The best short stories of 1921, and the yearbook of the American short story (part 3 of 3)

The best short stories of 1921, and the yearbook of the American short story (part 3 of 3)

"I'll never leave you mama, even if--he shouldn't want me."

"He will, darling, and does! Those were his words. 'A room for Alma.'"

"I'll never leave you!"

"You will! Much as Louis and me want you with us every minute, we won't stand in your way! That's another reason I'm so happy, Alma. I'm not alone, any more now. Leo's so crazy over you, just waiting for the chance to--pop--"

"Shh-sh-h-h."

"Don't tremble so, darling. Mama knows. He told Mrs. Gronauer last night when she was joking him to buy a ten dollar carnation for the Convalescent Home Bazaar, that he would only take one if it was white, because little white flowers reminded him of Alma Samstag."

"Oh, mama--"

"Say, it is as plain as the nose on your face. He can't keep his eyes off you. He sells goods to Doctor Gronauer's clinic and he says the same thing about him. It makes me so happy, Alma, to think you won't have to hold him off any more."

"I'll never leave you. Never!"

None the less she was the first to drop off to sleep, pink, there in the dark, with the secret of her blushes.

Then for Mrs. Samstag the travail set in. Lying there with her raging head tossing this way and that on the heated pillow, she heard with cruel awareness, the minutiæ, all the faint but clarified noises that can make a night seem so long. The distant click of the elevator, depositing a night-hawk. A plong of the bed spring. Somebody's cough. A train's shriek. The jerk of plumbing. A window being raised. That creak which lies hidden in every darkness, like a mysterious knee-joint. By three o'clock she was a quivering victim to these petty concepts, and her pillow so explored that not a spot but what was rumpled to the aching lay of her cheek.

Once Alma, as a rule supersensitive to her mother's slightest unrest, floated up for the moment out of her young sleep, but she was very drowsy and very tired and dream-tides were almost carrying her back, as she said:

"Mama, are you all right?"

Simulating sleep, Mrs. Samstag lay tense until her daughter's breathing resumed its light cadence.

Then at four o'clock, the kind of nervousness that Mrs. Samstag had learned to fear, began to roll over her in waves, locking her throat and curling her toes and her fingers, and her tongue up dry against the roof of her mouth.

She must concentrate now--must steer her mind away from the craving!

Now then: West End Avenue. Louis liked the apartments there. Luxurious. Quiet. Residential. Circassian walnut or mahogany dining room? Alma should decide. A baby-grand piano. Later to be Alma's engagement gift from, "Mama and--Papa." No, "Mama and Louis." Better so.

How her neck and her shoulder-blade, and now her elbow, were flaming with the pain! She cried a little, far back in her throat with the small hissing noise of a steam-radiator, and tried a poor futile scheme for easing her head in the crotch of her elbow.

Now then: She must knit Louis some neckties. The silk-sweater-stitch would do. Married in a traveling-suit. One of those smart dark-blue twills like Mrs. Gronauer Junior's. Top-coat--sable. Louis' hair thinning. Tonic. Oh God, let me sleep. Please, God. The wheeze rising in her closed throat. That little threatening desire that must not shape itself! It darted with the hither and thither of a bee bumbling against a garden wall. No. No. Ugh! The vast chills of nervousness. The flaming, the craving chills of desire!

Just this last giving-in. This once. To be rested and fresh for him tomorrow. Then never again. The little beaded handbag. Oh God, help me. That burning ache to rest and to uncurl of nervousness. All the thousand, thousand little pores of her body, screaming each one, to be placated. They hurt the entire surface of her. That great storm at sea in her head; the crackle of lightning down that arm--

Let me see--Circassian walnut--baby-grand--the pores demanding, crying--shrieking--

It was then that Carrie Samstag, even in her lovely pink night-dress, a crone with pain, and the cables out dreadfully in her neck, began by infinitesimal processes to swing herself gently to the side of the bed, unrelaxed inch by unrelaxed inch, softly and with the cunning born of travail.

It was actually a matter of fifteen minutes, that breathless swing toward the floor, the mattress rising after her with scarcely a whisper of its stuffings and her two bare feet landing patly into the pale blue room-slippers, there beside the bed.

Then her bag, the beaded one on the end of the divan. The slow taut feeling for it and the floor that creaked twice, starting the sweat out over her.

It was finally after more tortuous saving of floor creaks and the interminable opening and closing of a door that Carrie Samstag, the beaded bag in her hand, found herself face to face with herself in the mirror of the bathroom medicine chest.

She was shuddering with one of the hot chills, the needle and little glass piston out of the hand-bag and with a dry little insuck of breath, pinching up little areas of flesh from her arm, bent on a good firm perch, as it were.

There were undeniable pock-marks on Mrs. Samstag's right forearm. Invariably it sickened her to see them. Little graves. Oh, oh, little graves. For Alma. Herself. And now Louis. Just once. Just one more little grave--

And Alma, answering her somewhere down in her heart-beats: "No, mama, no, mama. No. No. No."

But all the little pores gaping. Mouths! The pinching up of the skin. Here, this little clean and white area.

"No, mama. No, mama. No. No. No."

"Just once, darling?" Oh--oh--graves for Alma and Louis. No. No. No.

Somehow, some way, with all the little mouths still parched and gaping and the clean and quite white area unblemished, Mrs. Samstag found her way back to bed. She was in a drench of sweat when she got there and the conflagration of neuralgia curiously enough, was now roaring in her ears so that it seemed to her she could hear her pain.

Her daughter lay asleep, with her face to the wall, her flowing hair spread in a fan against the pillow and her body curled up cozily. The remaining hours of the night, in a kind of waking faint she could never find the words to describe, Mrs. Samstag, with that dreadful dew of her sweat constantly out over her, lay with her twisted lips to the faint perfume of that fan of Alma's flowing hair her toes curling in and out. Out and in. Toward morning she slept. Actually, sweetly and deeply as if she could never have done with deep draughts of it.

She awoke to the brief patch of sunlight that smiled into their apartment for about eight minutes of each forenoon.

Alma was at the pretty chore of lifting the trays from a hamper of roses. She places a shower of them on her mother's coverlet with a kiss, a deeper and dearer one somehow, this morning.

There was a card and Mrs. Samstag read it and laughed:

Good morning, Carrie.

Louis.

They seemed to her, poor dear, these roses, to be pink with the glory of the coming of the dawn.

* * * * *

On the spur of the moment and because the same precipitate decisions that determined Louis Latz's successes in Wall Street determined him here, they were married the following Thursday in Greenwich, Connecticut, without even allowing Carrie time for the blue twill traveling suit. She wore her brown velvet instead, looking quite modish, and a sable wrap, gift of the groom, lending genuine magnificence.

Alma was there, of course, in a beautiful fox scarf, also gift of the groom, and locked in a white kind of tensity that made her seem more than ever like a little white flower to Leo Friedlander, the sole other attendant, and who during the ceremony yearned at her with his gaze. But her eyes were squeezed tight against his, as if to forbid herself the consciousness that life seemed suddenly so richly sweet to her--oh, so richly sweet!

There was a time during the first months of the married life of Louis and Carrie Latz, when it seemed to Alma, who in the sanctity of her lovely little ivory bedroom all appointed in rose-enamel toilet trifles, could be prayerful with the peace of it, that the old Carrie, who could come pale and terrible out of her drugged nights, belonged to some grimacing and chimeric past. A dead past that had buried its dead and its hatchet.

There had been a month at Hot Springs in the wintergreen heart of Virginia, and whatever Louis may have felt in his heart, of his right to the privacy of these honeymoon days, was carefully belied on his lips, and at Alma's depriving him now and then of his wife's company, packing her off to rest when he wanted a climb with her up a mountain slope or a drive over piny roads, he could still smile and pinch her cheek.

"You're stingy to me with my wife, Alma," he said to her upon one of these provocations. "I don't believe she's got a daughter at all, but a little policeman instead."

And Alma smiled back, out of the agony of her constant consciousness that she was insinuating her presence upon him, and resolutely, so that her fear for him should always subordinate her fear of him, she bit down her sensitiveness in proportion to the rising tide of his growing, but still politely held in check, bewilderment.

One day, these first weeks of their marriage, because she saw the dreaded signal of the muddy pools under her mother's eyes and the little quivering nerve beneath the temple, she shut him out of her presence for a day and a night, and when he came fuming up every few minutes from the hotel veranda, miserable and fretting, met him at the closed door of her mother's darkened room and was adamant.

"It won't hurt if I tiptoe in and sit with her," he pleaded.

"No, Louis. No one knows how to get her through these spells like I do. The least excitement will only prolong her pain."

He trotted off then down the hotel corridor with a strut to his resentment that was bantam and just a little fighty.

That night as Alma lay beside her mother, fighting sleep and watching, Carrie rolled her eyes sidewise with the plea of a stricken dog in them.

"Alma," she whispered, "for God's sake. Just this once. To tide me over. One shot--darling. Alma, if you love me?"

Later, there was a struggle between them that hardly bears relating. A lamp was overturned. But toward morning, when Carrie lay exhausted, but at rest in her daughter's arms, she kept muttering in her sleep:

"Thank you, baby. You saved me. Never leave me, Alma. Never--never--never. You saved me Alma."

And then the miracle of those next months. The return to New York. The happily busy weeks of furnishing and the unlimited gratifications of the well-filled purse. The selection of the limousine with the special body that was fearfully and wonderfully made in mulberry upholstery with mother-of-pearl caparisons. The fourteen-room apartment on West End Avenue, with four baths, drawing-room of pink brocaded walls and Carrie's Roman bathroom that was precisely as large as her old hotel sitting room, with two full length wall-mirrors, a dressing table canopied in white lace over white satin and the marble bath itself, two steps down and with the rubber curtains that swished after.

There were evenings when Carrie, who loved the tyranny of things with what must have been a survival within her of the bazaar instinct, would fall asleep almost directly after dinner her head back against her husband's shoulder, roundly tired out after a day all cluttered up with matching the blue upholstery of their bedroom with taffeta bed hangings.

Latz liked her so, with her fragrantly coiffured head, scarcely gray, back against his shoulder and with his newspapers--Wall Street journals and the comic weeklies which he liked to read--would sit an entire evening thus, moving only when his joints rebelled, and his pipe smoke carefully directed away from her face.

Weeks and weeks of this and already Louis Latz's trousers were a little out of crease and Mrs. Latz after eight o'clock and under cover of a very fluffy and very expensive négligée, would unhook her stays.

Sometimes friends came in for a game of small-stake poker, but after the second month they countermanded the standing order for Saturday night musical comedy seats. So often they discovered it was pleasanter to remain at home. Indeed, during these days of household adjustment, as many as four evenings a week Mrs. Latz dozed there against her husband's shoulder, until about ten, when he kissed her awake to forage with him in the great, white porcelain refrigerator and then to bed.

And Alma. Almost, she tiptoed through these months. Not that her scorching awareness of what must have crouched low in Louis' mind ever diminished. Sometimes, although still never by word, she could see the displeasure mount in his face.

If she entered in on a tête-à-tête, as she did once, when by chance she had sniffed the curative smell of spirits of camphor on the air of a room through which her mother had passed, and came to drag her off that night to share her own lace-covered and ivory bed.

Again: upon the occasion of an impulsively planned motor trip and week-end to Lakewood, her intrusion had been so obvious.

"Want to join us, Alma?"

"O--yes--thank you, Louis."

"But I thought you and Leo were--"

"No, no, I'd rather go with you and mama, Louis."

Even her mother had smiled rather strainedly. Louis' invitation, politely uttered, had said so plainly: "Are we two never to be alone. Your mother and I?"

Oh, there was no doubt that Louis Latz was in love and with all the delayed fervor of first youth.

There was something rather throat-catching about his treatment of her mother that made Alma want to cry.

He would never tire of marveling, not alone at the wonder of her, but at the wonder that she was his.

"No man has ever been as lucky in women as I have, Carrie," he told her once in Alma's hearing. "It seemed to me that after--my little mother, there couldn't ever be another--and now you! You!"

At the business of sewing some beads on a lamp-shade, Carrie looked up, her eyes dewy.

"And I felt that way about one good husband," she said, "and now I see there could be two."

Alma tiptoed out.

The third month of this, she was allowing Leo Friedlander his two evenings a week. Once to the theater in a modish little sedan car which Leo drove himself. One evening at home in the rose and mauve drawing-room. It delighted Louis and Carrie slyly to have in their friends for poker over the dining-room table these evenings, leaving the young people somewhat indirectly chaperoned until as late as midnight. Louis' attitude with Leo was one of winks, quirks, slaps on the back and the curving voice of innuendo.

"Come on in, Leo, the water's fine!"

"Louis!" This from Alma stung to crimson and not arch enough to feign that she did not understand.

"Loo, don't tease," said Carrie, smiling, but then closing her eyes as if to invoke help to want this thing to come to pass.

But Leo was frankly the lover, kept not without difficulty on the edge of his ardor. A city youth with gymnasium bred shoulders, fine, pole vaulter's length of limb and a clean tan skin that bespoke cold drubbings with Turkish towels.

And despite herself, Alma, who was not without a young girl's feelings for nice detail, could thrill to this sartorial svelteness and to the patent-leather lay of his black hair which caught the light like a polished floor.

The kind of sweetness he found in Alma he could never articulate even to himself. In some ways she seemed hardly to have the pressure of vitality to match his, but on the other hand, just that slower beat to her may have heightened his sense of prowess. His greatest delight seemed to lie in her pallid loveliness. "White Honeysuckle," he called her and the names of all the beautiful white flowers he knew. And then one night, to the rattle of poker chips from the remote dining-room, he jerked her to him without preamble, kissing her mouth down tightly against her teeth.

"My sweetheart. My little, white carnation sweetheart. I won't be held off any longer. I'm going to carry you away for my little moon-flower wife."

She sprang back prettier than he had ever seen her in the dishevelment from where his embrace had dragged at her hair.

"You mustn't," she cried, but there was enough of the conquering male in him to read easily into this a mere plating over her desire.

"You can't hold me at arm's length any longer. You've maddened me for months. I love you. You love me. You do. You do," and crushed her to him, but this time his pain and his surprise genuine as she sprang back, quivering.

"You--I--mustn't!" she said, frantic to keep her lips from twisting, her little lacy fribble of a handkerchief a mere string from winding.

"Mustn't what?"

"Mustn't," was all she could repeat and not weep her words.

"Won't--I--do?"

"It's--mama."

"What?"

"You see--I--she's all alone."

"You adorable, she's got a brand-new husky husband."

"No--you don't--understand."

Then, on a thunder-clap of inspiration, hitting his knee, "I have it. Mama-baby! That's it. My girlie is a cry-baby, mama-baby!" And made to slide along the divan toward her, but up flew her two small hands, like fans.

"No," she said with the little bang back in her voice which steadied him again. "I mustn't! You see, we're so close. Sometimes it's more as if I were the mother and she my little girl."

Misery made her dumb.

"Why don't you know, dear, that your mother is better able to take care of herself than you are. She's bigger and stronger. You--you're a little white flower."

"Leo--give me time. Let me think."

"A thousand thinks, Alma, but I love you. I love you and want so terribly for you to love me back."

"I--do."

"Then tell me with kisses."

Again she pressed him to arm's length.

"Please, Leo. Not yet. Let me think. Just one day. Tomorrow."

"No, no. Now."

"Tomorrow."

"When?"

"Evening."

"No, morning."

