.
—In the pink, Mr. Bloom said
gaily, Milly has a position down in
Mullingar, you know.
—Go away! Isn’t that grand for
her?
—Yes, in a photographer’s there.
Getting on like a house on fire.
How are all your charges?
—All on the baker’s list, Mrs.
Breen said.
How many has she ? No other in
sight.
—You're in black I see. You have
no...
—No, Mr. Bloom said. I have
just come from a funeral.
Going to crop up all day, I fore-
see. Who’s dead, when and what
did he die of? Turn up like a bad
penny.
—O dear me, Mrs. Breen said, I
hope it wasn’t any near relation.
May as well get her sympathy.
—Dignam, Mr. Bloom said. An
old friend of mine. He died quite
suddenly, poor fellow. Heart trou-
ble, I believe. Funeral was this
morning.
Your funeral’s tomorrow
While you’re coming through the
rye.
Diddlediddle dumdum
Diddlediddle . . .
—Sad to lose the old friends,
Mrs. Breen’s womaneyes said mel-
ancholily.
Now that’s quite enough about
that. Just quietly: husband.
—And your lord and master?
Mrs. Breen turned up her two
large eyes. Hasn’t lost them any-
how.
—O, don’t be talking, she said.
He’s a caution to rattlesnakes. He’s
in there now with his lawbooks find-
ing out the law of libel. He has me
heartscalded. Wait till I show you.
Hot mockturtle vapour and steam
of newbaked jampuffs rolypoly
poured out from Harrison’s. The
heavy noonreck tickled the top of
Mr. Bloom’s gullet. Want to make
good pastry, butter, best flour, De-
merara sugar, or they’d taste it with
the hot tea. Or is it from her? A
barefoot arab stood over the grat-
ing, breathing in the fumes. Deaden
the gnaw of hunger that way. Pleas-
ure or pain is it? Penny dinner.
Knife and fork chained to the table.
Opening her handbag, chipped
leather, hatpin; ought to have a
guard on those things. Stick it in a
chap’s eye in the tram. Rummaging.
Open. Money. Please take one.
Devils if they lose sixpence. Raise
Cain. Husband barging. Where’s
the ten shillings I gave you on Mon-
day? Are you feeding your little
brother’s family? Soiled handker-
chief: medicinebottle. Pastille that
was fell. What is she ? ...
—There must be a new moon out,
she said. He’s always bad then. Do
you know what he did last night?
Her hand ceased to rummage.
Her eyes fixed themselves on him,
wide in alarm, yet smiling.
—What? Mr. Bloom asked.
Let her speak. Look straight in
her eyes. I believe you. Trust me.
Woke me up in the night, she.
said. Dream he had, a nightmare.
Indiges.
—Said the ace of spades was
walking up the stairs.
—The ace of spades! Mr. Bloom
said.
She took a folded postcard from
her handbag.
Read that, she said. He got it
this morning.
—What is it? Mr. Mloom asked,
taking the card U. P. ?
—U. P.: up, she said. Someone
taking a rise out of him. It’s a great
shame for them whoever he is.
—Indeed it is, Mr. Bloom said.
She took back the card, sighing.
—And now he’s going round to
Mr. Menton’s office. He’s going to
take an action for ten thousand
pounds, he says. .
She folded the card into her un-
tidy bag and snapped the catch.
Same blue serge dress she had two
years ago, the nap bleaching. Seen
its best days. Wispish hair over her
ears. And that dowdy toque, three
old grapes to take the harm out of
it. Shabby genteel. She used to be
a tasty dresser. Lines round her
mouth. Only a year or so older than
Molly.
See the eye that woman gave her,
passing. Cruel. The unfair sex.
He looked still at her, holding
back behind his look his discontent.
Pungent mockturtle oxtail mulliga-
tawny. I’m hungry too. Flakes, of
pastry on the gusset of her dress:
daub of sugary flour stuck to her
cheek. Rhubarb tart with liberal fil-
lings, rich fruit interior. Josie Pow-
ell that was. In Luke Doyle’s long
ago, Dolphin’s Bam, the charades.
U, P.: up.
Change the subject.
—Do you ever see anything of
Mrs. Beaufoy, Mr. Bloom asked.
—Mina Purefoy? she said.
Philip Beaufoy I was thinking.
Playgoers’ club. Matcham often
thinks of the masterstroke. Did I
pull the chain? Yes. The last act.
—Yes.
—I just called to ask on the way
in is she over it. She’s is the lying-in
hospital in Holies street. Doctor
Home got her in. She’s three days
bad now.
—O, Mr. Bloom said. I’m sorry
to hear that.
—Yes, Mrs. Breen said. And a
houseful of kids at home. It’s a
very stiff birth, the nurse told me.
—-O, Mr. Bloom said.
His heavy pitying gaze absorbed
her news. His tongue clacked in
compassion. Dth! Dth!
—I’m sorry to hear that, he said.
Poor thing! Three daysl That’s
terrible for her.
Mrs. Breen nodded.
—She was taken bad on the
Tuesday . . .
Mr. Bloom touched her funny-
bone gently, warning her.
—Mind! Let this man pass.
A bony form strode along the
curbstone from the river, staring
with a rapt gaze into the sunlight
through a heavy stringed glass.
Tight as a skullpiece a tiny hat grip-
ped his head. From his arm a
folded dustcoat, a stick and an um-
brella dangled to his stride.
—Watch him, Mr. Bloom said.
He always walks outside the lamp-
posts. Watch!
—Who is he if it’s a fair ques-
tion? Mrs. Breen asked. Is he
dotty?
—His name is Cashel Boyle
O’Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Far-
rell, Mr. Bloom said, smiling.
Watch!
—He has enough of them, she
said. Denis will be like that one of
these days.
She broke off suddenly.
—There he is, she said. I must
go after him. Good bye. Remem-
ber me to Molly, won’t you ?
—I will, Mr. Bloom said.
He watched her dodge through
passers toward the shopfronts.
Denis Breen in skimpy frockcoat and
blue canvas shoes shuffled out of
Harrison’s, hugging two heavy
tomes to his ribs. Blown in from
the bay. Like old times. He suf-
fered her to overtake him without
surprise and thrust his dull grey
beard toward her, his loose jaw wag-
ging as he spoke earnestly.
Meshuggah. Off his chump.
Mr. Bloom walked on again
easily, seeing ahead of him in sun-
light the tight skullpiece, the dan-
gling stick, umbrella, dustcoat. Go-
ing the two days. Watch him! Out
he goes again. One way of getting
on in the world. And that other old
mosey lunatic in those duds. Hard
time she must have with him.
U. P.: up. I’ll take my oath that’s
Alf Bergan or Richie Goulding.
Wrote it for a lark in the Scotch
house, I bet anything. Round to
Menton’s office. His oyster eyes
staring at the postcard. Be a feast
for the gods.
He passed the Irish Times. There
might be other answers lying there.
Like to answer them all. Good sys-
tem for criminals. Code. At their
lunch now. Clerk with the glasses
there doesn’t know me. O, leave
them there to simmer. Enough
bother wading through forty-four of
them. Wanted smart lady typist to
aid gentleman in literary work. I
called you naughty darling because
I do not like that other world. Please
tell me what is the meaning. Please
tell me what perfume does your
wife. Tell me who made the world.
The way they spring those questions
on you. And the other one Lizzie
Twigg. My literary efforts have
had the good fortune to meet with
the approval of the eminent poet A.
E. (Mr. Geo. Russell). No time
to do her hair drinking sloppy tea
with a book of poetry.
Best paper by long chalks for a
small ad. Got the provinces now.
Cook and general, exc cuisine, house-
maid kept. Wanted live man for
spirit counter. Resp. girl (R. C.)
wishes to hear of post in fruit or
pork shop. James Carlisle made
that. Six and a half percent divi-
dend. Made a biy deal on Coates’s
shares. Ca’ canny. Cunning old
Scotch hunks. All the toady news.
Our gracious and popular vicereine.
Bought the Irish Field now. Lady
Mountcashel has quite recovered af-
ter her confinement and rode out
with the Ward Union staghounds at
the enlargement yesterday at Rath-
oath. Uneatable fox. Pothunters
too. Fear injects juices make it ten-
der enough for them. Riding astride.
Sit her horse like a man. Weight-
carrying huntress. No sidesaddle or
pillion for her, not for Joe. First to
the meet and in at the death. Strong
as a brood, mare some of those
horsey women. Swagger around
livery stables. Toss off a glass of
brandy neat while you’d say knife.
That one, at the Grosvenor this
morning. Up with her on the car:
wishswish. Stonewall or fivebarred
gate put her mount to it. Think
that pugnosed driver did it out of
spite. Who is this she was like? O
yes! Mrs. Miriam Dandrade that
sold me her old wraps and black un-
derclothes in the Shelbourne hotel.
Divorced Spanish American. Didn’t
take a feather out of her my han-
dling them. As if I was her clothes-
horse. Saw her in the viceregal par-
ty when Stubbs the park ranger got
me in with Whelan of the Express.
Scavening what the quality left.
High tea. Mayonnaise I poured on
the plums thinking it was custard.
Her ears ought to have tingled for a
few weeks after. Want to be a bull
for her. Born courtesan. No nur-
sery work for her, thanks.
Poor Mrs. Purefoy! Methodist
husband". Method in his madness.
Saffron bun and milk and soda lunch
in the educational dairy. Eating
with a stopwatch, thirty-two chews
to the minute. Still his muttonchop
whiskers grew. Supposed to be well
connected. Theodore’s cousin in
Dublin Castle. One tony relative in
every family. Hardy annuals he
presents her with. Saw him out at
the Three Jolly Topers marching
along bareheaded and his eldest boy
carrying one in a marketnet. The
squallers. Poor thing! Then hav-
ing to give the breast year after year
all hours of the night. Selfish those
t.t’s are. Dog in the manger. Only
one lump of Sugar in my tea, if you
please.
He stood at Fleet street crossing.
Luncheon interval a sixpenny at
Rowe’s? Must look up that ad in
the national library. An eightpenny
in the Burton. Better. On my way.
He walked on past Bolton’s West-
moreland house. Tea. Tea. Tea.
I forgot to tap Tom Kernan.
Sss. Dth, dth, dth! Three days
imagine groaning on a bed with a
vinegared handkerchief round her
forehead! Phew! Dreadful simply!
Kill me that would. Lucky Molly
got over hers lightly. They ought
to invent something to stop that.
Life with hard labour. Twilight-
sleep idea: queen Victoria was given
that. Nine she had. Old woman
that lived in a shoe she had so many
children. Suppose he was consump-
tive. Time someone thought about
it instead of gassing about the what
was it the pensive bosom of the sil-
ver effulgence. Flapdoodle to feed
fools on. They could easily have
big establishments. Whole thing
quite painless out of all the taxes
give every child born five quid at
compound interest up to twentyone,
five per cent is a hundred shillings
and five tiresome pounds, multiply
by twenty decimal system, encourage
people to put by money save hun-
dred and ten and a bit twentyone
years want to work it out on paper
come to a tidy sum, more than you
think.
Not stillborn of course. They are
not even registered. Trouble for
nothing.
Funny sight two of them together.
Molly and Mrs. Moisel. Mothers’
meeting. Phthisis retires for the
time being, then returns. How flat
they look after all of a sudden!
Peaceful eyes. Weight off their
minds. Old Mrs. Thornton was a
jolly old soul. All my babies, she
said. The spoon of pap in her mouth
before she fed them. O, that’s
nyumyum. Got her hand crushed
by old Tom Wall’s son. His first
bow to the public. Head like a prize
pumpkin. Snuffy Dr. Murren. Peo-
ple knocking them up at all hours.
For God’sake, doctor. Wife in
her throes. Then keep them wait-
ing months for their fee. To at-
tendance on your wife. No grati-
tude in people. Humane doctors,
most of them.
Before the huge high door of the
Irish house of parliament a flock of
pigeons flew. Their little frolic af-
ter meals. Who will we do it on?
I pick the fellow in black. Here
goes. Here’s good luck. Must be
thrilling from the air. Apjohn, my-
self and Owen Goldberg up in the
trees near Goose green playing the
monkeys. Mackerel they called me.
A squad of constables debouched
from College street, marching in In-
dian file. Goose step. Foodheated
faces, sweating helmets, patting their
truncheons. After their feed with a
good load of fat soup under their
belts. Policeman’s lot is oft a hap-
py one. They split up into groups
and scattered, saluting toward their
beats. Let out to graze. Best mo-
ment to attack one in pudding time.
A punch in his dinner. A squad of
others, marching, irregularly, round-
ed Trinity railings, making for the
station. Bound for their troughs.
Prepare to receive cavalry. Prepare
to receive soup.
He crossed under Tommy
Moore’s roguish finger. They did
right to put him up over a urinal:
meeting of the waters. Ought to be
places for women. Running into
cakeshops. Settle my hat straight.
There is not in this wide world a
vallee. Great song of Julia Mor-
kan’s. Kept her voice up to the very
last. Pupil of Michael Balfe’s,
wasn’t she?
He gazed after the last broad
tunic. Nasty customers to tackle.
Jack Power could a tale unfold: fa-
ther a G man. If a fellow gave them
trouble being lagged they let him
have it hot and heavy in the bride-
well. Can’t blame them after all
with the job they have especially the
young hornies. That horse police-
man the day Joe Chamberlain was
given his degree in Trinity he got a
run for his money. My word he did I
His horse’s hoofs clattering after us
down Abbey street. Luck I had the
presence of mind to dive into Man-
ning’s or I was souped. He did come
a wallop, by George. Must have
cracked his skull on the cobblestones.
I oughtn’t to have got myself swept
along with those medicals. And the
Trinity jibs in their mortarboards.
Looking for trouble. Still I got to
know that young Dixon who dressed
that sting for me in the Mater and
now he’s in Holies street where Mrs.
Purefoy. Wheels within wheels.
Police whistle in my ears still. All
skedaddled. Why he fixed on me.
Give me in charge. Right here it
began.
—Up the Boers!
—Three cheers for De Wet!
—We’ll hang Joe Chamberlain on
a sourapple tree.
Silly billies: mob of young cubs
yelling their guts out. Vinegar hill.
The Butter exchange band. Few
years time half of them magistrates
and civil servants. War comes on:
into the army helterskelter: same
fellows used to whether on the scaf-
fold high.
Never know who you’re talking
to. Corny Kelleher he has Harvey
Duff in his eye. Like that Peter or
Denis or James Carey that blew the
gaff on the invincibles. Member of
the corporation, too. Egging raw
youths on to get in the know. All
the time drawing secret service pay
from the castle. Drop him like a
hot potato. Why those plainclothes-
men are always courting slaveys.
Easily twig a man used to uniform.
Squarepushing up against a back-
door. Maul her a bit. Then the
next thing on the menu. And who
is the gentleman does be visiting
there? Was the young master say-
ing anything? Peeping Tom through
the keyhole. Decoy duck. Hot-
blooded young student fooling round
her fat arms ironing.
—Are those yours, Mary?