"All right Leo--tomorrow morning--"

"I'll sit up all night and count every second in every minute and every minute in every hour."

She put up her soft little fingers to his lips.

"Dear boy," she said.

And then they kissed and after a little swoon to his nearness she struggled like a caught bird and a guilty one.

"Please go, Leo," she said, "leave me alone--"

"Little mama-baby sweetheart," he said. "I'll build you a nest right next to hers. Good night, little White Flower. I'll be waiting, and remember, counting every second of every minute and every minute of every hour."

For a long time she remained where he had left her, forward on the pink divan, her head with a listening look to it, as if waiting an answer for the prayers that she sent up.

At two o'clock that morning, by what intuition she would never know, and with such leverage that she landed out of bed plump on her two feet, Alma, with all her faculties into trace like fire-horses, sprang out of sleep.

It was a matter of twenty steps across the hall. In the white tiled Roman bathroom, the muddy circles suddenly out and angry beneath her eyes, her mother was standing before one of the full-length mirrors--snickering.

There was a fresh little grave on the inside of her right fore arm.

Sometimes in the weeks that followed, a sense of the miracle of what was happening would clutch at Alma's throat like a fear.

Louis did not know.

That the old neuralgic recurrences were more frequent again, yes. Already plans for a summer trip abroad, on a curative mission bent, were taking shape. There was a famous nerve specialist, the one who had worked such wonders on his little mother's cruelly rheumatic limbs, reassuringly foremost in his mind.

But except that there were not infrequent and sometimes twenty-four hour sieges when he was denied the sight of his wife, he had learned with a male's acquiescence to the frailties of the other sex, to submit, and with no great understanding of pain, to condone.

And as if to atone for these more or less frequent lapses there was something pathetic, even a little heart-breaking, in Carrie's zeal for his wellbeing. No duty too small. One night she wanted to unlace his shoes and even shine them, would have, in fact, except for his fierce catching of her into his arms and for some reason, his tonsils aching as he kissed her.

Once after a "spell" she took out every garment from his wardrobe and kissing them piece by piece, put them back again and he found her so, and they cried together, he of happiness.

In his utter beatitude, even his resentment of Alma continued to grow but slowly. Once, when after forty-eight hours she forbade him rather fiercely an entrance into his wife's room, he shoved her aside almost rudely, but at Carrie's little shriek of remonstrance from the darkened room, backed out shamefacedly and apologized next day in the conciliatory language of a tiny wrist-watch.

But a break came, as she knew and feared it must.

One evening during one of these attacks, when for two days Carrie had not appeared at the dinner table, Alma, entering when the meal was almost over, seated herself rather exhaustedly at her mother's place opposite her stepfather.

He had reached the stage when that little unconscious usurpation in itself could annoy him.

"How's your mother?" he asked, dourly for him.

"She's asleep."

"Funny. This is the third attack this month and each time it lasts longer. Confound that neuralgia."

"She's easier now."

He pushed back his plate.

"Then I'll go in and sit with her while she sleeps."

She who was so fastidiously dainty of manner, half rose, spilling her soup.

"No," she said, "you mustn't! Not now!" And sat down again hurriedly, wanting not to appear perturbed.

A curious thing happened then to Louis. His lower lip came pursing out like a little shelf and a hitherto unsuspected look of pigginess fattened over his rather plump face.

"You quit butting into me and my wife's affairs, you, or get the hell out of here," he said, without changing his voice or his manner.

She placed her hand to the almost unbearable flutter of her heart.

"Louis! You mustn't talk like that to--me!"

"Don't make me say something I'll regret. You! Only take this tip, you! There's one of two things you better do. Quit trying to come between me and her or--get out."

"I--she's sick."

"Naw, she ain't. Not as sick as you make out. You're trying, God knows why, to keep us apart. I've watched you. I know your sneaking kind. Still water runs deep. You've never missed a chance since we're married to keep us apart. Shame!"

"I--she--"

"Now mark my word, if it wasn't to spare her, I'd have invited you out long ago. Haven't you got any pride?"

"I have. I have," she almost moaned and could have crumpled up there and swooned in her humiliation.

"You're not a regular girl. You're a she-devil. That's what you are! Trying to come between your mother and me. Ain't you ashamed? What is it you want?"

"Louis--I don't--"

"First you turn down a fine fellow like Leo Friedlander, so he don't come to the house any more and then you take out on us whatever is eating you, by trying to come between me and the finest woman that ever lived. Shame. Shame."

"Louis," she said. "Louis," wringing her hands in a dry wash of agony, "can't you understand? She'd rather have me. It makes her nervous trying to pretend to you that she's not suffering when she is. That's all, Louis. You see, she's not ashamed to suffer before me. Why, Louis--that's all. Why should I want to come between you and her? Isn't she dearer to me than anything in the world and haven't you been the best friend to me a girl could have? That's all--Louis."

He was placated and a little sorry and did not insist further upon going into the room.

"Funny," he said. "Funny," and adjusting his spectacles, snapped open his newspaper for a lonely evening.

The one thing that perturbed Alma almost more than anything else, as the dreaded cravings grew, with each siege her mother becoming more brutish and more given to profanity, was where she obtained the drug.

The well-thumbed old doctor's prescription she had purloined even back in the hotel days, and embargo and legislation were daily making more and more furtive and prohibitive the traffic in narcotics.

Once Alma, mistakenly too, she thought later, had suspected a chauffeur of collusion with her mother and abruptly dismissed him. To Louis' rage.

"What's the idea," he said out of Carrie's hearing, of course. "Who's running this shebang anyway?"

Once after Alma had guarded her well for days, scarcely leaving her side, Carrie laughed sardonically up into her daughter's face, her eyes as glassy and without swimming fluid as a doll's.

"I get it! But wouldn't you like to know where? Yah!"

And to Alma's horror she slapped her quite roundly across the cheek.

And then one day, after a long period of quiet, when Carrie had lavished her really great wealth of contrite love upon her daughter and husband, spending on Alma and loading her with gifts of jewelry and finery to somehow express her grateful adoration of her; paying her husband the secret penance of twofold fidelity to his well-being and every whim, Alma, returning from a trip, taken reluctantly, and at her mother's bidding, down to the basement trunk room, found her gone, a modish black-lace hat and the sable coat missing from the closet.

It was early afternoon, sunlit and pleasantly cold.

The first rush of panic and the impulse to dash after, stayed, she forced herself down into a chair, striving with the utmost difficulty for coherence of procedure.

Where in the half hour of her absence had her mother gone? Matinee? Impossible! Walking. Hardly probable. Upon inquiry in the kitchen neither of the maids had seen nor heard her depart. Motoring? With a hand that trembled in spite of itself, Alma telephoned the garage. Car and chauffeur were there. Incredible as it seemed, Alma, upon more than one occasion had lately been obliged to remind her mother that she was becoming careless of the old pointedly rosy hand. Manicurist? She telephoned the Bon Ton Beauty Parlor. No! Where, oh God, where? Which way to begin? That was what troubled her most. To start right, so as not to lose a precious second.

Suddenly, and for no particular reason, Alma began a hurried search through her mother's dresser-drawers of lovely personal appointments.

A one-inch square of newspaper clipping apparently gouged from the sheet with a hairpin, caught her eye from the top of one of the gold-backed hair-brushes. Dawningly, Alma read.

It described in brief detail the innovation of a newly equipped Narcotic Clinic on the Bowery below Canal Street, provided to medically administer to the pathological cravings of addicts.

Fifteen minutes later Alma emerged from the subway at Canal Street and with three blocks toward her destination ahead, started to run.

At the end of the first block she saw her mother, in the sable coat and the black-lace hat, coming toward her.

Her first impulse was to run faster and yoo-hoo, but she thought better of it and by biting her lips and digging her fingernails, was able to slow down to a casual walk.

Carrie's fur coat was flaring open and because of the quality of her attire down there where the bilge waters of the city-tide flow and eddy, stares followed her.

Once, to the stoppage of Alma's heart, she halted and said a brief word to a truckman as he crossed the sidewalk with a bill of lading. He hesitated, laughed and went on.

Then she quickened her pace and went on, but as if with sense of being followed, because constantly as she walked, she jerked a step, to look back, and then again, over her shoulder.

A second time she stopped, this time to address a little nub of a woman without a hat and lugging one-sidedly a stack of men's basted waistcoats, evidently for homework in some tenement. She looked and muttered her un-understanding of whatever Carrie had to say and shambled on.

Then Mrs. Latz spied her daughter, greeting her without surprise or any particular recognition.

"Thought you could fool me! Heh, Louis? Alma."

"Mama, it's Alma. It's all right. Don't you remember, we had this appointment? Come, dear."

"No, you don't! That's a man following. Shh-h-h-h, Louis. I was fooling. I went up to him (snicker) and I said to him, 'Give you five dollars for a doctor's certificate.' That's all I said to him, or any of them. He's in a white carnation, Louis. You can find him by the--it's on his coat lapel. He's coming! Quick--"

"Mama, there's no one following. Wait, I'll call a taxi!"

"No, you don't! He tried to put me in a taxi, too. No, you don't!"

"Then the subway, dearest. You'll sit quietly beside Alma in the subway, won't you, Carrie. Alma's so tired."

Suddenly Carrie began to whimper.

"My baby! Don't let her see me. My baby. What am I good for? I've ruined her life. My precious sweetheart's life. I hit her once--Louis--in the mouth. God won't forgive me for that."

"Yes, He will, dear, if you come."

"It bled. Alma, tell him mama lost her doctor's certificate. That's all I said to him--give you five dollars for a doctor's certificate--he had a white carnation--right lapel--stingy! Quick! He's following!"

"Sweetheart, please, there's no one coming."

"Don't tell! Oh, Alma darling--mama's ruined your life. Her sweetheart baby's life."

"No, darling, you haven't. She loves you if you'll come home with her, dear, to bed, before Louis gets home and--"

"No. No. He mustn't see. Never this bad--was I, darling--oh--oh--"

"No, mama--never--this bad. That's why we must hurry."

"Best man that ever lived. Best baby. Ruin. Ruin."

"Mama, you--you're making Alma tremble so that she can scarcely walk if you drag her back so. There's no one following, dear. I won't let any one harm you. Please, sweetheart--a taxicab."

"No. I tell you he's following. He tried to put me into a taxicab."

"Then mama, listen. Do you hear! Alma wants you to listen. If you don't--she'll faint. People are looking. Now I want you to turn square around and look. No, look again. You see now, there's no one following. Now, I want you to cross the street over there to the subway. Just with Alma, who loves you. There's nobody following. Just with Alma who loves you."

And then Carrie, whose lace hat was crazily on the back of her head, relaxed enough so that through the enormous maze of the traffic of trucks and the heavier drags of the lower city, she and her daughter could wind their way.

"My baby. My poor Louis," she kept saying. "The worst I've ever been. Oh--Alma--Louis--waiting--before we get there--Louis."

It was in the tightest tangle of the crossing and apparently on this conjuring of her husband, that Carrie jerked suddenly free of Alma's frailer hold.

"No--no--not home--now. Him. Alma!" And darted back against the breast of the down side of the traffic.

There was scarcely more than the quick rotation of her arm around with the spoke of a truck wheel, so quickly she went down.

It was almost a miracle, her kind of death, because out of all that jam of tonnage, she carried only one bruise, a faint one, near the brow.

And the wonder was that Louis Latz in his grief was so proud.

"To think," he kept saying over and over again and unabashed at the way his face twisted, "to think they should have happened to me. Two such women in one lifetime, as my little mother--and her. Fat little old Louis to have had those two. Why just the memory of my Carrie--is almost enough--to think old me should have a memory like that--it is almost enough--isn't isn't it, Alma?"

She kissed his hand.

That very same, that dreadful night, almost without her knowing it, her throat-tearing sobs broke loose, her face to the waistcoat of Leo Friedlander.

He held her close. Very, very close.

"Why sweetheart," he said, "I could cut out my heart to help you. Why, sweetheart. Shh-h-h, remember what Louis says. Just the beautiful memory--of--her--is--wonderful--"

"Just--the b-beautiful--memory--you'll always have it too--of her--my mama--won't you, Leo? Won't you?"

"Always," he said, when the tight grip in his throat had eased enough.

"Say--it again--Leo."

"Always."

She could not know how dear she became to him then, because not ten minutes before, from the very lapel against which her cheek lay pressed, he had unpinned a white carnation.

THE LITTLE MASTER OF THE SKY[15]

By MANUEL KOMROFF

(From The Dial)

Even idiots it seems have their place and purpose in society, or as a chess player would say tapping his fingers on the board--"That pawn may cost you your queen." The little village of M---- only realized this after it was too late.

The police of M---- all knew that Peter, a half-wit, or "Silly Peter" as he was called, was perfectly harmless; even though at times he would litter the streets and market-place with bread crumbs. But the pigeons of M---- soon cleared the walks.

Peter, it seems, had at an early age dedicated his silly life to the pigeons. All his cares and sorrows were bound up in the lives of the birds. In fact it seemed as though he himself became birdlike. He could flap his arms to his sides and produce that same dull penetrating note that was given only to this particular species of bird when they flapped their wings.

At an early age he was left without parents and managed to grow up among the horses and cows in the barns. But these larger animals were entirely out of his sphere--he did not understand them.

One day when the lad was about seven years old, the village folks suddenly noticed that he was lame. When asked about it, all he would reply was: "The pigeons made me lame."

Luba, a farmer's fat cook, once told at the market-place how Peter became lame. She told of how the boy stood on the roof of her master's barn flapping his arms in imitation of the birds encircling his head; how he sprang in the air in a mad attempt to fly, and fell to the ground. But Luba had a reputation for being a liar, and none believed her although all enjoyed listening. "Such good imagination," they would say, after she was gone.

Peter grew up a little lame, but this defect seemed only to add to his nimbleness. He could climb a telegraph pole sideways like a parrot walking up a stick. Once on top he would swing his good leg around the cross beam and wave his hat--and from below a flight of flapping and fluttering birds would arise.

In this way he lived and grew to the age of sixteen, although his small, protruding bones and round, child-like eyes kept him looking younger. Where he slept and where he ate, all remained a mystery to the village folk; but this mystery was not near as great as another--

The schoolmaster once noticed that at times the pigeons seemed all grey, and at other times the greater number of them carried large pink breasts; also at times there were few, while on other days the streets and market-place were thickly dotted with nodding, pecking birds; also that never could they find the very young ones.

It seemed as though only Peter knew the secret--but when asked about it he would show a silly grin and shy away, pretending to be much occupied chasing the birds that ever flocked about him.

He would travel about from barn to barn collecting the feed that fell from the bins of careless animals. He would sometimes travel along the back yards, twist his mouth and call to nobody in particular: "A few crumbs for the birdies, lady?" And presently through an open window a crust would fly, and with this buried in his hat he would be off.

Only among the poor would he hobble about. He never ventured up the hill where the better people lived; and it is perhaps for this reason that he was seldom disturbed.

* * * * *

To himself Silly Peter was monarch of the air. In his own distorted mind he was master of all creatures that flew. Worldly cares he left to those who had inherited worldly material; as for himself, he was concerned only with the aerial strata and with the feathery creatures thereof. Nobody wanted it; so he acquired it as he acquired the cast-off hat that he wore. He fathomed it, tasted it, drank it, navigated his creatures through it, and even fanned life into it by flapping his bony arms.