—I don’t wear such things. . . .
Stop of I’ll tell the missus on you.
Out half the night.
—There are great times coming,
Mary, Wait till you see.
—Ah, get along with your great
times coming.
Barmaids, too. Tobacco shop-
girls.
James Stephens’ idea was the best.
He knew them. Circles of ten so
that a fellow couldn’t round on more
than his own ring. Sinn Fein. Back
out you get the knife. Hidden
hand. Stay in. The firing squad.
Turkney’s daughter got him out of
Richmond, off from Lusk. Putting
up in the Buckingham Palace hotel
under their very noses. Garibaldi.
You must have a certain fascina-
tion: Parnell. Arthur Griffith is a
square-headed fellow but he has no
go in him for the mob. Want to
gas about our lovely land. Gam-
mon and spinach. Dublin Bakery
Company’s tearoom. Debating so-
cieties. That republicanism is the
best form of government. That the
language question should take pre-
cedence of the economic question.
Have your daughters inveigling
them to your house. Stuff them up
with meat and drink. Michaelmas
goose. Here’s a good lump of thyme
seasoning under the apron for you.
Have another quart of goosegrease
before it gets too cold. Halffed en-
thusiasts. Penny roll and a walk
with the band. No grace for the
carver. The thought that the other
chap pays best sauce in the world.
Make themselves thoroughly at
home. Shove us over those apricots,
meaning peaches. The not far dis-
tant day. Home Rule sun rising up
in the northwest.
His smile faded as he walked, a
heavy cloud hiding the sun slowly,
shadowing Trinity’s surly front.
Trams passed one another, ingoing,
outgoing, clanging. Useless words.
Things go on same; day after day:
squads of police marching out, back:
trams in, out. Those two loonies
mooching about. Dignam carted
off. Mina Purefoy on a bed groan-
ing. One born every second some-
where. Other dying every second.
Since I fed the birds five minutes.
Three hundred kicked the bucket.
Other three hundred born, all are
washed in the blood of the lamb,
bawling maaaaaa.
-Cityful passing away, other city-
ful coming, passing away, too: other
coming on, passing on. Houses, lines
of houses, streets, miles of pave-
ments, piledup bricks, stones. Chang-
ing hands. This owner, that. Land-
lord never dies they say. Other
steps into his shoes when he gets his
notice to quit. They buy the place
up with gold and still they have all
the gold. Swindle in it somewhere.
Piled up in cities, worn away age
after age. Pyramids in sand. Built
on bread and onions. Slaves Chinese
wall. Babylon. Big stones left.
Round towers. Rest rubble, spraw-
ling suburbs, jerrybuilt, Kerwan’s
mushroom houses, built of breeze.
Shelter for the night.
No one is anything.
This is the very worst hour of the
day. Vitality. Dull, gloomy: hate
this hour. Feel as if I had been
eaten and spewed.
Provost’s house. The reverend
Dr. Salmon: tinned salmon. Well
tinned in there. Wouldn’t live in it
if they paid me. Hope they have
liver and bacon today. Nature ab-
hors a vacuum.
The sun freed itself slowly and lit
glints of light among the silver ware
in Walter Sexton’s window opposite
by which John Howard Parnell
passed, unseeing.
There he is: the brother. Image
of him. Haunting face. Now that’s
a coincidence. Course hundreds of
times you think of a person and
don’t meet him. Like a man walk-
ing in his sleep. No-one knows him.
Must be a corporation meeting to-
day. They say he never put on the
city marshal’s uniform since he got
the job. Charley Boulger used to
come out on his high horse, cocked
hat, puffed, powdered and shaved.
Look at the woebegone walk of him.
Eaten a bad egg. Poached eyes on
ghost. I have a pain. Great man’s
brother; his brother’s brother. He’d
look nice on the city charger. Drop
into the D. B. C. probably for his
coffee, play chess there. His brother
used men as pawns. Let them all go
to pot. Afraid to pass a remark on
him. Freeze them up with that eye
of his. That’s the fascination: the
name. All a bit touched. Mad Fanny
and his other sister Mrs. Dickinson
driving about with scarlet harness.
Bolt upright like surgeon M’Ardle.
Still David Sheehy beat him for
south Meath. Apply for the Chil-
tern Hundreds and retire into public
life. The patriot’s banquet. Eating
orangepeels in the park. Simon De-
dalus said when they put him in par-
liament that Parnell would come
back from the grave and lead him
out of the House of Commons by
the arm.
—Of the twoheaded octopus, one
of whose heads is the head upon
which the ends of the world have
forgotten to come while the other
speaks with a Scotch accent. The
tentacles . . .
They passed from behind Mr.
Bloom along the curbstone. Beard
and bicycle. Young woman.
And there he is too. Now that’s
really a coincidence: second time.
Coming events cast their shadows
before. With the approval of the
eminent poet Mr. Geo. Russell.
That might be Lizzie Twigg with
him. A. E.: What does that mean ?
Initials perhaps. Albert Edward,
Arthur Edmund, Alphonsus Eb Ed
El Esquire. What was he saying?
The ends of the world with a Scotch
accent. Tentacles: octopus. Some-
thing occult: symbolism. Holding
forth. She’s taking it all in. Not
saying a word. To aid gentleman
in literary work.
His eyes followed the high figure
in homespun, beard and bicycle, a
listening woman at his side. Com-
ing from the vegetarian. Only weg-
gebobbles and fruit. Don’t eat a
beefsteak. If you do the eyes of
that cow will pursue you through all
eternity. They say it’s healthier.
Wind and wavery though. Tried
it. Keep you on the run all day.
Bad as a bloater. Dreams all night.
Why do they call that thing they
gave me nutsteak? Nutarians.
Fruitarians. To give you the idea
you are eating rumpsteak. Absurd.
Salty, too. They cook in soda. Keep
you sitting by the tap all night.
Her stockings are loose over her
ankles. I  detest that: so tasteless.
Those literary etherial people they
are all. Dreamy, cloudy, symbolistic.
Esthetes they are. I wouldn’t be sur-
prised if it was that kind of food you
see produces the like waves of the
brain the poetical. For example one
of those policemen sweating Irish
stew into their shirts; you couldn’t
squeeze a line of poetry out of him.
Don’t know what poetry is even.
Must be in a certain mood.
The dreamy cloudy gull
Waves o’er the waters dull.
He crossed at Nassau street cor-
ner and stood before the window of
Yeates and Son, pricing the field
glasses. Or will I drop into old Har-
ris’s and have a chat with Young
Sinclair? Wellmannered fellow.
Probably at his lunch. Must get
those old glasses of mine set right.
Goerz lenses, six guineas. Germans
making their way everywhere. Sell
on easy terms to capture trade. Un-
dercutting. Might chance on a pair
in the railway lost property office.
Astonishing the things people leave
behind them in trains and cloak
rooms. What do they be thinkings
about? Women, too. Incredible.
Last year traveling to Ennis had to
pick up that farmer’s daughter’s bag
and hand it to her at Limerick junc-
tion. Unclaimed money, too. There’s
a little watch up there on the roof
of the bank to test those glasses by.
His lids came down on the lower
rims of his irides. Can’t see it. If
you imagine it’s there you can almost
see it. Can’t see it.
He faced about and, standing be-
tween the awnings, held out his right
hand at arm’s length toward the sun.
Wanted to try that often. Yes:
completely. The tip of his little
finger blotted out the sun’s disk.
Must be the focus where the rays
cross. If I had black glasses. In-
teresting. There was a lot of talk
about those sunspots when we were
in Lombard street west. Terrific ex-
plosions they are. There will be a
total eclipse this year: autumn some
time.