He understood the air and the sky, and it all belonged to him. Every atom of sky that poured itself over the village of M---- belonged to Silly Peter. It seemed as though he purposely limped lightly over the ground that was foreign to his nature; for he was captain and master of the sky.

II

"We must first loosen the ground," said a petty officer. "If the soil is too hard, then the action will drag. And quick action and a brisk finish always make for a better picture."

"Hey, you!" commanded the Captain. "Go get another shovel and help dig."

While two soldiers stood digging in a rectangular plot in the market-place, the camera-men had set up and were adjusting a motion picture apparatus. Twenty-five feet away stood six soldiers leaning on their rifles talking and laughing.

"Enough digging!" shouted the Captain. "Turn the loose earth back into the pit." The soldiers obeyed.

"Are you ready?" he said as he turned to the camera-men.

"All ready," came the reply.

"Now," said the Captain winking maliciously to two of his men. "You run around and pick me up a beggar."

The soldiers started off, pushing their way through the sheepish crowd and into a side street. After walking a few hundred paces one remarked to the other: "When you don't need them, a hundred are upon you. When you want them--the devil take it."

At last they came upon Silly Peter and decided that he would answer.

"Come along, boy; the Captain wants you," they said, taking hold of his arms.

"Let me go!" The boy struggled. "I did nothing."

"Come along, you fool!"

They brought Silly Peter to the square, placed him on the spot that smelled fresh with upturned earth, placed a shovel in his hands and told him to dig his grave.

When they stepped aside, the terrified boy could see the camera before him and the six soldiers standing at attention a few paces away. Already the clicking handles started turning.

"Dig!" shouted the Captain.

"I don't want a grave," whimpered the frightened creature as several pigeons approached. "I don't want a grave," as he turned up the loose earth with trembling shovel-strokes. "I don't want a grave," and tears ran in trickling rivulets down his silly face.

Even an idiot could understand. At one side of him he was confronted with death for no apparent reason at all. And on the other side of him flew his pigeons.

Suddenly the signal was given; the six rifles were raised, and a volley of blank cartridges shot at the boy. The frightened birds flew into the air as the twisted frame of Silly Peter sank into the soft, upturned earth.

When the smoke had cleared, a soldier came up and shouted: "Hey fool? Get up!--You're not dead." But the boy only sobbed, with his face beside the shovel in the fresh earth.

The soldiers were dismissed, and the Captain climbed into his carriage and drove away. The sheep-like inhabitants of the village of M---- feared to venture near the spot of military manoeuvre.

Presently an old farmer, driving his horse across the square, stopped, lifted the boy, and said: "Don't cry, Peter. It is only a little joke. See, you're not dead--here, pick up your hat. See all the pigeons are around us--you're not dead."

The boy seemed numb and twisted like the limb of a tree as the old man following his horse helped him across the market-place and through the lane.

"Don't be foolish, Peter. You're not dead. See the pigeons; see the sky. Look, here is Luba--she will bring us soup."

But the boy squinted at the sun through a film of tears and with his one-sided mouth mumbled: "I don't want a grave."

III

The Captain lit a cigarette as he leaned back in the carriage. The horses snorted as they drew up the hill. "Why," he asked himself, "are people afraid of dying? For many, life can hold little attraction, yet even an imbecile fears death as though it were the devil himself. Yet each man nurses his own pet fears."

The carriage rocked from side to side as it climbed the hill, and the Captain turned his mind to his young wife. "It's all imagination; that's what I think," he said to himself. "It's all in her mind. Now she's afraid of this and afraid of that, and in this way she worries herself ill.

"And the doctor thinks he knows it all, but he knows nothing. He should have given her iron, she's too pale. Now we shall have to call him again. It is all a trick that doctors have. Yes, each man looks out for himself. But I will call him again and say to him: 'Don't you think a little iron would be good for her, she is so pale?' And he will reply: 'Yes, it can't harm.' But I would have to say this to the doctor when he is putting on his coat in the hallway so that Vera does not hear.

"No. Vera must not hear that I think her pale. It would worry her and she might become worse. Then she would have to go to bed again, the doctor would come again, and the servants would do as they pleased. And Vera would grow worse and more nervous and--"

"Here we are!" called the coachman, and the Captain stepped out upon his own lawn.

The house was built of stone, and although its architecture was plain, it had the solidity of a castle. Even the vines that grew up the lattice-work and walls seemed to intertwine their curly branches into a living network that helped fortify the stone nest of the Captain and his beautiful Vera.

The lovely creature was passing her hands lightly over the keyboard of the piano as the Captain entered.

"It is only I," he called, but she was startled nevertheless.

"I am glad you came," she said as she rose to meet him, and placing her pale head on his decorated breast added--"I am afraid to remain here alone."

"But where are the servants, my dear?"

"Oh, servants don't count."

"Well, well, my darling," spoke the Captain, petting her. "You have nothing to fear. It is all imagination."

"But I am so nervous."

"Come, my dear. Let's have tea and I will tell you a funny story."

Presently they were seated at the table drinking tea, and the Captain began his story.

"You know, my dear," he said; "we are going to put an end to all this foolish political talk and people's committees. Any beggar forms a committee, and they do what they like. Civil authorities and military authorities are all alike to them."

"Oh, I am so afraid of beggars," interrupted the beautiful Vera.

"Well, my dear; soon there will be nothing to be afraid of; a propaganda council was organized at headquarters this morning, and what do you think? This morning two men arrived with a moving picture camera to take pictures of our orderly town, and in the afternoon we took an object-lesson picture. I marched the soldiers into the square and we dug up a plot so that the earth might be soft.

"Then we had a beggar dig his own grave as we took the picture. When he had dug enough, I gave the signal and the firing squad drew up their rifles and blazed away."

"Why did you kill him?"

"No, my dear; we only pretended to kill him. I myself was careful to see that the leads were taken off the cartridge. But you see we could not tell the beggar that he was not going to die because we wanted to make the picture look realistic--he might have run away in the middle and ruined the film.

"Well, my dear, to make a long story short, the fool beggar fell into the pit, believing himself really killed. It will make a fine picture. It will be shown in all the surrounding towns as an object lesson, and before the picture itself appears on the screen it will be entitled--I suggested it myself--it will read--'This is what happened to a fool who thought he could oppose the military authorities,' and then will be shown the picture of the beggar digging his own grave.

"It will be a great lesson and education to the people whose heads have been turned. It will be sent all over the country and if the results are favourable and it pleases headquarters who can say," at this point he clasped his wife's pale hand, "who can say that I will not receive another decoration, or perhaps a promotion? Who can tell, my dear? Things move so quickly these days."

In the evening as they were eating, Vera looked up from her plate and spoke: "You know, if it happened to me, I think I should die."

"Don't talk nonsense," replied the Captain angered by the idea. "How could it happen to you?"

"Well, supposing the revolutionists took control, and then--"

"Supposing! Supposing the sky should fall," he interrupted, and smiled on his lovely and delicate Vera.

IV

Silly Peter refused to eat the bowl of soup that Luba placed out for him, but he went aloft in the barn and cried in his dull, monotonous tone: "I don't want a grave--I don't want a grave," until he fell asleep.

Then over his simple, slumbering brain came a vision.

He saw himself standing on an elevated place and over him rested the great ultramarine dome of sky. About him he could see the horizon as though it were a white circle of foam.

Gradually this circle grew smaller and smaller and rose up like a sparkling and living halo. As it came nearer, he discovered that the circle was composed of hundreds of white doves.

Soon they were close over him encircling the elevation on which he stood, and he could hear the wild beating of the wings as though they were rolling a tattoo on muffled drums. Then suddenly the circle broke, and rose like a puff of smoke against a sky of blue.

With startling rapidity it rose until it rent and perforated the sky, and was lost from sight. Only a large oval opening of light-grey nothingness remained overhead--a hole in the sky--an opening to heaven.

Then from all quarters came a loud uproar; a thousand piercing, whistling yells; a rackety, rumbling, rattling commotion mixed with the beat and swish of wings. This was followed by an upward rush which darkened the sky.

Peter saw himself standing like a monarch reviewing his nation from an elevated platform. Around him flew the feathered tribes of the air. From the fluttering starling to the giant albatross, all were liberated and each paid homage to him--the master of the sky, before they shot upward and through the oval opening in the rent heaven. It was a grand and colourful sight to behold.

Finally they were all gone and he saw himself take a last look about him as he stood alone on his elevation. He then craned his neck and turned his face to the oval nothingness--flapped his arms, and with a thrilling sensation flew heavenward. His body went through the air a little sideways--but it flew, and the rest did not matter.

Poor Peter awoke to find himself in the loft of the barn among his cages of pigeons, confronted with the sordidness of material reality. He opened a small window and then flung open the cages.

Through the night he limped from barn to barn, darting under wagons, and between the legs of slumbering horses, opening doors, boxes, and even barrels. He was liberating the imprisoned, full-breasted creatures.

The little village of M---- slept soundly as it was being flooded with fluttering birds. Only the hypersensitive Vera was disturbed by the monotonous beating of restless wings.

No longer was there any mystery regarding the pigeons.

V

In the morning the streets were covered with pink-breasted birds as well as grey. Besides this, there were breeds and species of pigeons that the villagers of M---- had never seen before. Wherever one turned, one saw pigeons. They were on the ground and in the sky, as well as upon the roofs. Their colours were mixed, and their leaders were lost.

Silly Peter ran joyfully about the streets waving a little white flag at the disorganized flying tribes, waving a white flag as though it were a truce to the sky.

For some reason or other, an extra large number of birds took refuge on the gable and chimney of the Captain's stone house on the hill.

Late in the afternoon, as the charming Vera was playing at the piano, a dark shadow crept over her page of music, and this was accompanied by a scrambling noise from outside. As she turned about, she could see through the corner of her eye a struggling figure across the window, clambering on the vines. The body was silhouetted against the sky.

One glance was sufficient--her throat let loose a piercing scream as she ran from the room into the kitchen. "A man! A man is climbing up the house--quick, send for the police!" she shouted breathlessly to the servants.

Holding her throbbing temples with both hands, she waited with the servants in the kitchen. Soon two policemen arrived, having been told that a robber had entered the house, but they found nothing excepting Silly Peter on top of the roof, propped against the chimney, waving his flag and signalling to his birds.

"He's harmless," said the officer. "I can't make him come down, madam. I'm a policeman, not a fireman." And with this they went away, leaving Vera with her servants and Peter with his pigeons.

Presently the Captain came home, raved and shouted as he swung his arms--but Peter sat with his back against the chimney, making bubbles with his mouth and holding two new-born birds close to his face in order that they might prick the bubbles with their little soft beaks and drink.

"Come down from my house, you beggar!" But this did not even frighten the birds that flocked about Silly Peter in ever increasing numbers.

At length he came into the house, and took a rifle from his case. "Just wait till it grows dark," he mumbled. But the lovely Vera jumped from her chair and, with tears in her eyes, cried: "No! No! God will see you. He will never forgive us. After all, what harm does the boy do? He did not intend to frighten me, I am sure, put it away, my dear--God will never forgive us if you don't."

Who could resist a pleading tear from lovely Vera? Surely not the Captain.

"You are right, my dear. He can do us no harm," he finally allowed.

At night there was a noise and commotion on the roof. Vera awoke, but then all was silent again. A fearful silence hung over the house, interrupted only by the heavy breathing of her devoted soldier husband.

She remained awake until morning and was glad when she heard the servants stir. Then thinking that a little music might be restful, she dressed herself lightly and went down to the drawing room, opened the piano and finally opened the shutter. There beneath her on the ground lay Peter, with his face up--dead. His round child-like eyes stared heavenward as his birds sat about in mournful groups of twos and fours.

The unfortunate Vera again rushed into the kitchen and sent for the police before she ran, terrified by the sight she had just beheld, to awaken her husband. In about an hour, although it seemed longer, the poor folk of the village arrived and carried the body from the yard. Fat Luba insisted upon halting the procession long enough so that she could kiss the white forehead of the little dead master of the sky. A ring of pigeons swirled around the procession as it marched down the hill.

Vera nursed up a little fever for herself and was put to bed, while Luba, the cook, stood in the market-place and with tears in her eyes told everybody that the Captain killed her little Major of the Birds--"and now nobody will look after them, and they will make dirt everywhere. And people will have to move away. And he is such a bad man to take the crumbs away from little doves. And if he has any children, I wish them the best of everything for they surely will be unfortunate."

Marking the spot where Peter fell were two new-born birds crushed beside the stone house on the hill. Through the air swung a grand flight describing an oval in the sky. At each end of the oval the pigeons beat their wings as they rounded the curve. With mournful thuds they beat, as they circled over the old farmer's house and again over the solid stone house on the hill.

All day they flapped a tattoo with their wings and beat their sorrowful dead sounds into lovely Vera's ears. In the evening the Captain sent for the doctor.

All night long the uncontrollable feathery tribes encircled the town with their monotonous beating and swishing of wings.

The next day Vera grew worse, as Luba in the market place kept insisting that the Captain killed her Little Master of the Birds; until a committee of three working-men took it upon themselves to investigate. They started for the hill, but stopped off in order to induce the schoolmaster to join them.

The schoolmaster, however, did not allow himself to be disturbed. He was playing chess with a friend, and kept tapping the dull-sounding table with his fingers, and repeating in a monotone: "If he disturbs that pawn, he may lose his queen."

As the committee went on to the hill, they were overtaken by the doctor in his carriage. At last they arrived at the stone house and found the doctor walking briskly up and down the drawing room smoking a cigarette--he had not yet told the Captain.

Upstairs they could hear the Captain in Vera's darkened room, kneel down beside the bed.

"Do you know, my darling," he spoke. "I have never kept anything from you--but the other day when I told you about the beggar, I should have told you that he was--Are you listening, my dear? I should have told you that he was the same boy--the poor boy that lived with the pigeons.

"See; we have already been--are you listening, my dear? God has already punished us--now you can get better and we will go away from here. We will go to some quiet place.--Are you listening, my dear? We will go to some--do you hear me, Vera? My darling girl, don't sleep now. Tell me, what did the doctor say? Wake up Vera."--But the hand of death had already passed over Vera.

The Little Master of the Sky didn't need a grave and didn't want one. But they dug one for him just the same, at the end of the town. While his pigeons encircled the sky and swished the air, the villagers straightened his twisted, little body and slipped it into a narrow box, and lowered him down. The poor folk gave him a little grave, but he doesn't need it for he never uses it.

THE MAN WITH THE GOOD FACE[16]

By FRANK LUTHER MOTT

(From The Midland)

A subway express train roared into the Fourteenth Street Station and came to a full stop, and the doors slid open. It was just at the lull of traffic before the rush of the late afternoon, and the cars were only comfortably filled. As the train stopped, a small, unobtrusive man, sitting near one end of the third car, quickly rose from his seat on the side of the car facing the station platform, and peered through the opposite windows. All the way up from Wall Street this little man had sat quietly observing through his deep-set grey eyes every man or woman who had entered or left the car. His figure was slight, and the office pallor that overspread his serious face seemed to give to his eyes a singular intensity of gaze. Now he peered intently out at the people on the Fourteenth Street platform.

Suddenly his eyes dilated; he leaned toward the window, and raised both hands as if to shade his eyes. Then he turned and ran toward the door, which was sliding shut. The little man's face was white as chalk; his eyes were round and blazing with excitement. Against the protests of the guard, he squeezed through the door and made his escape just as the train was beginning to move. Heedless of the commotion he caused, the man dodged wildly across the platform toward a local, which stood there, gongs ringing and doors closing. For all his haste, the little man was too late to enter. He pounded on the glass of one of the closed doors imperiously.

"Next train," said the guard shortly.

"Let me on!" demanded the little man, waving his arms wildly. "Let me on! You have time!"

"Next train," repeated the guard.

The train began to move swiftly. The little man ran alongside, peering in through the windows at something or somebody inside.

"Look out!" called the guard, watching him.

The man, however, paid no attention to the warning. It is strange that he was not hurt as he ran blindly alongside the train. Perilously near the end of the platform he stopped short and put his hand to his head. The train thundered away, its colored rear-lights vanishing far-off in the black tunnel. Oblivious to the interest of the spectators, oblivious to all the hurrying and running and crowding as other trains roared into the underground station, the little man leaned limply against a pillar.

"He's gone!" he muttered to himself. "He's gone!"

For upward of twenty years Mr. James Neal had been a clerk in the offices of Fields, Jones & Houseman on Lower Broadway. Every day of these twenty-odd years, if we except Sundays and holidays, Mr. Neal had spent an hour and a half on subway trains. An hour and a half every day for more than twenty years he had spent in the great underground system of the Interborough. Its ceaseless roar benumbed his senses as he was hurtled from the Bronx, where he had a room, to the Imperial Building, where he worked, and back again. This, as he had often computed, amounted to fifty-eight and a half working days each year, or about two months' time. Such was the fee he paid to Time for the privilege of using other hours for working and living. It had seemed a cruel loss at first--this hour and a half from every working day--but that was in the early days of his experience in the city. Then he had been driven by boundless energy and hope--the same energy and the same hope that had brought him here from his little mid-western community in the first place. Year by year, however, as custom calloused him to the only part in life he seemed fit to play, he forgot about the waste of time in the Interborough cars. Destiny, he said to himself, had hollowed out the subway as the rut in which his life was ordained to travel; destiny had condemned him inescapably to an underground roar.

He never confessed to anyone that he held the subway as the sign and symbol of the rut into which his life had grown. There was, indeed, nobody to whom he might impart such thoughts as he had about the deeper meanings of life. When Mr. Neal first came to Fields, Jones & Houseman's, timid and green from the country, he had been repelled by the lack of interest in his new problems on the part of his fellow clerks, and he had then put on for the first time that armor of indifference which now clung to him with the familiarity of an accustomed garment. Nor did he feel a greater kinship with the family in the Bronx with which he lodged. They were at pains not to annoy him; he kept apart from them.

Perhaps the pallid little clerk with the large grey eyes would have become very lonesome if he had not eventually found a real interest in life. This, then, was the manner and substance of his finding.

As he traveled back and forth on the subway morning and evening, day in and day out, week after week, he wasted the hours much more completely than most of his fellow travelers. The average subway passenger reads his newspaper and forgets the world; he knows by some sixth sense when the train has arrived at his station, and only then does he look up from his reading. Mr. Neal seldom read newspapers. The blatancy, the crassness of the daily prints revolted him. Perhaps there was another reason, too, which Mr. Neal himself did not realize; perhaps the settled selfishness which his manner of life had fixed upon him had destroyed a natural craving for the so-called "human interest" that is spread over the pages of the journals of the metropolis. He despised the little brawls aired in the papers, the bickerings of politics, the fights and strikes and broils of all humanity reflected in daily mirrors.

Self-deprived of the newspapers, it was natural that he should fall to watching the people on the cars. He got to studying faces. At first he did it unconsciously, and he had probably been analyzing features idly for years before he discovered and fully realized how extremely interesting this occupation was becoming. One half holiday he went up to the library and read a book on physiognomy, and after that he laid out his course of study carefully, classifying and laying away in his memory the various types of faces that he saw. He pursued his investigations in the detached, careful spirit of the scientist, but as time passed he was absorbingly interested. Every morning and every evening he worked in his laboratory--the subway trains.

He never had to stand up in the cars, for he boarded them, whether at one end of his trip or the other, before they were crowded; but as soon as crowds began to fill up the aisles he always gave up his seat. This naturally gained him repeated credit for courtesy, but the real reason for his apparent gallantry was that he could not see people's faces when he was sitting while others stood in the aisles. But when he hung to a strap and looked at the window in front of him, the blackness outside combined with the bright light of the car to make the glass of the windows an excellent mirror to reflect the faces of those who stood near him.

To classify faces according to nationality was not easy in the polyglot crowds of this East Side line. But Mr. Neal devised many schemes to help him. He watched the papers they read: everybody read papers! He even ventured when greatly curious, to ask a question of the object of his interest, so that the man might reveal his origin. Usually he was rebuffed, but sometimes he was successful. He read all the books on immigrants he could get his hands on. More than once he even followed a rare specimen--shadowed him to his work and there made guarded inquiries. Such investigations had several times made him late to work, so that his chief had made sarcastic remarks. The chief clerk at Fields, Jones & Houseman's was a tall, gaunt, old-young man with a hawk-like nose that carried eyeglasses perched perilously astride it, and he had a tongue that spit caustic. But the chief clerk's ugly words did not annoy Mr. Neal if his inquiry had been successful.

At length he became so skillful that he could separate the Slavic types into their various nationalities, and he could tell Polish, Lithuanian and Roumanian Jews apart. He could name the provinces from which Italians and Germans came with few errors.

But the most interesting set of categories, according to which he filed away the various faces he saw was that of their ruling passions. There was the scholar, the sport, the miser, the courtesan, the little shopkeeper, the clerk, the housewife, the artist, the brute, the hypocrite, the clergyman, the bar-hound, the gambler. The charm of this classification was that the categories were not mutually exclusive, and permitted infinite variation.

Mr. Neal became as devoted to this fascinating game as ever any enthusiast has been to billiards, golf, baseball or poker. He looked forward all day, while in the midst of the ancient grind of Fields, Jones & Houseman, to the moment when he could establish himself in a position of vantage on a subway car, and get back to his study of faces. All night long he dreamed of faces--faces wise and foolish, good and evil.

Yet more and more the ugliness in the subway faces oppressed Mr. Neal. Sometimes he looked into faces loosened by liquor and saw such an empty foulness looking out at him that he was heartsick. Then he would look at all the faces about him and see sin in manifold guise marking all of them. The sodden eyes of disillusion, the protruding underlip of lust, the flabby wrinkles of dissipation, the vacuous faces of women: it was a heart-breaking picture gallery.

Every face was stamped with the little passion peculiar to it--the mark of its peculiar spirit. The mouths, especially, betrayed the souls within. Somewhere Mr. Neal had once read weird stories of souls seen to escape from the bodies of dying persons, and always they had been seen to issue from the open mouths of the corpses. There was a singular appropriateness in this phenomenon, it seemed to Mr. Neal, for the soul stamped the mouth even before it marked the eyes. Lewd mouths, and cunning mouths, and hateful mouths there were aplenty. Even the mouths of children were old in evil.

"I'm sorry I've learned it," breathed Mr. Neal one day. "Now I must always look into a man's soul when I look into his face."

It was true. Men who could hide secret sins from bosom friends--even from their wives--were defenseless against this little clerk hanging to a strap--this man with the serious pale face and the large grey eyes who had learned by years of systematic observation to pierce every barrier of reserve.

His study and classification went on for several years before it occurred to him that there was one kind of face that he never saw--one type that he never found in all the Manhattan crowds. When he had first discovered that this face was missing he had called it "the good face;" and though he realized the insufficiency of this designation he could not think of a better, and the term stuck. It was not that he never saw faces with good qualities stamped upon them: he sometimes saw faces marked with benevolence, honesty and resolution, for example, and these were all good faces in a way. But they were not what Mr. Neal was looking for--what he searched for more intently with the passing months. He remembered the face of his own mother dimly through the years; it was a little like what he wanted to see here in the subway. He searched for simplicity, for transparent truth, for depth of spirituality, for meek strength and gentle power. But simplicity in the subway? Guileless transparency of any sort? Spirituality? Mockery!

The face he never saw became an obsession with Mr. Neal. He hunted for it in various parts of the city. He tried the Broadway line of the subway where the faces are notably pleasanter, more prosperous, and smugger. But neither there nor about the Universities on Morningside Heights and on the banks of the Harlem, nor in Brooklyn, nor anywhere he looked, did he find the face he sought. He could always see it when he closed his eyes. At night he dreamed of it continuously--of meeting it on the subway and looking into eyes of ineffable kindness.

It came finally to affect his life--this search for the unseen face. It gradually altered his attitude toward all his subway folk. He came to have a great pity for the ignorant, and pain filled his heart at all the marks of Cain he saw. He came to have an inexpressible hunger for the sight of spiritual quality lighting the faces of the people of the subway crowds. He did not express his hunger in words, as people do when they want to make a thing definite and tangible. It was perfectly clear and distinct to him when he closed his eyes; then he saw the face.

The time came when Mr. Neal could not sleep of nights for the evil faces that leered at him from every side out of the darkness. It was only when he slept that he could see, in his dreams, the "good face." Finally, he was driven to make a resolution. He would consciously seek for the good faces; evil ones he would pass over quickly. Thenceforward he was happier. As his train roared through the tunnels of night under New York, his eyes dwelt most upon the faces that were marked, however lightly, with the qualities that reached their united culmination in the "good face." He found his old faith in the perfectibility of man renewed, and often he would keep his eyes closed for many minutes together, so that he could see the face of his dreams.

So months went on, and joined together into years.

Then, one day in the subway, with his eyes full open, James Neal suddenly saw the face! He had been going home from work in the evening quite as usual. The express train on which he was riding was about to leave Fourteenth Street Station when a tall man who was about to enter the local train standing at the other side of the station platform turned and looked directly at him. Mr. Neal's heart almost stopped beating. His eyes were blinded, and yet he saw the face so distinctly that he could never forget it. It was just as he had known it would be, and yet gentler and stronger. A moment Mr. Neal stood spellbound. The door of his own car was sliding shut; he leaped toward it, and, as we have already seen, squeezed through and ran toward the other train. Though he was too late to get in, still he could see the face within the moving car. Thinking about it later, as he did very, very often, he realized that he could not tell how the man with the "good face" was dressed; he could see only his face, and that for a moment only, as the local moved swiftly out of the station. Suddenly he found himself alone and disconsolate.

He went home sick in spirit. As he lay in his bed that night, trying to go to sleep, he said to himself that if ever he should see the face again--and he prayed that he might--no merely physical barriers should keep him from seeking out the rare spirit that animated such features. Ah, but it had been much even to have seen that face; even that had been worth living for. At last he fell asleep peacefully.

The next morning Mr. Neal entered upon a new life. He had seen the face; it had not been a dream after all. He felt young again--not young with the ambition he had once felt so strongly, but glad and cleansed and strengthened by a sure faith in the supremacy of truth and goodness in the world. A happy smile lighted his serious face that morning; a faint flush touched the pallor of his cheeks; and his deep grey eyes were unusually luminous.

Even the roar of the subway did not pull his spirits down, and when he briskly entered the office of Fields, Jones & Houseman, the old-fashioned high desks and stools and all the worn, dingy furniture of the room seemed to the little clerk with the shining face to be strangely new. The chief clerk, sitting at a dusty old roll-top desk in the corner, looked up at Mr. Neal sharply as he entered. The chief clerk always looked up sharply. There was a preternatural leanness about the chief clerk which was accentuated by his sharp hawk's nose, and when he looked up quickly from his position hunched over his desk, his sharp little eyes pierced his subordinate through and through, and his glasses, perched halfway down his nose, trembled from the quickness of his movements.

"Morning!" he said briefly, and dived down again into his work, with his shoulders humped.

But Mr. Neal was more expansive.

"Good morning!" he called, so cheerily that the whole office felt the effect of his good humor.

A young man with a very blond pompadour was just slipping into a worn office coat.

"Well, Mr. Neal!" he exclaimed. "I swear you're getting younger every day!"

Mr. Neal laughed happily as he changed his own coat and climbed upon his familiar stool. His desk neighbor turned and regarded him good-naturedly.

"He'll be running off and getting married pretty soon," prophesied the neighbor, for the benefit of the whole office force.

Mr. Neal laughed again.

"You're judging me by your own case, Bob," he rejoined. Then in a lower tone, "That romance of yours now--how is it coming?"

That was enough to cause the young man to pour into Mr. Neal's willing ear all the latest developments of Bob's acquaintance with the only girl in the world.

For a long time Mr. Neal lived in daily hope of seeing the face again. He got into the habit of changing to a local at Fourteenth Street because it was at that station he had seen the face before, but he caught not a glimpse of any face resembling the one that he could see at any time he closed his eyes. Yet he was not discouraged. He was happy, because he felt that something big and noble had come into his life--that now he had something to live for. It was only a question of time, he told himself, until he should find the face. It was but a question of time--and he could wait.

So the weeks and months passed by. Mr. Neal never relaxed his search for the face; it had become a part of his life. There was no monotony in his great game. He always found new faces interesting to classify, some unusual combination, some degree of emotional development he had not seen before. But the face never.

Until one Saturday half holiday in December. This is the way it happened.

Mr. Neal employed this particular half holiday at Columbus Park. Long ago he had found this park, adjoining Chatham Square and near Chinatown, Mulberry Bend and the Bowery, a great gathering place for the lower types of humanity, and such half holidays as he did not spend at the library studying Lombroso, Darwin, Piderit, Lavater, and other physiognomists, he usually employed at Columbus Park. Sometimes he wandered over to Hester Street, or up Orchard or some other Ghetto street off Delancey, or sometimes he spent a few hours in Battery Park or in the tenement district of the lower West Side. On this particular Saturday he found Columbus Park less populous than it had been on his last visit a month before, for many of its habitues had sought warmer climes. The weather was seasonably cold, and Mr. Neal felt really sorry for some of the old, broken-down men and women he saw.

Toward the end of the short December afternoon, he found an old man, shaking with the cold, huddled up on one of the benches of the park. The haggard, unshaven face told the usual story of the derelict, but something in the face--perhaps the abject fear that glowered in the eyes--sounded before he knew it the depths of pity in the little clerk's heart. Mr. Neal tried to talk to him, but there was no ready beggar's tale to be poured into the ears of benevolence; there was only fear of the cold, and of misery, and of death. Yielding suddenly to an impulse so strong that it bore down all thoughts of prudence, Mr. Neal slipped out of his own overcoat and put it about the man's threadbare shoulders, and then hurried off toward the Worth Street Station of the subway.

The wintry breeze chilled him as he hastened along, a slight figure in worn business suit, leaning against the wind, but his heart was warm and light within him. Down he hurried into the subway station, and dropped his tithe of tribute into the multiple maw of the Interborough. The train was thundering in, its colored lights growing momentarily brighter as they came down the black tunnel. The train was crammed to the doors, for it was the rush hour and even down here the trains were crowded. Mr. Neal edged into the nearest door and then squirmed over to a place against the opposite door in the vestibule, where he could see people as they came out.

The train shot again into the dark tunnels. A thousand men and women were being hurtled at terrific thundering speed, by some strange power but half understood, through the black corridors of the night that reigned under old Manhattan, to some unseen goal. It was magnificent; it was colossal; but it was uncanny. Mr. Neal had always been moved by the romance of the subway, but tonight, in his elevation of spirit, it seemed something of epic quality, full of a strange, unreal grandeur. Faint red lights here and there revealed nothing of the tunnel; they but lent mystery to dimly seen arches and darkling bastions, fleeting by the roaring train.