Now that I come to think of it,
that ball falls at Greenwich time.
It’s the clock is worked by an electric
wire from Dunsink. Must go out
there some first Saturday of the
month. If I could get an introduc-
tion to professor Joly or learn up
something about his family. That
would do to: man always feels com-
plimented.  Flattery where least ex-
pected. Nobleman proud to be de-
scended from some king’s mistress.
His foremother. Lay it on with a
trowel. Cap in hand goes through
the land. Not go in and blurt out
what you know you’re not to: what’s
parallax? Show this gentleman the
door.
Ah.
His hand fell again to his side.
Never know anything about it.
Waste of time. Gasballs spinning
about, crossing each other, passing.
Same old dingdong always. Gas,
then solid, then world, then cold,
then dead shell drifting around,
frozen rock like that pineapple rock.
The moon. Must be a new moon
out, she said. I believe there is.
He went on by la Maison Claire.
Wait. The full moon was the
night we were Sunday fortnight ex-
actly there is a new moon. Walking
down by the Tolka. Not bad for a
Fairview moon. She was humming:
The young May moon she’s beam-
ing, love. He other side of her. El-
bow, arm. He. Glowworm’s la-
amp is gleaming love. Touch. Ein-
gers. Asking. Answer. Yes.
Stop. Stop. If it was it was.
Must.
Mr. Bloom, quick breathing, slow-
lier walking, passed Adam court.
With a keep quiet relief his eyes
took note: this is street here middle
of the day Bob Doran’s bottle shoul-
ders. On his annual bend, M’Coy
said. They drink in order to say
or do something or cherchez la fem-
me. Up in the Coombe with chum-
mies and streetwalkers and then the
rest of the year as sober as a judge.
Yes. Thought so. Sloping into
the Empire. Gone. Plain soda
would do him good. Where Pat
Kinsella had his Harp theatre be-
fore Whitbred ran the Queen’s
Broth of a boy. Dion Boucicault
business with his harvestmoon face
in a poky bonnet. Three Purty
Maids from School. How time flies
eh? Showing long red pantaloons
under his skirts. Drinkers, drink-
ing, laughed spluttering, their drink
against their breath. More power,
Pat. Coarse red: fun for drunkards:
guffaw and smoke. Take off that
white hat. His parboiled eyes.
Where is he now? Beggar some-
where. The harp that once did
starve us all.
I was happier then: Or was that I?
Or am I now I? Twenty eight I was.
She twenty three when we left Lom-
bard street west something changed.
Could never like it again after Rudy.
Can’t bring back time. Like holding
water in your hand. Would you go
back to then? Just beginning then.
Would you? Are you not happy in
your home, you poor little naughty
boy? Wants to sew on buttons for
me. I must answer. Write it in the
library.
Grafton street gay with housed
awnings lured his senses. Muslin
prints, silk, dames and dowagers,
jingle of harnesses, hoofthuds low-
ringing in the baking causeway.
Thick feet that woman has in the
white stockings. Hope the rain
mucks them up on her. Country
bred chawbacon. All the beef to the
heels were in. Always gives a wo-
man clumsy feet. Molly looks out of
plumb.
He passed, dallying the windows
of Brown Thomas, silk mercers.
Cascades of ribbons. Flimsy China
silks. A tilted urn poured from its
mouth a flood of bloodhued poplin:
lustrous blood. The huguenots
brought that here. La causa e santa!
Tara tara. Great chorus that. Tara.
Must be washed in rainwater.
Meyerbeer. Tara: bom bom bom.
Pincushions. I’m a long time
threatening to buy one. Stick them
all over the place. Needles in win-
dow curtains.
He bared slightly his left fore-
arm. Scrape: nearly gone. Not to-
day anyhow. Must go back for that
lotion. For her birthday perhaps.
Junejuly augseptember eighth. Near-
ly three months off. Then she
mightn’t like it. Women won’t pick
up pins. Say it cuts lo.
Gleaming silks, petticoats on slim
brass rails, rays of flat silk stock-
ings.
Useless to go bade. Had to be.
Tell me all.
High voices. Sunwarm silk. Jin-
gling harnesses. All for a woman,
home and houses, silk webs, silver,
rich fruits, spicy from Jaffa. Agen-
dath Netaim. Wealth of the world.
A warm human plumpness settled
! down in his brain. His brain yield-
ed. Perfume of embraces all him as-
sailed. With hungered flesh obscure-
ly, he mutely craved to adore.
Duke street. Here we are. Must
eat. The Burton. Feel better then.
He turned Combridge’s corner,
still pursued. Jingling hoof thuds.
Perfumed bodies, warm, full. All
kissed, yielded: in deep summer
fields, tangled pressed grass, in trick-
ling hallways of tenements, along
sofas, creaking beds.
—Jack, love!
—Darling!
—Kiss me, Peggy!
—My boy!
—Love!
His heart astir he pushed in the
door of the Burton restaurant. Stink
gripped his trembling breath: pun-
gent meatjuice, slop of greens. See
the animals feed.
Men, men, men.
Perched on high stools by the bar,
hats shoved back, at the tables call-
ing for more bread no charge, swill-
ing, wolfing gobfuls of sloppy food,
their eyes bulging, wiping wetted
mustaches. A pallid suetfaced young
roan polished his tumbler knife fork
and spoon with his napkin. New set
of microbes. A man with an infant’s
saucestained napkin tucked round
him shovelled gurgling soup down
his gullet. A man spitting back on
his plate: halfmasticated gristle: no
teeth to chewchewchew it. Chump
chop from the grill. Bolting to get it
over. Sad booser’s eyes. Bitten off
more than he can chew. Am I like
that? See ourselves as others see us.
Hungry man is an angry man.
Working tooth and jaw. Don’t! O!
A bone! That last pagan king of
Ireland Cormac in the schoolpoem
choked himself at Sletty southward
of the Boyne. Wonder what he was
eating. Something galoptious. Saint
Patrick converted him to Christian-
it. Couldn’t swallow it all however.
—Roast beef and cabbage.
—One stew.
Smells of men. His gorge rose.
Spaton sawdust, sweetish warmish
cigarette smoke, reek of plug, spilt
beer, men’s beery piss, the stale of
ferment.
Couldn’t eat a morsel here. Fel-
low sharpening knife and fork, to
eat all before him, old chap picking
his tootles. Slight spasm, full, chew-
ing the cud. Before and after. Grace
after meals. Look on this picture
then on that. Scoffing up stewgravy
with sopping sippets of bread. Lick
it off the plate, man! Get out of
this.
He gazed round the stooled and
tabled eaters, tightening the wings of
his nose.
—Two stouts here.
—One corned and cabbage.
That fellow ramming a knifeful
of cabbage down as if his life de-
pended on it. Good stroke. Give
me the fidgets to look. Safer to eat
from his three hands. Tear it limb
from limb. Second nature to him.
Born with a silver knife in his
mouth. That’s witty, I think. Or
no. Silver means born rich. Born
with a knife. But then the allusion
is lost.
An illgirt server gathered sticky
clattering plates. Rock, the bailiff,
standing at the bar blew the foamy
crown from his tankard. Well up:
it splashed yellow near his boot. A
diner, knife and fork upright, elbows
on table, ready for a second helping
stared toward the foodlift across his
stained square of newspaper. Other
chap telling him something with his
mouth full. Sympathetic listener.
Table talk. I munched hum un thu
Unchster Bunck un Munchday. Ha ?
Did you, faith?
Mr. Bloom raised two fingers
doubtfully to his lips. His eyes said:
—Not here. Don’t see him.
Out. I hate dirty eaters.
He backed toward the door. Get
a light snack in Davy Byrne’s. Stop-
gap. Keep me going. Had a good
breakfast.
—Roast and mashed here.
—Pint of stout.
Every fellow for his own, tooth
and nail. Gulp. Grub. Gulp. Gob-
stuff.
He came out into clearer air and
turned back toward Grafton street.
Eat or be eaten. Kill! Kill!
Suppose that communal kitchen
years to come perhaps. All trotting
down with porringers and tommy-
cans to be filled. Devour contents
in the street. John Howard Parnell
example the provost of Trinity
every mother’s son don’t talk of your
provosts and provost of Trinity wo-
men and children, cabmen, priests,
parsons, fieldmarshals, archbishops.
From Ailesbury road, Clyde road,
artisans’ dwellings, north Dublin
union, lord mayor in his gingerbread
coach, old queen in a bathchair. My
plate’s empty. After you with our
incorporated drinkingcup. Like sir
Philip Crampton’s fountain. Rub off
the microbes with your handkerchief.
Next chap rubs on a new batch with
his. Father O’Flynn would make
hares of them all. Have rows all
the same. All for number one. Chil-
dren fighting for the scrapings of
the pot. Want a soup pot as big as
the Phoenix Park. Harpooning
flitches and hindquarters out of it.
Hate people all round you. City
Arms hotel table d’hote she called it.
Soup, joint and sweet. Never know
whose thoughts you’re chewing.
Then who’d wash up all the plates
and forks? Might be all feeding on
tabloids that time. Teeth getting
worse and worse.
After all there’s a lot in that vege-
tarian fine flavour of things from the
earth garlic, of course, it stinks
Italian organgrinders crisp of
onions, mushrooms truffles. Pain to
the animal too. Pluck and draw
fowl. Wretched brutes there at the
cattlemarket waiting for the poleaxe
to split their skulls open. Moo.
Poor trembling calves. Meh. Stag-
gering bob. Bubble and squeak.
Butchers’ buckets wobble lights. Give
us that brisket off the hook. Plup.
Rawhead and bloody bones. Flayed
glasseyed sheep hung from their
haunches, sheepsnouts bloodypaper-
ed snivelling nosejam on sawdust-
Top and lashers going out. Don’t
maul them pieces, young one.
Hot fresh blood they prescribe
for decline. Blood always needed.
Insidious. Lick it up, smoking hot,
thick sugary. Famished ghosts.
Ah, I’m hunngry.
He entered Davy Byrne’s. Moral
pub. He doesn’t chat. Stands a
drink now and then. But in leap-
year once in four. Cashed a cheque
for me once.
What will I take now ? He drew
his watch. Let me see now. Shandy-
gaff?
—Hello, Bloom! Nosey Flynn
said from his nook.
—Hello, Flynn.
—How’s things ?
—Tiptop. . . . Let me see. I’ll
take a glass of burgundy and ... let
me see.
Sardines on the shelves. Almost
taste them by looking. Sandwich?
Ham and his descendants mustered
and bred there. Potted meats. What
is home without Plumtree’s potted
meat? Incomplete. What a stupid
ad! Under the obituary notices they
stuck it. All up a plumtree, Dig-
nam’s potted meat. Cannibals would
with lemon and rice.  White mis-
sionary too salty. Like pickled pork.
Expect the chief consumes the parts
of honour. Ought to be tough from
exercise. His wives in a row to
watch the effect. There was a right
royal old nigger. Who ate or some-
thing the somethings of the reverend
Mr. Mac Trigger. With it an abode
of bliss. Lord knows what concoc-
tion. Cauls mouldy tripes wind-
pipes faked and minced up. Puzzle
find the meat. Kosher. No meat
and milk together. Hygiene that
was what they call now. Yom kip-
pur fast spring cleaning of inside.
Peace and war depend on some fel-
low’s digestion. Religions. Christ-
mas turkeys and geese. Slaughter of
innocents. Eat, drink and be merry.
Then casual wards full after. Heads
bandaged. Cheese digests all but it-
self. Mighty cheese.
—Have you a cheese sandwich?
—Yes, sir.
Like a few olives too if they had
them. Italian I prefer. Good glass
of burgundy; take away that. Lu-
bricate. A nice salad, cool as a cu-
cumber. Tom Kernan can dress.
Puts gusto into it. Pure olive oil.
Milly served me that cutlet with a
sprig of parsley. Take one Spanish
onion. God made food, the devil
the cooks. Devilled crab.
—Wife well?
—Quite well, thanks.... A cheese
sandwich, then. Gorgonzola, have
you?
—Yes, sir.
Nosey Flynn sipped his grog.
—Doing any singing those times ?
Look at his mouth. Could whistle
in his own ear. Flap ears to match.
Music. Knows as much about it as
my coachman. Still better tell him.
Does no harm. Free ad.
—She’s engaged for a big tour
end of this month. You may have
heard perhaps.
—No. O, that’s the style. Who’s
getting it up ?
The curate served.
—How much is that?
—Seven d., sir. . . . Thank you,
sir.
  Mr. Bloom cut his sandwich into
slender strips. Mr. Mac Trigger.
Easier than the dreamy creamy stuff.
His five hundred wives. Had the
time of their lives.
—Mustard, sir?
—Thank you.
He studded under each lifted strip
yellow blobs. Their lives. I have it.
It grew bigger and bigger and big-
ger.
—Getting it up? he said. Well,
it’s like a company idea, you see.
Part shares and part profits.
—Ay, now I remember, Nosey
Flynn said, putting his hand in his
pocket to scratch his groin. Who is
this was telling me? Isn’t Blazes
Boylan mixed up in it?
A warm shock of air heat of mus-
tard hauched on Mr. Bloom’s heart.
He raised his eyes and met the stare
of a bilious clock. Two. Pub clock
five minutes fast. Time going on.
Hands moving. Two. Not yet.
His midriff yearned then upward,
sank within him, yearned more long-
ly, longingly.
Wine.
He smellsipped the cordial juice
and, bidding his throat strongly to
speed it, set his wineglass delicately
down.
—Yes, he said. He’s the organi-
ser in point of fact.
No fear. No brains.
Nosey Flynn snuffled and scratch-
ed. Flea having a good square
meal.
 —He had a good slice of luck,
Jack Mooney was telling me, over
that boxing match Myler Keogh won
again that soldier in the Portobello
barracks. By God, he had the little
kipper down in the county Carlow
he was telling me . . .
Hope that dewdrop doesn’t come
down into his glass. No, snuffled it
up.
—For near a month, man, before
it came off. Sucking duck eggs by
God till further orders. Keep him
off the boose, see? O, by God,
Blazes is a hairy chap.
Davy Byrne came forward from
the hindbar in tuckstiched shirt
sleeves, cleaning his lips with two
wipes of his napkin. Herring’s blush.
Whose smile upon each feature plays
with such and such replete. Too
much fat on the parsnips.
—And here’s himself and pepper
on him, Nosey Flynn said. Can you
give us a good one for the Gold
cup?
—I'm off that, Mr. Flynn, Davy
Byrne answered. I never put any-
thing on a horse.
—You’re right there, Nosey
Flynn said.
Mr. Bloom ate his strips of sand-
wich, fresh clean bread, with relish
of disgust, pungent mustard, the
feety savour of green cheese. Sips
of his wine soothed his palate. Not
logwood that. Tastes fuller this
weather with the chill off.
Nice quiet bar. Nice piece of
wood in that counter. Nicely planed.
Like the way it curves there.
—I wouldn’t do anything at all in
that line, Davy Byrne said. It ruined
many a man the same horses.