They stopped a minute at Canal Street, and more people pushed into the overcrowded car, and then the train was off again. The man pushing against Mr. Neal was heavy-jowled as a prize-fighter, but if ever he had followed the ring his fighting days were over now. Good feeding had done for him; he breathed heavily in the fetid atmosphere of the car. He was almost squeezing the breath out of the little man with a heavy red mustache who stood just behind him. The red mustache made the little man's face seem out of proportion; there was not enough of chin to make a proper balance.

At Spring Street two women struggled to get off.

"Let 'em off!" came the familiar admonition of the guard.

Those about the women made every effort to give them room, but at the best they had a hard fight to make their way out. Both the women were modishly dressed, and their complexions were correctly made. There was, too, that hardness about the mouths of both of them that Mr. Neal found in the faces of most of the women he saw--a hardness that even the stress of their effort to get out of the car could not disturb. When they finally got out, others crowded in.

Mr. Neal was happy, and he looked about him to find other happy faces. But they were nowhere to be seen; the faces were stolid, or indifferent, or intent, or vacuous. None of them were glad. If their mouths would only turn up at the corners! Well, it was the same old story. Mouths that turned up at the corners were seldom met with in Mr. Neal's book of subway faces.

Bleecker Street, and a worse jam than ever, but there was encouragement in the thought that Fourteenth Street would soon relieve the pressure. Two girls crowded on at Bleecker, amid shrill laughter and many smothered exclamations. Their lips were carmined and their eyes bold. Every swerve of the train brought fresh giggles or stifled screams from them.

As the train was slowing down for Astor Place Station an express train passed it, speeding for Fourteenth Street. Mr. Neal turned with an effort (for he was wedged in tightly) and looked through the glass door at the brightly lighted cars as they passed, and then slowly gained upon, his own train. The express was crowded too, with people standing in the aisles, hanging to straps. The faces were very clearly distinguishable in the bright light; and Mr. Neal, strangely excited at this rapid panorama of faces, saw each one distinctly. Suddenly he leaned forward, close to the glass. He saw it! The face! It was there! But it was gone in a moment. It had been like a flash in the dark tunnel. His own train had come to a jarring stop, and the express was only thunder in the distance.

Mr. Neal felt that he must rush out of the car, must get out into the open. But the big prize-fighter still pressed against him, and in a moment they were rushing on again into the darkness.

Now the clerk had no eyes for the occupants of his car. His face was pressed against the glass door. He saw, out there in the darkness, that serenely beautiful face, beatific, transcendent. And even as he looked, he saw again the rear-lights of the express. They were going to overtake it--to pass it again. It had been halted by the block signals of the train ahead, perhaps--at any rate it was now moving very slowly. As the local shot by, the panorama of faces was unfolded much more rapidly than it had been before, but Mr. Neal caught a glimpse of the face once more. It looked directly at him, as it had before, and he thought it smiled upon him a little.

The little clerk was greatly excited. As soon as the local had come to a stop at the Fourteenth Street Station and the doors had been opened, he darted out and hurried to the other side of the platform. There he stood leaning out to watch for the approach of the express. In a moment it came, rumbling in quite as usual, mechanically and regularly, and the doors slid open to allow the flood of people to pour out. Mr. Neal squirmed through the crowd, looking in at the windows and watching the people coming out; but he did not see the face, and frantic lest he should lose it once more, he crowded into one of the cars again at the last minute. He tried at first to pass through the train searching for the man with the "good face," but the guards rebuffed him, and the usually good-natured crowd was provoked to impatience by his squirming efforts; and he himself soon became so exhausted in his attempt that he gave it up. At Grand Central Station he again hurried out upon the platform to watch the crowds getting off. The gong had begun to ring again when he caught sight of a tall figure mounting a short flight of stairs toward the upper platform, and he immediately knew that there was the man he sought. The face was turned away, yet he thought he could not be mistaken. He rushed toward the stairway, bumping into others so many times in his haste that he really made little speed. When he reached the top of the stairs he looked about. For one heartsick moment he thought he had lost the man after all. Then, away across the station, near one of the exits, he saw the tall figure again. The man was leaving the station, and as he passed out, for a moment he turned his face toward the crowd within; and Mr. Neal knew then that he had not been mistaken.

To the little clerk it seemed an age before he could reach the exit through which the tall figure had passed. He ran around people and dodged and ducked, oblivious of the curious watching of the crowd. At last he gained the exit. The tall man was nowhere to be seen.

Mr. Neal found himself on Forty-Second Street, east of Fourth Avenue. It was night, and the December wind pierced his clothing and cut to his very bones like a knife. He buttoned his sack coat up tightly and turned up the collar. He decided to walk east down Forty-Second Street, in the hope of seeing the face again. He walked very rapidly, impelled both by the desire to keep as warm as possible, and the thought that whatever chance he had of finding the man would be lost if he did not hurry.

As he stood for a moment on the curb before crossing Lexington Avenue, halted by a long string of passing automobiles, he thought he saw the tall man at about the middle of the next block. Taking his life in his hands, he scurried across the street, dodging in and out among the vehicles with the curses of drivers in his ears. But he got across safely, and now he was certain that he had been right: there was the tall figure he could not mistake. Now he gained on the man, who turned south into Third Avenue. As Mr. Neal breathlessly turned the corner he saw the tall man mounting the stoop of a shabby four-story apartment house a little way down the street. About to enter, he turned his face toward the running clerk, and even by the dim light at the entrance to the dingy house, Mr. Neal could see how ineffably spiritual and strong the face was. Joy filled the little clerk's heart so full that tears came to his eyes. At last he was to meet the man with the "good face"--after so long! He managed to find breath to call out.

"I say!" he shouted.

But he was too late, for the door had closed almost before the words left his mouth.

Leaping up the steps, he found that the door was not locked, and he entered a dark hallway. He heard a step on the landing above, and called out again, but there was no answer. He hurried up the creaking stairs, but he was just in time to see the first door on his left closed silently but firmly.

Mr. Neal hesitated. He took off his hat and wiped his forehead, which was damp with perspiration. Then he rang the bell.

The hallway was dimly lighted with one small gas jet over against the discolored wall. Mr. Neal waited. Presently he heard footsteps. Then the door was opened and a flood of warm light poured into the dim little hall. A short, white-bearded old man stood in the doorway. He seemed the very personification of serene happiness, and over his shoulder peered an old lady whose face was lighted by the same kindly joy. There was an atmosphere of quiet goodness about them both; it flooded out into the hallway as sensibly as the glow of light itself. The old couple looked questioningly at Mr. Neal. The little clerk was somewhat embarrassed.

"I--I wanted to see the gentleman who just came in here," he said.

The white-bearded old man seemed surprised.

"Why, nobody has come in here," he said in a gentle voice. "Not since I came home over an hour ago."

"Oh, the tall man, with--with--"

"But nobody has come in, sir," reiterated the old man.

"Just now, you know," insisted Mr. Neal. "A tall man--"

A shadow crossed the old man's face--a shade of alarm. The woman withdrew a little. Some of the happiness seemed to leave their faces, allowing the wrinkles of age to show themselves.

"I don't know what you mean, sir," the old man said slowly, "but we two are alone here. There is no tall man here, I assure you. Please--"

"But haven't you a lodger?" asked Mr. Neal hopefully. "This was a very tall man; that was the reason I could see him so well in the subway. He has a good face--a really wonderful face--"

Mr. Neal hesitated a moment, realizing that he had been led to reveal his secret to one who might not understand.

Pity came into the old gentleman's eyes.

"Ah," he said, and nodded. "If I could be of any help to you--Would you come in?"

"Didn't he come in here, really? Hasn't a tall man been here?"

"Nobody is here, sir, but us. But if I could do anything for you, I'd be glad to."

Mr. Neal saw that the old gentleman thought he was dealing with a demented man; he saw, too, that the denial was an honest one.

"Thank you," said Mr. Neal. "No. I must be going. I am very sorry I troubled you."

The old man bade him a cheery good-night, but he looked after Mr. Neal in solicitude as the clerk went slowly down the steps.

The air was bitter cold outside, and Mr. Neal realized for the first time that he did not have his overcoat. He shivered.

Hunching his shoulders up against the blast, he hurried back to the subway.

Heartbreaking though his disappointment was, Mr. Neal was not embittered. There was one thing that he knew now beyond all cavil or doubt: he knew that he should find the man with the good face. He knew that he should eventually meet him somewhere, sometime, and come to know him. How Mr. Neal longed for that time words cannot describe, but his settled faith that his desire would one day be fulfilled kept him tranquil and happy. Why should he be impatient? Perhaps today, or tomorrow--perhaps in this car he was entering, perhaps just around the next corner--he would see the face.

"It will be soon," he would say to himself. "I know it will be soon."

The beggars in front of the Imperial building came to know the little clerk and thank him in advance for his alms. The elevator men and the newsies came to watch for him. Mr. Neal himself took an interest in everybody. He formed the habit of watching crowds wherever they were greatest, partly because thereby his chance of discovering the face was enhanced, and partly because crowds thrilled him. What a tremendous mass of emotions--hopes, fears, ambitions, joys, sorrows--were in these thousand faces swirling about him in ceaseless tide! They were all individuals; that was the wonder of it! All were individuals with personalities of their own, with their own lives to live and their own problems to think out. He would like to help them all.

Mr. Neal at last formed the acquaintance of the members of the family with whom he had lodged so long. One evening just outside his room he met a red-cheeked boy whom he supposed to be the son of his landlord, and it came to him with a shock that he scarcely knew these people under whose roof he had lived for many years. The boy seemed surprised and a little frightened when Mr. Neal tried to talk to him, and the clerk resolved there and then to make amends for past neglect. The very next evening he made an excuse to visit the father of the household. A fine hearty fellow he found him, sitting in the kitchen with his stockinged feet up on a chair, smoking an old clay pipe and reading the evening paper. Mr. Neal learned he was a hard-working teamster. The man seemed pleased with his lodger's attentions, and invited him to come again, and Mr. Neal did come again and often, for he liked his landlord from the start. There were three children, two of them pictures of health, but the third thin and pale and unable to romp about because of a twisted leg.

Mr. Neal became a veritable member of the household, and when he discovered from a chance remark of the father that they were saving money, penny by penny, to buy a brace for the crooked leg, he insisted on "loaning" the money to make up the balance still lacking.

"Funny thing," commented the teamster one evening. "We used to think you wasn't human exactly." He laughed heartily. "Gotta get acquainted with a guy, ain't you?"

Then his wife, a thin, washed-out little woman, embarrassed the little clerk greatly by saying gravely:

"Mr. Neal, you're a good man."

Her eyes were on the little cripple.

In the same vein was the comment of the office force at Fields, Jones & Houseman's on the occasion of Arnold's injury in the elevator accident, when Mr. Neal took up a collection for the injured man, heading the subscription himself.

"Funny thing," exclaimed the chief clerk to a stenographer as they were leaving the office that afternoon. "Funny thing: when I first came here James Neal was close as a clam; never a word out of him. Paid no attention to anybody, all gloom. Now look at him helping everybody! Best old scout in the office!"

As he nodded his head in emphasis, his eyeglasses trembled on his nose--but they stuck.

"I've not got a better friend in the whole town than James Neal, and I know it," he added, "and I guess that's true of everybody in the office!"

It was true that Mr. Neal and the chief clerk had become fast friends. They had come to spend their Sundays together, and even to share confidences, and so it was natural that when Mr. Neal saw the face for the third time he should be moved to tell his friend about it. This telling of his secret was epochal in Mr. Neal's life.

The two men sat on a bench in a more or less secluded part of Bronx Park. Mr. Neal looked off among the trees as he told the story of the face hesitatingly, often in difficulty for the right word, the light of the mystic in his glowing eyes. The chief clerk listened attentively, his cane across his knees, his lean face serious. His eyes bored into the very mind of his friend with their keen gaze. When Mr. Neal told of his failure to find the man with the good face in the house on Third Avenue, his friend shook his head definitely.

"No!" he said. "No! I'll tell you what it is: it is what they call a hallucination."

"Oh, no," replied Mr. Neal calmly. "It is real, John. There's no doubt it's real."

The chief clerk shook his head sharply again, and there was a pause.

"I felt I must tell you," resumed Mr. Neal at length, "because I saw him again last night."

His friend looked quickly at the little clerk, who gazed away among the trees, his eyes luminous.

"I saw him in the Pennsylvania subway station, and I followed him out. There was no doubt about it: I saw his face. He went down Eighth Avenue, and I saw him turn in at a door. I wasn't far behind him. The door was right next to a pawnshop. It was unlatched, and I went in. I found myself in a dark hallway, but toward the other end there was light coming from a half opened door. I was excited, John. Tremendously. You see, John, it was the great experience of my life--no wonder I was trembling.

"I stepped quietly back to where the light was, and looked into the room that it came from. What do you think I saw, John? There was a young mother and two fresh-cheeked boys; one of the boys was reading at the table, and the other one sat in a low chair at his mother's knee and she was talking to him--telling him stories, I think. The room was poor, John, but the mother's face! It was wonderful! It reminded me of my own mother's. There is just one word to describe it, John: it was a Madonna's face--a Madonna of Eighth Avenue!"

Mr. Neal paused and glanced at his friend. The chief clerk said nothing, but dug at the turf with his stick.

"But the tall man was not there," resumed Mr. Neal. "I knocked at the door and asked about him. The woman didn't know; no man was in their rooms, she said. She was a poor widow. She wanted to know how I got in. I could see I was frightening her, so I left, and I could hear the door locked behind me."

The little clerk sighed, and passed his hand over his eyes.

His friend rose suddenly.

"Come," he said. "Let's walk--and talk about something else."

This was but the first of many talks the two clerks had about the face. Mr. Neal's friend became more and more sympathetic toward the quest. One afternoon Mr. Neal detained the chief clerk as he was leaving the office after work. The little clerk's eyes were very serious, and his voice was low as he said:

"John, I know that I am going to find him very soon. I know it."

"How do you know it?" asked the chief clerk. "Something--well--psychic?"

"Oh, no. It's not mysterious. It's just a--a certainty, John. I know I shall find him very, very soon."

"Well, you know--" and the chief clerk looked at Mr. Neal steadily, "you know that I--I should like to know him, too."

Mr. Neal wrung his friend's hand. They went down together in the elevator, and parted. Mr. Neal hurried down into his subway station. There were not many waiting on the platforms. Far down the black tunnels in either direction the little white lights glimmered. The echoing silence of a great cave was in the station. Then suddenly the red and green lights of a train appeared far away; then a rumble and a roar, the doors of the train slid open and Mr. Neal stepped in. All the way home he kept his eyes shut. The hurtling roar, the crush of people growing greater as they approached the great business sections, the calls of the guards, did not disturb Mr. Neal. He kept his eyes closed so he might see the face.

It was about one o'clock of the next day that the accident occurred of which James Neal was the victim. He had been trying to cross the street in defiance of traffic regulations, and had been struck by a heavily loaded truck and knocked down, with some injury to his skull. He had been taken, unconscious, to St. Cecilia's Hospital.

Little work was done by the clerks of Fields, Jones & Houseman that afternoon. One of the clerks had seen the accident; indeed he had been talking to Mr. Neal just before the latter had rushed into the street. He had seen the little clerk suddenly raise his hand and point across the street.

"I see it! There he is!" Mr. Neal had said in a voice exultant with joy, and then he had dodged into the traffic, reckless of life and limb.

The chief clerk was greatly distressed. He could not work. He would sit with his lank form huddled up in his office chair, gazing fixedly over his eyeglasses at nothing in particular. About two o'clock he bethought himself to look up the family with which Mr. Neal lodged in the telephone directory and to inform them of the accident. The whole office force listened to the conversation over the telephone, and heard the chief's voice break as he told of the seriousness of the injury. Then the chief clerk shut his books sharply, clapped on his street coat and rusty straw hat, and set out for the hospital.

Long before the chief clerk arrived at the hospital, a white-coated doctor, standing momentarily in a doorway of the ward in which Mr. James Neal lay, met a nurse coming out. The doctor's face was such a one as would have delighted Mr. Neal if he had been able to see it. It was a benevolent face. A profound knowledge of the problems of humanity had marked it with depth of understanding, and withal, a kindliness and sympathy, that made it worthy a second and a third glance in any company, however distinguished.

"How about the skull fracture?" asked the doctor in a low voice, as the nurse was passing out.

"He is dead," said the nurse.

"When?" asked the doctor.

"Just now. I just left him."

"There was no chance," said the doctor.

The nurse was about to pass on when the doctor detained her.

"That tall man," he said, "who was with him: where has he gone?"

The nurse looked at the doctor in surprise.

"There was no one with him but me," she said.

"Oh, yes," said the doctor. "I saw a man bending over the bed--a very tall man with a remarkable face. I wondered who he could be."

The nurse turned, and with the doctor looked over toward the bed where the body of James Neal lay.

"That is strange," said the nurse.

"I saw him there," said the doctor, "just as you were leaving the patient; now he is gone."

"Queer! I saw no one," said the nurse, and moved away to attend to other duties.

The doctor walked over to the bed where the body of the little clerk lay.

"It is strange," he mused. "I surely saw him.--The most beautiful face I ever saw."

Then he looked down at what had been James Neal.

"He was very fortunate," said the doctor in a low tone, "to die with a face like that looking into his."

There was a smile on the death-white lips of the little clerk.

MASTER OF FALLEN YEARS[17]

By VINCENT O'SULLIVAN

(From The Smart Set)

Several years ago, I was intimately acquainted with a young man named Augustus Barber. He was employed in a paper-box manufacturer's business in the city of London. I never heard what his father was. His mother was a widow and lived, I think, at Godalming; but of this I am not sure. It is odd enough that I should have forgotten where she lived, for my friend was always talking about her. Sometimes he seemed immensely fond of her; at other times almost to hate her; but whichever it was, he never left her long out of his conversation. I believe the reason I forget is that he talked so much about her that I failed at last to pay attention to what he said.

He was a stocky young man, with light-coloured hair and a pale, rather blotchy complexion. There was nothing at all extraordinary about him on either the material or spiritual side. He had rather a weakness for gaudy ties and socks and jewelry. His manners were a little boisterous; his conversation, altogether personal. He had received some training at a commercial school. He read little else than the newspapers. The only book I ever knew him to read was a novel of Stevenson's, which he said was "too hot for blisters."

Where, then, in this very commonplace young man, were hidden the elements of the extraordinary actions and happenings I am about to relate? Various theories offer; it is hard to decide. Doctors, psychologists whom I have consulted, have given different opinions; but upon one point they have all agreed--that I am not able to supply enough information about his ancestry. And, in fact, I know hardly anything about that.

This is not, either, because he was uncommunicative. As I say, he used to talk a lot about his mother. But he did not really inspire enough interest for anybody to take an interest in his affairs. He was there; he was a pleasant enough fellow; but when he had gone you were finished with him till the next time. If he did not look you up, it would never occur to you to go and see him. And as to what became of him when he was out of sight, or how he lived--all that, somehow, never troubled our heads.

What illustrates this is that when he had a severe illness a few years after I came to know him, so little impression did it make on anyone that I cannot now say, and nobody else seems able to remember, what the nature of the illness was. But I remember that he was very ill indeed; and one day, meeting one of his fellow clerks in Cheapside, he told me that Barber's death was only a question of hours. But he recovered, after being, as I heard, for a long time in a state of lethargy which looked mortal.

It was when he was out again that I--and not only myself but others--noticed for the first time that his character was changing. He had always been a laughing, undecided sort of person; he had a facile laugh for everything; he would meet you and begin laughing before there was anything to laugh at. This was certainly harmless, and he had a deserved reputation for good humor.

But his manners now became subject to strange fluctuations, which were very objectionable while they lasted. He would be overtaken with fits of sullenness in company; at times he was violent. He took to rambling in strange places at night, and more than once he appeared at his office in a very battered condition. It is difficult not to think that he provoked the rows he got into himself. One good thing was that the impulses which drove him to do such actions were violent rather than enduring; in fact, I often thought that if the force and emotion of these bouts ever came to last longer, he would be a very dangerous character. This was not only my opinion; it was the opinion of a number of respectable people who knew him as well as I did.

I recollect that one evening, as three or four of us were coming out of a music hall, Barber offered some freedom to a lady which the gentleman with her--a member of Parliament, I was told--thought fit to resent. He turned fiercely on Barber with his hand raised--and then suddenly grew troubled, stepped back, lost countenance. This could not have been physical fear, for he was a strongly built, handsome man--a giant compared to the insignificant Barber. But Barber was looking at him, and there was something not only in his face, but, so to speak, encompassing him--I can't well describe it--a sort of abstract right--an uncontrolled power--a command of the issues of life and death, which made one quail.

Everybody standing near felt it; I could see that from their looks. Only for a moment it lasted, and then the spell was broken--really as if some formidable spectacle had been swept away from before our eyes; and there was Barber, a most ordinary looking young man, quiet and respectable, and so dazed that he scarcely heeded the cuff which the gentleman managed to get in before we could drag our friend off--

It was about this time that he began to show occasionally the strangest interest in questions of art--I mean, strange in him whom we had never known interested in anything of the kind. I am told, however, that this is not so very remarkable, since not a few cases have been observed of men and women, after some shock or illness, developing hitherto unsuspected aptitude for painting or poetry or music. But in such cases the impulse lasts continuously for a year or two, and now and then for life.

With Barber the crisis was just momentary, never lasting more than half an hour, often much less. In the midst of his emphatic and pretentious talk, he would break off suddenly, remain for a minute lost and dreaming, and then, after spying at us suspiciously to see if we had noticed anything strange, he would give an undecided laugh and repeat a joke he had read in some comic paper.

His talk on these art subjects was without sense or connection, so far as I could discover. Sometimes he spoke of painting, but when we put to him the names of famous painters, he had never heard of them, and I don't believe he had ever been in an art gallery in his life. More often he spoke of theatrical matters. Coming back from a theatre, he would sometimes fall to abusing the actors, and show the strongest jealousy, pointing out how the parts should have been played, and claiming roundly that he could have played them better. Of course, there were other times--most times--when he was alike indifferent to plays and players, or summed them up like the rest of us, as just "ripping" or "rotten." It was only when the play had much excited him that he became critical, and at such times none of us seemed willing to dispute with him, though we hardly ever agreed with what he was saying.

Sometimes, too, he would talk of his travels, telling obvious lies, for we all knew well enough that he had never been outside the home counties, except once on a week-end trip to Boulogne-sur-mer. On one occasion he put me to some confusion and annoyed me considerably before a gentleman whom I had thoughtlessly brought him with me to visit. This gentleman had long resided in Rome as agent for an English hosiery firm, and he and his wife were kindly showing us some photographs, picture post-cards, and the like, when, at the sight of a certain view, Barber bent over the picture and became absorbed.

"I have been there," he said.

The others looked at him with polite curiosity and a little wonder. To pass it off I began to mock.

"No," he persisted, "I have seen it."

"Yes, at the moving-pictures."

But he began to talk rapidly and explain. I could see that the gentleman and his wife were interested and quite puzzled. It would seem that the place he described--Naples, I think it was--resembled broadly the place they knew, but with so many differences of detail as to be almost unrecognizable. It was, as Mrs. W. said afterward, "like a city perceived in a dream--all the topsy-turvydom, all the mingling of fantasy and reality."

After outbursts of this kind, he was generally ill--at least he kept his bed and slept much. As a consequence, he was often away from the office; and whenever I thought of him in those days, I used to wonder how he managed to keep his employment.

One foggy evening in January, about eight o'clock, I happened to be walking with Barber in the West End. We passed before a concert hall, brilliantly lighted, with a great crowd of people gathered about the doors, and I read on a poster that a concert of classical music was forward at which certain renowned artists were to appear. I really cannot give any sort of reason why I took it into my head to go in. I am rather fond of music, even of the kind which requires a distinct intellectual effort; but I was not anxious to hear music that night, and in any case, Barber was about the last man in the world I should have chosen to hear it with. When I proposed that we should take tickets, he strongly objected.

"Just look me over," he said. "I ain't done anything to you that you want to take my life, have I? I know the kind of merry-go-round that goes on in there, and I'm not having any."

I suppose it was his opposition which made me stick to the project, for I could not genuinely have cared very much, and there was nothing to be gained by dragging Barber to a concert against his will. Finally, seeing I was determined, he yielded, though most ungraciously.

"It'll be the chance of a lifetime for an hour's nap," he said as we took our seats, "if they only keep the trombone quiet."

I repeat his trivial sayings to show how little there was about him in manner or speech to prepare me for what followed.

I remember that the first number on the programme was Beethoven's Seventh Symphony. This work, as is well known, is rather long, and so, at the end of the third movement, I turned and looked at Barber to see if he was asleep. But his eyes were wide open, feverish, almost glaring; he was twining and untwining his fingers and muttering excitedly. Throughout the fourth movement he continued to talk incoherently.

"Shut up!" I whispered fiercely. "Just see if you can't keep quiet, or we shall be put out."

I was indeed very much annoyed, and some people near by were turning in their chairs and frowning.--

I do not know whether he heard what I said: I had no chance to talk to him. The applause had hardly died away at the end of the symphony when a singer appeared on the stage. Who he was, or what music he sang, I am utterly unable to say; but if he is still alive it is impossible that he should have forgotten what I relate. If I do not remember him, it is because all else is swallowed up for me in that extraordinary event.

Scarcely had the orchestra ceased preluding and the singer brought out the first notes of his song, than Barber slowly rose from his seat.

"That man is not an artist," he said in a loud and perfectly final voice, "I will sing myself."

"Sit down, for God's sake!--The management--the police"--

Some words like these I gasped, foreseeing the terrible scandal which would ensue, and I caught him by the arm. But he shook himself free without any difficulty, without even a glance at me, and walked up the aisle and across the front of the house toward the little stairs at the side which led up to the platform. By this time the entire audience was aware that something untoward was happening. There were a few cries of "Sit down! Put him out!" An usher hastened up as Barber was about to mount the steps.

Then a strange thing happened.

As the usher drew near, crying out angrily, I saw Barber turn and look at him. It was not, as I remember, a fixed look or a determined look; it was the kind of untroubled careless glance a man might cast over his shoulder who heard a dog bark. I saw the usher pause, grow pale and shamefaced feel like a servant who has made a mistake; he made a profound bow and then--yes, he actually dropped on his knees. All the people saw that. They saw Barber mount the platform, the musicians cease, the singer and the conductor give way before him. But never a word was said--there was a perfect hush. And yet, so far as my stunned senses would allow me to perceive, the people were not wrathful or even curious; they were just silent and collected as people generally are at some solemn ceremonial. Nobody but me seemed to realize the outrageousness and monstrosity of the vulgar-looking, insignificant Barber there on the platform, holding up the show, stopping the excellent music we had all paid to hear.

And in truth I myself was rapidly falling into the strangest confusion. For a certain time--I cannot quite say how long--I lost my hold on realities. The London concert hall, with its staid, rather sad-looking audience, vanished, and I was in a great white place inundated with sun--some vast luminous scene. Under a wide caressing blue sky, in the dry and limpid atmosphere, the white marble of the buildings and the white-clad people appeared as against a background of an immense blue veil shot with silver. It was the hour just before twilight, that rapid hour when the colors of the air have a supreme brilliance and serenity, and a whole people, impelled by some indisputable social obligation, seemed to be reverently witnessing the performance of one magnificent man of uncontrollable power, of high and solitary grandeur.--

Barber began to sing.

Of what he sang I can give no account. The words seemed to me here and there to be Greek, but I do not know Greek well, and in such words as I thought I recognized, his pronunciation was so different from what I had been taught that I may well have been mistaken.

I was so muddled, and, as it were, transported, that I cannot say even if he sang well. Criticism did not occur to me; he was there singing and we were bound to listen. As I try to hear it, now, it was a carefully trained voice. A sound of harps seemed to accompany the singing; perhaps the harpists in the orchestra touched their instruments.--

How long did it last? I have no idea. But it did not appear long before all began to waver. The spell began to break; the power by which he was compelling us to listen to him was giving out. It was exactly as if something, a mantle or the like, was falling from Barber.

The absurdity of the whole thing began to dawn on me. There was Barber, an obscure little Londoner, daring to interrupt a great musical performance so that the audience might listen to him instead! Probably because I was the only one on the spot personally acquainted with Barber, I was perceiving the trick put upon us sooner than the rest of the audience; but they, too, were becoming a little restless, and it would not be long ere they fully awoke. One thing I saw with perfect clearness and some terror, and that was that Barber himself realized that his power was dying within him. He appeared to be dwindling, shrinking down; in his eyes were suffering and a terrible panic--the distress of a beaten man appealing for mercy. The catastrophe must fall in a minute--

With some difficulty I rose from my place and made for the nearest exit. My difficulty came, not from the crowd or anything like that, but from an inexplicable sensation that I was committing some crime by stirring while Barber was on the stage, and even risking my life.

Outside it was raining.

I walked away rapidly, for although I was, to a certain extent, under the influence of the impression I have just described, some remains of common sense urged me to put a long distance between myself and the concert hall as soon as possible. I knew that the hoots and yells of fury and derision had already broken loose back there. Perhaps Barber would be taken to the police station. I did not want to be mixed up in the affair--

But suddenly I heard the steps of one running behind me. As I say, it was a wet night, and at that hour the street was pretty empty. Barber ran up against me and caught my arm. He was panting and trembling violently.

"You fool!" I cried furiously. "Oh, you fool!" I shook myself free of his hold. "How did you get out?"

"I don't know," he panted. "They let me go--that is, as soon as I saw that I was standing up there before them all, I jumped off the stage and bolted. Whatever made me do it? My God, what made me do it? I heard a shout. I think they are after me."

I hailed a passing cab and shoved Barber inside, and then got in myself. I gave the cabman a fictitious address in Kensington.

"Yes," I said fiercely. "What made you do it?"

He was bunched in a corner of the cab, shuddering like a man who has just had some great shock, or who has been acting under the influence of a drug which has evaporated and left him helpless. His words came in gasps.

"If you can tell me that!--God, I'm frightened! I'm frightened! I must be crazy. Whatever made me do it? If they hear of it at the office I'll lose my job."

"They'll hear of it right enough, my boy," I sneered, "and a good many other people too. You can't do these little games with impunity."

I caught sight of the clock at Hyde Park corner. It was near a quarter to ten.

"Why," I said, "you must have been up there over twenty minutes. Think of that!"

"Don't be so hard on me," said Barber miserably. "I couldn't help it."

And he added in a low voice: "It was the Other."

I paid off the cab, and we took a 'bus which passed by the street where Barber lived. All the way I continued to reproach him. It was not enough for him to play the fool on his own account, but he must get me into a mess, too. I might lose my work through him.