Vinters’ sweepstake. Licensed for
the sale of beer, wine and spirits for
consumption on the premises. Heads
I win tails you lose.
—True for you, Nosey Flynn
said. Unless you’re in the know.
There’s no straight sport going now.
Lenehan gets some good ones. He’s
"giving Sceptre today. Zinfandel’s
the favourite, lord Howard de Wal-
den’s, won at Epsom. Moray Can-
non is riding him. I could have got
seven to one against Saint Amant a
fortnight before.
—That so? Davy Byrne said. . . .
He went towards the window and,
taking up the petty cash book, scan-
ned its pages.
—I could, faith, Nosey Flynn said
snuffling. That was a rare bit of
horseflesh. Saint Frusquin was her
sire. She won in a thunderstorm,
Rothschild’s filly, with wadding in
her ears. Blue Jacket and yellow
cap. Bad luck to big Ben Dollard
and his John O’Gaunt. He put me
off it. Ay.
He drank resignedly from his
tumbler, running his fingers down
the flutes.
—Ay, he said, sighing.
Mr. Bloom, champing, standing,
looked upon his sigh. Nosey num-
skull. Will I tell him that horse
Lenehan? He knows already. Bet-
ter let him forget. Go and lose
more. Fool and his money. Dew-
drop coming down again. Cold nose
he’d have kissing a woman. Still
they might like. Prickly beards they
like. Dogs' cold noses. Old Mrs.
Riordan with the rumbling stomach’s
Skye terrier in the City Arms hotel.
Molly fondling him in her lap. O
the big doggybowwowsywowsy!
Wine soaked and softened rolled
pith of bread mustard a moment
mawkish cheese. Nice wine it is.
Taste it better because I’m not
thirsty. Bath of course does that.
Just a bite or two. Then about six
o’clock I can. Six, six. Time will be
gone then. She. . . .
Mild fire of wine kindled his veins.
I wanted that badly. Felt so off col-
our. His eyes unhungrily saw
shelves of tins, sardines, gaudy lob-
sters’ claws. All the odd things peo-
ple pick up for food. Out of shells,
periwinkles with a pin, off trees,
snails out of the ground the French
eat, out of the sea with bait oh a
hook. Silly fish learn nothing in a
thousand years. If you didn’t know
risky putting anything into your
mouth. Poisonous berries. Johnny
Magories. Roundness you think
good. Gaudy colour warns you off.
One fellow told another and so on.
Try it on the dog first. Led on by
the smell or the look. Tempting
fruit. Ice cones. Cream. Instinct.
Orangegroves for instance. Need ar-
tificial irrigation. Bleibtreustrasse.
Yes, but what about oysters. Un-
sightly like a clot of phlegm. Filthy
shells. Devil to open them too. Who
found them out? Garbage, sewage
they feed on. Fizz and Red bank
oysters. Effect on the sexual. Aph-
rodis. He was in the Red bank
this morning. Was he oyster old
fish at table. Perhaps he young
flesh in bed. No. June has no ar no
oysters. But there are people like
tainted game. Jugged hare. First
catch your hare. Chinese eating eggs
fifty years old, blue and green again.
Dinner of thirty courses. Each dish
harmless might mix inside. Idea for
a poison mystery. That archduke
Leopold was it. No. Yes, or was it
Otto one of those Habsburgs? Or
who was it used to eat the scruff off
his own head? Cheapest lunch in
town. Of course, aristocrats. Then
the others copy to be in the fashion.
Milly too rock oil and flour. Raw
pastry I like myself. Half the catch
of oysters they throw back in the sea
to keep up the price. Cheap. No
one would buy. Caviare. Do the
grand. Hock in green glasses. Swell
blowout. Lady this. Powdered
bosom pearls. The élite. Crème de
la crème. They want special dishes
to pretend they’re. Hermit with a
platter of pulse keep down the stings
of the flesh. Know me come eat with
me. Royal sturgeon. High sheriff,
Coffey, the butcher, right to venisons
of the forest from his ex. Send him
back the half of a cow. Spread I
saw down in the Master of the Rolls’
kitchen area. Whitehatted chef like
a rabbi. Combustible duck. Curly
cabbage à la duchesse de Parme.
Just as well to write it on the bill of
fare so you can know what you’ve
eaten too many drugs spoil the broth.
I know it myself. Dosing it with Ed-
wards’ desiccated soup. Geese
stuffed silly for them. Lobsters
boiled alive. Do ptake some ptarm-
igan. Wouldn’t mind being a waiter
in a swell hotel. Tips, evening dress,
halfnaked ladies. May I tempt you
to a little more filleted lemon sole,
miss Dubedat? Yes, do bedad. And
she did bedad. Huguenot name I
expect that. A miss Dubedat lived
in Killiney I remember. Du, de, la,
French. Still it’s the same fish, per-
haps old Micky Hanlon of Moore
ripped the guts out of making
money, hand over first, finger in
fishes’ gills, can’t write his name on
a cheque, think he was painting the
landscape with his mouth twisted.
Moooikill A Aitcha Ha. Ignorant as
a kish of brogues, worth fifty thous-
and pounds.
Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed,
stuck.
Glowing wine on his palate lin-
gered swallowed. Crushing in the
winepress grapes of Burgundy. Sun’s
heat it is. Seems to a secret touch
telling me memory. Touched his
sense moistened remembered. Hid-
den under wild ferns on Howth. Be-
low us bay sleeping sky. No sound.
The sky. The bay purple by the
Lion’s head. Green by Drumleck.
Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields
of undersea, the lines faint brown in
grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my
coat she had her hair, earwigs in the
heather scrub my hand under her
nape, you’ll toss me all. O wonder !
Coolsoft with ointments her hand
touched me, caressed : her eyes upon
me did not turn away. Ravished
over her I lay, full lips full open,
kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she
gave me in my mouth the seedcake
warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp
her mouth had mumbled sweet and
sour with spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy.
Young life, her lips that gave me
pouting. Soft, warm, sticky gumjelly
lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me,
willing eyes. Pebbles fell. She lay
still. A goat. No-one. High on Ben
Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat
walking surefooted, dropping cur-
rants. Screened under ferns she
laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay
on her, kissed her ; eyes, her lips, her
stretched neck, beating, woman’s
breasts full in her blouse of nun’s
veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I
tongued her. She kissed me. I was
kissed. All yielding she tossed my
hair. Kissed, she kissed me.
Me. And me now.
Stuck, the flies buzzed.
His downcast eyes followed the
silent veining of the oaken slab.
Beauty : it curves : curves are beauty.
Shapely goddesses, Venus, Juno:
curves the world admires. Can see
them library museum standing in the
round hall, naked godesses. Aids to
digestion. They don’t care what man
looks. All to see. Never speaking.
I mean to say to fellows like Flynn.
Suppose she did Pygmalion and Gal-
atea what would she say first? Mor-
tal! Put you in your proper place.
Quaffing nectar at mess with gods,
golden dishes, all ambrosial. Not
like a tanner lunch we have, boiled
mutton, carrots and turnips, bottle
of Allsop. Nectar, imagine it drink-
ing electricity: gods’ food. Lovely
forms of woman sculped Junonian.
Immortal lovely. And we stuffing
food in one hole: food, chyle, blood,
dung, earth, food: have to feed it
like stoking an engine. They have
no. Never looked. I’ll look today.
Keeper won’t see. Bend down let
something fall see if she.
Dribbling a quiet message came to
go to do not to do there to do. A
man and ready he drained his glass
to the lees and walked, to men too
they gave themselves, manly con-
scious, lay with men lovers, a youth
enjoyed her, to the yard.