I walked with him to his door. He looked extremely ill. His hand trembled so badly that he could not fit his latchkey. I opened the door for him.

"Come up and sit with a fellow," he ventured.

"Why?"

"I'm frightened.--"

"I believe," I said roughly, "that you've been drinking--or drugging."

I shoved him inside the house, pulled the door closed, and walked away down the street. I was very angry and disturbed, but I felt also the need to treat Barber with contempt so as to keep myself alive to the fact that he was really a mere nothing, a little scum on the surface of London, of no more importance than a piece of paper on the pavement. For--shall I confess it?--I was even yet so much under the emotion of the scene back there in the concert hall that I could not help regarding him still with some mixture of respect and--yes, absurd as it may sound, of fear.

It was nearly a year before I saw Barber again. I heard that he had lost his place at his office. The cashier there, who told me this, said that although the young man was generally docile and a fair worker, he had in the last year become very irregular, and was often quarrelsome and impudent. He added that Barber could now and then influence the management--"when he was not himself," as the cashier put it--or they would not have tolerated him so long.

"But this was only momentary," said the cashier. "He was more often weak and feeble, and they took a good opportunity to get rid of him. He was uncanny," ended the cashier significantly.

I cannot imagine how Barber existed after he lost his place. Perhaps his mother was able to help a little. On the day I met him, by mere chance in the street, he looked sick and miserable; his sallow face was more blotchy than ever. Whether he saw me or not I don't know, but he was certainly making as if to go by when I stopped him. I told him he looked weak and unwell.

"Trust you to pass a cheery remark!" And he continued irritably:

"How can you expect a chap to look well if he has something inside him stronger than himself forcing him to do the silliest things? It must wear him out. I never know when it will take me next. I'm here in London looking for a job today, but even if I find one, I'm sure to do some tom-fool thing that will get me the sack."

He passed his hand across his face. "I'd rather not think about it."

I took pity on him, he looked so harassed, and I asked him to come on to a Lyons restaurant with me and have a bit of lunch. As we walked through the streets, we fell in with a great crowd, and then I remembered that some royal visitors were to proceed in great state to the Mansion House. I proposed to Barber that we should go and look at the procession, and he agreed more readily than I expected.

In fact, after a while, the crowd, and the rumor, and stirring of troops as they fell into position, evidently wrought on him to a remarkable degree. He began to talk loud and rather haughtily, to study his gestures; there was infinite superiority and disdain in the looks he cast on the people. He attracted the attention and, I thought, the derision of those close to us, and I became rather ashamed and impatient of those ridiculous airs. Yet I could not help feeling sorry for him. The poor creature evidently suffered from megalomania--that was the only way to account for his pretentious notions of his own importance, seeing that he was just a needy little clerk out of work.--

The place from which we were watching the procession was a corner of Piccadilly Circus. The street lay before our eyes bleached in the sun, wide and empty, looking about three times as large as usual, bordered with a line of soldiers and mounted police, and the black crowd massed behind. In a few minutes the procession of princes would sweep by. There was a hush over all the people.

What followed happened so quickly that I can hardly separate the progressive steps. Barber continued to talk excitedly, but all my attention being on the scene before me, I took no heed of what he said. Neither could I hear him very plainly. But it must have been the ceasing of his voice which made me look around, when I saw he was no longer by my side.

How he managed, at that moment, to get out there I never knew, but suddenly in the broad vacant space, fringed by police and soldiery, I saw Barber walking alone in the sight of all the people.

I was thunderstruck. What a madman! I expected to hear the crowd roar at him, to see the police ride up and drag him away.

But nobody moved; there was a great stillness; and before I knew it my own feelings blended with the crowd's. It seemed to me that Barber was in his right place there: this mean shabby man, walking solitary, was what we had all come to see. For his passage the street had been cleared, the guards deployed, the houses decked.

It all sounds wild, I know, but the whole scene made so deep an impression on my mind that I am perfectly certain as to what I felt while Barber was walking there. He walked slowly, with no trace of his usual shuffling uncertain gait, but with a balanced cadenced step, and as he turned his head calmly from side to side his face seemed transfigured. It was the face of a genius, an evil genius, unjust and ruthless--a brutal god. I felt, and no doubt everyone in the crowd felt, that between us and that lonely man there was some immense difference and distance of outlook and will and desire.

I could follow his progress for several yards. Then I lost sight of him. Almost immediately afterward I heard a tumult--shouts and uproar--

Then the royal procession swept by.

I said to Mr. G.M., "Whether he was arrested that day, or knocked down by the cavalry and taken to a hospital, I don't know. I have not seen or heard of him till I got that letter on Wednesday."

Mr. G.M., who is now one of the managers of a well-known tobacconist firm, had been in the same office as Barber, and notwithstanding the disparity of age and position, had always shown a kindly interest in him and befriended him when he could. Accordingly, when I received a letter from Barber begging in very lamentable terms to visit him at an address in Kent, I thought it prudent to consult this gentleman before sending any reply. He proposed very amiably that we should meet at Charing Cross Station on the following Saturday afternoon and travel in to Kent together. In the train we discussed Barber's case. I related all I knew of the young man and we compared our observations.

"Certainly," said Mr. G.M., "what you tell me is rather astonishing. But the explanation is simple as far as poor Barber is concerned. You say he has been often ill lately? Naturally, this has affected his brain and spirits. What is a little more difficult to explain is the impression left by his acts on you and other spectators. But the anger you always experienced may have clouded your faculties for the time being. Have you inquired of anybody else who was present on these occasions?"

I replied that I had not. I had shrunk from being identified in any way with Barber. I had to think of my wife and children. I could not afford to lose my post.

"No," rejoined Mr. G.M., "I can quite understand that. I should probably have acted myself as you did. Still, the effect his performances have had on you, and apparently on others, is the strangest element in Barber's case. Otherwise, I don't see that it offers anything inexplicable. You say that Barber acts against his will--against his better judgment. We all do that. All men and women who look back over their lives must perceive the number of things they have done which they had no intention of doing. We obey some secret command; we sail under sealed orders. We pass by without noticing it some tiny fact which, years later, perhaps, influences the rest of our lives. And for all our thinking, we seldom can trace this tiny fact. I myself cannot tell to this day why I did not become a Baptist minister. It seems to me I always intended to do this, but one fine afternoon I found I had ended my first day's work in a house of business.

"Much of our life is unconscious; even the most wide-awake of us pass much of our lives in dreams. Several hours out of every twenty-four we pass in a dream state we cannot help carrying some of those happy or sinister adventures into our waking hours. It is really as much our habit to dream as to be awake. Perhaps we are always dreaming. Haven't you ever for a moment, under some powerful exterior shock, become half conscious that you should be doing something else from what you are actually doing? But with us this does not last; and as life goes on such intimations become dimmer and dimmer. With subjects like Barber, on the other hand, the intimations become stronger and stronger, till at last they attempt to carry their dreams into action. That is the way I explain this case."

"Perhaps you are right."

The house where Barber was lodging stood high up on the side of a hill. We reached it after a rather breathless climb in the rain. It was a shepherd's cottage, standing quite lonely. Far down below the village could be seen with the smoke above the red roofs.

The woman told us that Barber was in, but she thought he might be asleep. He slept a lot.

"I don't know how he lives," she said. "He pays us scarce anything. We can't keep him much longer."

He was fast asleep, lying back in a chair with his mouth half open, wrapped in a shabby overcoat. He looked very mean; and when he awoke it was only one long wail on his hard luck. He couldn't get any work. People had a prejudice against him; they looked at him askance. He had a great desire for sleep--couldn't somehow keep awake.

"If I could tell you the dreams I have!" he cried fretfully. "Silliest rotten stuff. I try to tell 'em to the woman here or her husband sometimes, but they won't listen. Shouldn't be surprised if they think I'm a bit off. They say I'm always talking to myself. I'm sure I'm not.--I wish I could get out of here. Can't you get me a job?" he asked, turning to Mr. G.M.

"Well, Gus, I'll see. I'll do my best."

"Lummy!" exclaimed Barber excitedly, "you ought to see the things I dream. I can't think where the bloomin' pictures come from. And yet I've seen it all before. I know all those faces. They are not all white. Some are brown like Egyptians, and some are quite black. I've seen them somewhere. Those long terraces and statues and fountains and marble courts, and the blue sky and the sun, and those dancing girls with the nails of their hands and feet stained red, and the boy in whose hair I wipe my fingers, and the slave I struck dead last night--"

His eyes were delirious, terrible to see.

"Ah," he cried hoarsely, "I am stifling here. Let us go into the air."

And indeed he was changing so much--not essentially in his person, though his face had become broader, intolerant, domineering and cruel--but there was pouring from him so great an emanation of power that it seemed to crack and break down the poor little room. Mr. G.M. and myself had no desire to thwart him, and it never occurred to us to do so. We should as soon have thought of stopping a thunderstorm. We followed him outside on to the space of level ground before the house and listened humbly while he spoke.

As well as I can recollect, he was lamenting some hindrance to his impulses, some flaw in his power. "To have the instincts of the ruler and no slaves to carry out my will. To wish to reward and punish and to be deprived of the means. To be the master of the world, but only in my own breast--Oh, fury! The ploughboy there is happy, for he has no longings outside of his simple round life. While I--if I had the earth in my hand, I should want a star. Misery! Misery!"

He leaned upon a low stonewall and looked down on the town, over the pastures blurred with rain.

"And those wretches down there," he pronounced slowly, "who jeer at me when I pass and insult me with impunity, whose heads should be struck off, and I cannot strike them off! I loathe that town. How ugly it is! It offends my eyes."

He turned and looked us full in the face and our hearts became as water.

"Burn it," he said.

Then he turned away again and bowed his head in his arms on the wall.

I don't remember anything clearly till a long time afterward, when I found myself walking with Mr. G.M. in the wet night on a deserted road on the outskirts of the town. We were carrying some inflammable things, flax, tar, matches, etc., which we must have purchased.

Mr. G.M. stopped and looked at me. It was exactly like coming out of a fainting fit.

"What are we doing with this gear?" he said in a low voice.

"I don't know."

"Better chuck it over a hedge.--"

We made our way to the station in silence. I was thinking of that desolate figure up there on the hill, leaning over the wall in the dark and the rain.

We caught the last train to London. In the carriage Mr. G.M. began to shiver as though he were cold.

"Brrr! that fellow got on my nerves," he said; and we made no further allusion to the matter.

But as the train, moving slowly, passed a gap which brought us again in sight of the town, we saw a tongue of flame stream into the sky.

THE SHAME DANCE[18]

By WILBUR DANIEL STEELE

(From Harper's Magazine)

"Stories of New York life preferable."

Well, then, here is a story of New York. A tale of the night heart of the city, where the vein of Forty-Second touches the artery of Broadway; where, amid the constellations of chewing-gum ads and tooth paste and memory methods, rise the incandescent façades of "dancing academies" with their "sixty instructresses," their beat of brass and strings, their whisper of feet, their clink of dimes.--Let a man not work away his strength and his youth. Let him breathe a new melody, let him draw out of imagination a novel step, a more fantastic tilt of the pelvis, a wilder gesticulation of the deltoid. Let him put out his hand to the Touch of Gold.--

It is a tale of this New York. That it didn't chance to happen in New York is beside the point. Where? It wouldn't help you much if I told you. Taai. That island. Take an imaginary ramrod into Times Square, push it straight down through the center of the earth; where it comes out on the other side will not be very many thousand miles wide of that earth speck in the South Seas. Some thousands, yes; but out here a few thousand miles and a month or so by schooner make less difference than they do where the trains run under the ground.--

"Glauber's Academy"--"Einstein's Restaurant"--"Herald Square"--

I can't tell you how bizarrely those half-fabulous names fell from Signet's lips in the turquoise and gold of the afternoon. It was like the babble of some monstrous and harmless mythology. And all the while, as he kicked his bare heels on the deckhouse and harassed me with his somnolent greed for "talk," one could see him wondering, wondering, in the back of his mind. So he would have been wondering through all the hours of weeks, months--it had come to the dignity of years, on the beach, in the bush--wondering more than ever under the red iron roof of the Dutchman: "What in hell am I doing here? What in hell?"

A guttersnipe, pure and simple. That's to say, impure and unpleasantly complex. It was extraordinary how it stuck. Even with nothing on but a pair of cotton pants swimming out to me among the flashing bodies of the islanders, men, women, girls, youths, who clung to the anchor cable and showed their white teeth for pilot biscuit, condensed milk, and gin--especially gin--even there you could see Signet, in imagination, dodging through the traffic on Seventh Avenue to pick the Telegraph Racing Chart out of the rubbish can under the Elevated.--

I hadn't an idea who the fellow was. He burst upon me unheralded. I sail out of west-coast ports, but once I had been in New York. That was enough for him. He was "pals" in ten minutes; in fifteen, from his eminence on the deckhouse, with a biscuit in one hand and a tumbler of much-diluted Hollands in the other, he gazed down at his erstwhile beach fellows with almost the disdainful wonder of a tourist from a white ship's rail.--

"Gi' me an article you can retail at a nickel--any little thing everybody needs--or gi' me a song with a catchy chorus--something you can turn out on them ten-cent records.--That makes me. Don't want any Wall Street stuff. That's for Rockefeller and the boobs. But just one time le' me catch on with one little old hunch that'll go in vaudeville or the pi'tures--get Smith and Jones diggin' for the old nickel.--That makes me. Then the line can move up one. That's the thing about New York. Say, man, len' me a cigarette.--But that's the thing about Broadway. When you make, you make big. I know a guy turned out a powder-puff looked like a lor'nette--a quarter of a dollar. You know how the Janes'll fall for a thing like that--"

It was completely preposterous, almost uncomfortable. It made a man look around him. On the schooner's port side spread the empty blue of the South Pacific; the tenuous snowdrift of the reef, far out, and the horizon. On the starboard hand, beyond the little space of the anchorage, curved the beach, a pink-white scimitar laid flat. Then the scattering of thatched and stilted huts, the red, corrugated-iron store, residence and godowns of the Dutch trader, the endless Indian-file of coco palms, the abrupt green wall of the mountain.--A twelve-year-old girl, naked as Eve and, I've no doubt, thrice as handsome, stood watching us from the mid-decks in a perfection of immobility, an empty milk tin propped between her brown palms resting on her breast. Twenty fathoms off a shark fin, blue as lapis in the shadow, cut the water soundlessly. The hush of ten thousand miles was disturbed by nothing but that grotesque, microscopic babbling:

"Say you play in bad luck. Well, you can't play in bad luck f'rever. Not if you're wise. One time I get five good wheezes. Good ones! Sure fire! One of 'em was the old one about the mother-'n-law and the doctor, only it had a perfectly novel turn to it. Did I make? I did not. Why? Well, a good friend o' mine lifts them five wheezes, writes a vaudeville turn around 'em, and makes big. Big! What does that learn me? Learns me to go bear on friendship. So next time I get an idea--"

The girl had put the milk tin down between her toes on deck and turned her head.

"Digger!" I called to the mate. "Clear the vessel! Shove them all overboard! Here comes the Dutchman!"