When the sound of his boots had
ceased Davy Byrne said from his
book:
—What is this he is? Isn’t he in
the insurance line?
—He’s out of that long ago,
Nosey Flynn said. He does canvass-
ing for the Freeman.
—I know him well to see, Davy
Byrne said. Is he in trouble?
—Trouble? Nosey Flynn said.
Not that I heard of. Why?
—I noticed he was in mourning.
—Was he? Nosey Flynn said. So
he was, faith. I asked him how was
ail at home. You’re right, by God.
So he was.
—I never broach the subject,
Davy Byrne' said humanely, if I see
a gentleman is in trouble that way.
It only brings it up fresh in their
minds.
—It’s not the wife anyhow, Nosey
 Flynn said. I met him the day be-
fore yesterday and he coming out of
that Irish farm dairy. John Wyse
Nolan’s wife has in Henry street
with a jar of cream in his hand tak-
ing it home to his better half. She’s
well nourished, I tell you. Plovers
on toast.
—And is he doing for the Free-
man? Davy Byrne said.
Nosey Flynn pursed his lips.
—He doesn’t buy cream on the
ads he picks up. You can make ba-
con of that.
—How so? Davy Byrne asked,
coming from his book.
Nosey Flynn made swift passes in
the air with juggling fingers. He
winked.
—He’s in the craft, he said.
—Do you tell me so ? Davy
Byrne said.
—Very much so, Nosey Flynn
said. Ancient free and accepted or-
der. Light, life and love, by God.
They give him a leg up. I was told
that by a, well, I won’t say who.
—Is that a fact?
—O, it’s a fine order, Nosey
Flynn said. They stick to you when
you’re down. I know a fellow was
trying to get into it, but they’re as
close as damn it. By God they did
right to keep the women out of it.
Davy Byrne smiledyawnednodded
all in one:
—Iiiiiichaaaaaaach!
—There was one woman, Nosey
Flynn said, hid herself in a clock to
find out what they do be doing. But
be damned but they smelt her out
and swore her in on the spot a mas-
ter mason. That was one of the
Saint Legers of Doneraile.
Davy Byrne, sated after his yawn,
said with tearwashed eyes;
—And is that a fact? Decent
quiet man he is. I often saw him in
here and I never once saw him, you
know, over the line.
—God Almighty couldn’t make
him drunk, Nosey Flynn said firmly.
Slips off when the fun gets too hot.
Didn’t you see him look at his
watch? Ah, you weren’t there. If
you ask him to have a drink first
thing he does he outs with the watch
to see what he ought to imbibe. De-
clare to God he does.
 —There are some like that, Davy
Byrne said. He’s a safe man, I’d
say.
—He’s not too bad, Nosey Flynn
said, snuffling it up. He has been
known to put his hand down too to
help a fellow. Give the devil his due.
O, Bloom had his good points. But
there’s one thing he’ll never do.
 His hannd scrawled a dry pen sig-
nature beside his grog.
—I know, Davy Byrne said.
—Nothing in black and white,
Nosey Flynn said.
Paddy Leonard and Bantam Ly-
ons came in. Tom Rochford fol-
lowed, a plaining hand on his claret
waistcoat.
—Day, Mr. Byrne.
—Day, gentlemen.
They paused at the counter.
—Who’s standing? Paddy Leon-
ard asked.
—I’m sitting anyhow, Nosey
Flynn answered.
—Well, what’ll it be? Paddy
Leonard asked.
—I’ll take some ginger, Bantam
Lyons said.
—How much? Paddy Leonard
cried. Since when, for God’ sake?
What’s yours, Tom?
—How is the main drainage?
Nosey Flynn asked, sipping.
For answer Tom Rochford
pressed his hand to his breastbone
and hic-cunpped.
—Would I trouble you for a glass
of fresh water, Mr. Byrne? he said.
—Certainly, sir.
Paddy Leonard eyed his alemates.
—Lord love a duck, he said, look
at what I’m standing drinks to! Cold
water and gingerpop! Two fellows
that would suck whisky off a sore leg.
He has some bloody horse up his
sleeve for the Gold cup. A dead
snip.
—Zinfandel is it? Nosey Flynn
asked.
Tom Rochford spilt powder from
a twisted paper into the water set
before him.
—That cursed dyspepsia, he said
before drinking.
—Breadsoda is very good, Davy
Byrne said.
Tom Rochford nodded and
drank.
—Is it Zinfandel ?
—Say nothing, Bantam Lyons
winked. I’m going to plunge five bob
On my own.
—Tell us if, you’re worth your
salt and be damned to you, Paddy
Leonard said. Who gave it to you?
Mr. Bloom on his way out raised
three fingers in greeting.
—So long, Nosey Flynn said.
The others turned.
—That’s the man now that gave
it to me, Bantam Lyons whispered.
—Prrwht! Paddy Leonard said
with scorn. Mr. Byrne, sir, we’ll
take two of your small Jamesons
after that and a . . .
—Stone ginger, Davy Byrne add-
ed civilly.
—Ay, Paddy Leonard said. A
suckingbottle for the baby.
Mr. Bloom walked towards Daw-
son street, his tongue brushing his
teeth smooth. Something green it
would have to be : spinach say. Then
with those Röntgen rays searchlight
you could.
At Duke lane a ravenous terrier
choked up a sick knuckly cud on the
cobble stones and lapped it with new
zest. Surfeit. Returned with thanks
having fully digested the contents.
First sweet then savoury. Mr. Bloom
coasted warily. Ruminants. His sec 
ond course. Their upper jaw they
move. Wonder if Tom Rochford
will do anything with that invention
of his. Wasting time explaining it
to Flynn’s mouth. Lean people long
mouths. Ought to be a hall or a
place where inventors could go in
and invent free. Course then you’d
have all the cranks pestering.
He hummed, prolonging in sol-
emn echo, the closes of the bars:
Don Giovanni, a cenar teco
M’invitasti.
Feel better. Burgundy. Good pick
me up. Who distilled first? Some
chap in the blues. Dutch courage.
That Kilkenny People in the na-
tional library now I must.
Bare clean closestools, waiting, in
the window of William Miller,
plumber, turned back his thoughts.
They could : and watch it all the way
down, swallow a pin sometimes come
out of the ribs years after, tour
round the body, changing biliary
duct, spleen squirting liver, gastric
juice coils of intestines like pipes.
But the poor buffer would have to
stand all the time with his insides
entrails on show. Science.
—A cenar teco.
What does that teco mean? To-
night perhaps.
Don Giovanni, thou hast me
invited
To come to supper tonight,
The rum the rumdum.
Doesn’t go properly.
Keyes: two months if I get Nan-
netti to. That’ll be two pounds ten,
about two pounds eight. Three
Hynes owes me. Two eleven. Press-
cott’s ad. Two fifteen. Five guineas
about. On the pig’s back.
Could buy one of those silk petti-
coats for Molly, colour of her new
garters.
Today. Today. Not think.
Tour the south then. What about
English watering places? Brighton,
Margate. Piers by moonlight. Her
voice floating out. Those lovely sea-
side girls. Against John Long’s a
drowsing loafer lounged in heavy
thought, gnawing a crusted knuckle.
Handy man wants job. Small wages.
Will eat anything.
Mr. Bloom turned at Gray’s con-
fectioner’s window of unbought tarts
and passed the Reverend Thomas
Connellan’s bookstore. Why I left
the church of Rome? Bird's Nest.
Women hun him. They say they
used to give pauper children soup to
change to protestants in the time of
the potato blight. Society over the
way papa went to for the conversion
of poor jews. Same bait. Why we
left the church of Rome?
A blind strippling stood tapping
the curbstone with his slender cane.
No tram in sight. Wants to cross.
—Do you want to cross? Mr.
Bloom asked.
The blind stripling did not an-
swer. His wall face frowned weakly.
He moved his head uncertainly.
—You’re in Dawson street, Mr.
Bloom said. Molesworth street is
opposite. Do you want to cross?
There’s nothing in the way.
The cane moved out trembling to
the left. Mr. Bloom’s eye followed
its line and saw again the dyeworks’
van drawn up before Drago’s.
Where I saw his brilliantined hair
just when I was. Horse drooping.
Driver in John Long’s. Slaking his
drouth.
—There’s a van there, Mr Bloom
said, but it’s not moving. I’ll see you
across. Do you want to go to Moles-
worth street?
—Yes, the stripling answered.
South Frederick street.
—Come, Mr. Bloom said.
He touched the thin elbow gently:
then took the limp seeing hand to
guide it forward.
Say something to him. Better not
do the condescendinng. They mis-
trust what you tell them. Pass a
common remark.
 —The rain kept off.
No answer.
Stains on his coat. Slobbers his
food, I suppose. Tastes all different
for him. Have to be spoonfed first.
Like a child’s hand his hand. Like
Milly’s was. Sensitive. Sizing me up
I daresay from my hand. Wonder
if he has a name. Van. Keep his
cane clear of the horse’s legs tired
drudge get his doze. That’s right
Clear. Behind a bull: in front of a
horse.
—Thanks, sir.
Knows I’m a man. Voice.
—Right now? First turn to the
left.
The blind stripling tapped the
curbstone and went on his way,
drawing his cane back, feeling again.
Mr. Bloom walked behind the eye-
less feet, flatcut suit of herringbone
tweed. Poor young fellow ! How on
earth did he know that van was
there? Must have felt it. See
things in their foreheads perhaps.
Kind of sense of volume. Weight
would he feel it if something was
removed. Feel a gap. Queer idea
of Dublin he must have, tapping his
way round by the stones. Could he
walk in a beeline if he hadn’t that
cane ? Bloodless pious face like a fel-
low going in to be a priest.
Penrose ! That was that chap’s
name.
Look at all the things they can
learn to do. Read with their fingers.
Tune pianos. Or we are surprised
they have any brains. Why we
think a deformed person or a hunch-
back clever if he says something we
might say. Of course the other
senses are more. Embroider. Plait
baskets. People ought to help. Work
basket I could buy Molly’s birthday.
Hates sewing. Might take an ob-
jection. Dark men they call them.
Sense of smell must be stronger
too. Smells on all sides bunched to-
gether. Each person too. Then the
spring, the summer: smells. Tastes.
They say you can’t taste wines with
your eyes shut or a cold in the head.
Also smoke in the dark they say get
no pleasure.
And with a woman, for instance.
More shameless not seeing. That
girl passing the Stewart institution,
head in the air. Look at me. I have
them all on. Must be strange not to
see her. Kind of a form in his
mind’s eye. The voice, temperature
when he touches her with his fingers
must almost see the lines, the curves.
His hands on her hair, for instance.
Say it was black for instance. Good.
We call ft black. Then passing over
her white skin. Different feel per-
haps. Feeling of white.
Postoffice. Must answer. Fag to-
day. Send her a postal order two
shillings, half a crown. Accept my
little present. Stationer’s just here
too. Wait. Think over it.
With a gentle finger he felt ever
so slowly the hair combed back above
his ear's. Again. Fibres of fine fine
straw. Then gently his finger felt
the skin of his right cheek. Downy
hair there too. Not smooth enough.
The belly is the smoothest. No-one
about. There he goes into Frederick
street. Perhaps to Levenston’s danc-
ing academy piano. Might be set-
tling my braces.
Walking by Doran’s public house
he slid his hand between his waist-
coat and trousers and, pulling aside
his shirt gently, felt a slack fold of
his belly. But I know it’s whiteyel-
low. Want to try in the dark to see.
He withdrew his hand and pulled
his dress to.
Poor fellow! Quite a boy. Ter-
rible. Really terrible. What dreams
would he have, not seeing. Life a
dream for him. Where is the justice
being born that way. All those wom-
en and children excursion beanfeast
burned and drowned in New York.
Holocaust. Karma they call that
transmigration for sins you did in a
past life the reincarnation met him
pikehoses. Dear, dear, dear. Pity
of course: but somehow you can’t
cotton on to them someway.
Sir Frederick Falkiner going into
the freemason’s hall. Solemn as
Troy. After his good lunch in Earls-
fort terrace. Old legal cronies crack-
ing a magnum. Tales of the bench
and assizes and annals of the blue-
coat school. I sentenced him to ten
years. I suppose he’d turn up his
nose at that stuff I drank. Vintage
wine for them, the year marked on a
dusty bottle. Has his own ideas of
justice in the recorder’s court. Well-
meaning old man. Police charge-
sheets crammed with cases get their
percentage manufacturing crime.
Sends them to the rightabout. The
devil on moneylenders. Gave Reu-
ben J. a great strawcalling. Now he’s
really what what they call a dirty
jew. Power those judges have.
Crusty old topers in wigs. Bear with
a sore paw. And may the Lord have
mercy on your soul.
Hello, placard. Mirus bazaar.
His excellency the lord lieutenant.
Sixteenth today it is. In aid of funds
for Mercer’s hospital. The Messiah
was first given for that. Yes. Han-
del. What about going out there.
Ballsbridge. Drop in on Keyes. No
use sticking to him like a leech. Wear
out my welcome. Sure to know some-
one on the gate.
Mr. Bloom came to Kildare street.
First I must. Library.
Straw hat in sunlight. Tan shoes.
Turnedup trousers. It is. It is.
His heart quopped softly. To the
right. Museum. Goddesses. He
swerved to the right.
Is it? Almost certain. Won’t look.
Wine in my face. Why did I? Too
heady. Yes, it is. The walk. Not
see. Not see. Get on.
   Making for the museum gate
with long windy strides he lifted his
eyes. Handsome building. Sir
Thomas designed. Not following
me?
Didn’t see me perhaps. Light in
his eyes.
The flutter of his breath came
forth in short sighs. Quick. Cold
statues: quiet there. Safe in a min-
ute.
No, didn’t see me. After two.
Just at the gate.
My heart!
His eyes beating looked stead-
fastly at cream curves of stone. Sir
Thomas Deane was the Greek arch-
itecture.
Look for something I?
His hasty hand went quick into
a pocket, took out, read unfolded
Agendath Netaim. Where did I?
Busy looking for.
He thrust back quickly Agendath.
Afternoon she said.
I am looking for that. Yes, that.
Try all pockets. Handker. Freeman.
Where did I? Ah, yes. Trousers.
Purse. Potato. Where did I?
Hurry. Walk quietly. Moment
more. My heart.
His hand looking for the where
did I put found in his hip pocket
soap lotion to call tepid paper stuck.
Ah, soap there! Yes. Gate.
Safe!
ULYSSES began in Number One of Two Worlds Monthly.
The Fifth instalment will appear in the next number.)
 
Kaddish
By SAMUEL ROTH
(Dedicated to Ben Finkle)
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This Love Business................-...Francis Page
A Nun’s Immortality...............Lord Ramsgate
The Couple that Lived a Platonic Life Though
Married	   John	Herrmann
My First Thirty Years  Gertrude Beasley
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A Frankish Knight and a Lady from Constan-
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Venus and Tannhauser.	Aubrey	Beardsley
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