Before the advance of the trader's canoe, painted vermillion like his establishment and flying over the water under the paddle strokes of his six men, Signet took himself hastily overboard with the rest. There was no question of protest or false pride. Over he went. Rising and treading water under the taffrail, and seeing the trader still some fathoms off, he shook the wet from the rag of a beard with which long want of a razor had blurred his peaked chin and gathered up the ends of the conversation:

"No, Dole, you can't play in bad luck f'rever. One sure-fire hunch, that's all. That makes me. When I get back to Broadway--"

A paddle blade narrowly missed his head. He dived.

The Dutchman told me more about him that evening. I dined at the trader's house. He was a big-bodied tow-haired man who spoke English with the accent of a east-coast Scot, drank like a Swede, and viewed life through the eyes of a Spaniard--that is, he could be diabolical without getting red in the face.

"No, my dear sir, that Signet shall not 'get back to Broadway.' Too many have I seen. He is too tired. Quite too tired."

"But how in the world did he ever come here, Mynheer?"

"That is simple. This Signet got drunk in Papeete. He was on his way to Australia with a pugilist. How should he be in a pugilist's company, this crab? Because he plays a good game of pinochle--to keep the pugilist's mind bright. At any event, the steamship stops at Tahiti. This Signet gets drunk. 'Soused!' And the steamship is gone without him. No more pinochle for the pugilist, what?--From then, my dear sir, it is what it shall always be; one island throws him to another island. Here he shall stay for a while--"

"Till you decide to 'throw' him to another island, eh, Mynheer?"

"No, but I am alone. Sometimes to amuse myself I will invite him to dine with me. I put on him a suit of the evening clothes which belong to my nephew who is dead. But I will not allow him the razor, since his absurd beard is amusing to me. Afterward, however, I take away the evening clothes and I will kick him out. But he is talking continuously."

"I believe you, Mynheer."

"But at last I will say: 'My dear sir, suppose that you should have the most brilliant idea; that "hunch" of yours. "Sure-fire." What advantage will it do you here in the island of Taai? You are not here on Broadway. You are too many thousand miles. You cannot come here. You are too tired. It takes money. Now, my dear sir, I am putting a trench about the godowns. If you wish, I will let you work for me.'"

"What does he say to that, Mynheer?"

"He says, 'Do you take me for an _I_talian?'

"Then I will say: 'No; you see you are too tired. Also you are too soft. You are a criminal. That's natural to you. But you think of police. You have a wish, say. Well my dear sir, but would you kill a man--three--ten men--to have that wish? No, you are too tired, and you must have the police. But here there are no police. I am the police. Why do you not kill me? Ha-ha-ha! Then you could take my property. Then you would "make big," as you say. My dear sir, that is a "hunch!" That is "sure fire!" Ha-ha-ha!'--Then I will kick him out in his coolie cotton pants."

After coffee the trader said: "One gallon of the Hollands which you sent me ashore has disappeared. The kitchen boys are 'careless.' Also I wink one eye when a schooner arrives. Of course they will dance tonight, however. You would care to go up, my dear sir?"

Of course we went. There's no other amusement in an islet like Taai but the interminable native dance. The Dutchman led the way up a narrow, bushy ravine, guiding me by sound rather than by sight.

"Up this same very path," I heard him, "has gone one uncle of mine. They pulled him to the advance with one rope around his arms. Then they cut him up and ate him. But that was many years ago, my dear sir. Now I am the law. Maybe there shall come, now and then, a Dutch gunboat to have a look-in. I raise up that flag. The captain shall dine with me. All is good. But, my dear sir, I am the law."

The "music" began to be heard, a measured monotone of drums, a breath of voices in a recitative chant, slightly impassioned by that vanished gallon. The same old thing, indeed; one of the more than fifty-seven varieties of the island hula. Then that had died away.

The light from the "place" grew among the higher leaves. And the trader, becoming visible, halted. I saw him standing, listening.

"No, my dear sir, but that is a new thing."

He started forward. He stopped again. I heard it now. Out of the familiar, hollow tautophony of drumbeats there began to emerge a thread of actual melody--an untraditional rise and fall of notes--a tentative attack as it were, on the chromatic scale of the west. No he-goat's skin stretched on bamboo would do that.

We pushed on, curious. We came out into the "place." The scene under the candlenut torches was as familiar to us as the Ohio River of Uncle Tom to the small-town schoolboy; the meager rows of three-quarter naked Kanakas, yellow with saffron and blue with tattooer's ink; the old women in the background of sultry lights and enormous shadows compounding endless balls of popoi for the feast; the local and desceptered chieftain squatting on his hams and guarding the vanished gallon between his knees; this was all as it should have been. This was the convention.--But what was really happening on that sylvan, torchlit stage that night was something as new as anything can be under the sun, because it was something that had not happened for ten thousand years.--

We who are worn with novelty can never reconquer for ourselves the thrill of an unmitigated wonder. We have sold the birthright. But imagine the toppling of a hundred centuries! You could have seen it in the eyes of those watchers, in their rapt, rapacious attention, in the conflict that went on within them visibly; traitorous applause pent and pitted against all the instinctive protest of an established art.--

"Yes, but this isn't dancing!"

Yet their bodies, one here, one there, would begin to sway--

Three Kanaka men, strangers to the island, sat cross-legged on the turf. One had taken over a drum from a local musician. The other two had instruments fashioned of dried gourds with fingering pieces of bamboo and strings of gut--barbaric cousins to the mandolin. So, on this one night in history, the music of another tribe had come to Taai. It just escaped being an authentic "tune." How it escaped was indefinable. The sophisticated ear would almost have it, and abruptly it had got away in some provoking lapse, some sudden and bizarre disintegration of tone. And the drumbeat, bringing it back, ran like a fever pulse in a man's blood.

In the center of the sward, her back to the musicians, a solitary female danced; a Kanaka woman, clothed in a single shift of the sheerest crimson cotton, tied at one shoulder and falling to mid-thigh. Not from Taai did this woman come; one saw that; not from any near island or group. Her beauty was extraordinary, like that of the Marquesans, with that peculiar straightness of all the lines, at once Grecian, austere, and incalculably voluptuous.--

The dance, as I saw it for the first time that night, I will not speak of. I have traded to many islands in many groups--even the Low Archipelago--but the island where that dance was indigenous I am sure I've never touched. Compared with any of the hulas, set and fixed in each locality as the rites of Rome, it was sophisticated; it gave an illusion of continuous invention and spontaneity; it was flesh swept by a wind and shattered; it ravished the eyes.

I don't know how long I watched; how long all the immortal flame in me lent itself to the histrionic purposes of that woman. But I shall never forget it. Never! Never!

I looked away. I saw two faces. One of them hung over my shoulder. It was the trader's. It was the face of a man who has lived a very long while wielding power of life and death over unsatisfying satisfactions. A man awakened! The toppling of a hundred centuries, indeed.

The other was Signet's. Scarred by leaf shadows, thrust like a swimmer's from the meager sea of heads and naked shoulders, it held as still as a death mask, minute by minute, except that, in the penumbra cast by the veil of goat tuft on his chin, the Adam's apple was convulsed at intervals, as if he were swallowing, as if the man were drinking!

The night grew. The torches were consumed, the "place" deserted. Somewhere the amazing voyagers had taken themselves to rest. A half moon mutilated the island--long stripes of palms, shadow scars of defiles, mottles of bushes. It was like a sleeping animal, a tiger of deep blue and blue-white, an enormous leopard.

We sat on the veranda at the Residence, the trader and I. By and by, soft-footed, Signet was there, occupying the lowermost step.

The Dutchman talked. Like the able administrator he was, he had already all the data to be procured. Into his ears had poured the whispered trickles of a score of informants.

"You are right, my dear sir. Marquesan. You have been there?"

"No."

"She is called in Polynesian, 'Queen Daughter.' My people, who know nothing as a rule, of course--but they tell me the woman is in actuality the daughter of a queen. But what is a Kanaka queen? After all, Signet, my dear sir, down there, what is one queen, out here?"

The trader was obviously in a good humor. He had not been excited for years. The man was alive. I've said he was like a Spaniard in that he could be diabolical without getting red in the face. Diabolically devious and strategic! Before he resumed he blew three mouthfuls of cigar smoke out into the moonlight, where they burst from the shadow under the roof like mute cannon shots, round and silvery. Beneath them, from the step, Signet's eyes were fixed upon the trader's face, dry, rapt, glazed with some imperious preoccupation.

"But they tell me this woman has danced in a great many islands. She will go from here to another island to dance. The three men are her husbands. But she is no wife. A maid, that woman! They have the hardihood to tell me that. Ha-ha-ha! But, then, she is daughter to a queen. With those 'husbands' she crosses a hundred leagues of sea in her sailing canoe. That royal canoe! To dance at another island.--"

As the Dutchman talked, blowing his smoke bursts into the moonlight, the vision of that Marquesan woman came again before me. I perceived her, under the heavy procession of his words, a figure of astounding romance, an adventuress incomparable, a Polynesian bacchante. No, I saw her as the missionary of a strange thing, crossing oceans, daring thirst and gale and teeth of sharks, harrying deeper and deeper into the outseas of mystery that small, devoted, polyandrous company of husbands, at once her paddlers, cooks, flunkies, watchdogs, music makers. "Queen Daughter!" Royal and self-anointed priestess of that unheard-of dance, the tribal dance, no doubt, of some tiny principality rearing a cone in the empty hugeness of the sea.--I couldn't get away from my time and race. I found myself wondering what she got out of it--in some jungle-bowered, torch-lit "high place," to feel again the toppling of ten thousand years? Was it something to feel the voluptuous and abominable beauty of that rhythm going out of her flesh, beat by beat, and entering into the flesh of those astounded and half-hostile watchers? Perhaps.--

"They tell me that she has also danced at Papeete--before the white men of the steamships," the Dutchman was informing us.

At that, from the step, from the moon-blue huddle of the castaway, there came a sound. With a singular clarity of divination I built up the thought, the doubt, the bitter perturbation in the fellow's mind. The woman had danced then at Papeete, the cross roads, the little Paris of mid-seas. And before the white men from steamers--the white men that go back!

Moved by projects deeper and more devious than ours, the Dutchman made haste to cover up what seemed to have been an overshot. Frankly, he turned his attention to the outcast.

"By the God, then, my dear Signet, have you considered?"

He knew well enough that Signet had "considered." He could see as well as I that Signet was a changed man. But he must "pile it on."

"There, my dear sir, you have it. That 'hunch!' That 'sure fire!' Do you think I do not know that New York of yours? Such a dance as that! You must believe me. If you were but a man of energy, now--" With the utmost deliberation he launched upon a tirade of abuse. "But, no, you are not a man of energy, not a man to take things in your hands. The obstacles are too big. Those three husbands! You might even take that woman, that lovely, royal dancing woman--you, my dear sir, a common street snipe. What would a woman like that, with that novel, impassioned, barbaric, foreign dance, be worth to a man on your Broadway? Eh? But obstacles! Obstacles! You have her not on Broadway. It is too many thousand miles, and you have no money. But see, if you were a man to grasp things, a man to 'hit the nail in the head,' to 'boost,' to 'go big'--then would not a man like me, who turns everything to gold--would he not say to you quickly enough, 'See here, my dear sir, but let me put so much money into the undertaking myself?'"

Under the explosions of cigar smoke, Signet continued to hold the trader with his eyes; seemed to consume him with the fixed, dry fire of his gaze. Not fathoming, as with a singular intuition I had fathomed, the profound purposes of the Dutchman, Signet saw only the implied promise in his words.--The trader broke out once more with a sardonic and calculated spleen:

"But, no! Obstacles! A sniveling little animal sees only obstacles. The obstacle not to be mounted over--those three husbands. There they lie tonight on Nakokai's platform--this beautiful, incredible 'Queen Daughter'--this gold goddess of the 'Shame Dance'--and about her those three husbands. Ah, my dear sir, but their big, lithe muscles! That is too much! To imagine them leaping up at the alarm in the moonlight, the overpowering and faithful husbands. No, he cannot put out his hand to take the gift. Pah! He is a criminal in nature, but he is afraid of the police, even here. He is not a man for the big life in these islands. He will never do anything. Those faithful, strong watch-dogs of husbands! Those strong, destructive muscles! Dear, good God, that is too much to think of--Look, my dear sir!"

He was speaking to me, as if Signet were less than the very pebbles at the step. He got up, striking the floor heavily with his boots, and I followed him into the house, where he took a lighted candle from a stand. Buried in our shadows, silent footed, Signet pursued us as the trader had meant him to do. I persist in saying that I perceived the thing as a whole. From the first I had divined the maneuver of the Dutchman.

"Look!" he repeated, flinging open a door and thrusting in the candle to cast its light over ranks and ranges of metal. It was the gun room of the Residence. Here dwelt the law. Shotguns, repeating rifles, old-style revolvers, new, blue automatics. An arsenal!

"Big brown muscles!" he cried, with a ponderous disdain. "What are they? What is the strongest brown man? Puff! To a man of purpose and indomitable will like me! Obstacles? Three husbands? Puff-puff-puff! Like that!--But all that will never be of use to him. That Signet! No, he is a street snipe who will steal a pocketbook and call it a crime. He is afraid to grasp.--But it is close in here, is it not?"

It was too bald. He stepped across the floor, unlatched and threw open the blind of the window, letting the candlelight stream forth upon a mass of bougainvillaea vine without.

"I keep this door locked; you can imagine that," he laughed, returning and shutting us out of the gun room. He twisted the key; put it in his pocket. And there, at the back, that window blind stood open.

He stared at Signet, as if the beach comber were just discovered.

"You are hopeless, my dear sir."

"Let us have a drink," he shifted.

For Signet he poured out a tumblerful of raw gin. The fellow took it like a man in a daze--the daze of a slowly and fiercely solidifying resolution. It shivered in his hand. A habit of greed sucked his lips. Into his mouth he took a gulp of the spirits. He held it there. His eyes searched our faces with a kind of malignant defiance. Of a sudden he spat the stuff out, right on the floor. He said nothing. It was as if he said: "By God! if you think I need that! No! You don't know me!"

He stalked out of the door. When we followed as far as the veranda we saw him making off into the striped light to the left.--

"Why did you call it the 'Shame Dance,' Mynheer?" We were seated again.

"Of course, my dear sir, it is not that, but it has a sound so when the Kanakas speak it. The woman spoke the name. If it is a Polynesian word I have not heard it before. 'Shemdance.' Like that."

"A good name, though. By jingo! a darn good name. Eh, Mynheer?"

But the trader's head was turned in an attitude of listening. Triumphant listening--at the keyhole of the striped, moonlit night. I heard it, too--a faint disturbance of bougainvillaea foliage around two sides of the house, near the window standing open to the gun room.

Of course the amazing thing was that the man fooled us. In the Dutchman's heart, I believe, there was nothing but astonishment at his own success. Signet, on the face of it, was the typical big talker and little doer; a flaw in character which one tends to think imperishable. He fitted so precisely into a certain pigeonhole of human kind.--What we had not counted on was the fierceness of the stimulus--like the taste of blood to a carnivore or, to the true knight, a glimpse of the veritable Grail.

All the following day I spent on board, overseeing the hundred minor patchings and calkings a South Sea trader will want in port. When I went ashore that evening, after sundown, I found the Dutchman sitting in the same chair on the veranda, blowing smoke out into the afterglow. There was the illusion of perfect continuity with the past. Yesterday, today, tomorrow. Life flowed like a sleeping river, it would seem.

But this was the status of affairs. The three brown music makers, sons-in-law to an island queen, lay on a platform somewhere within the edge of the bush, heavier by ounces with thirty-two caliber slugs, awaiting burial. And Signet, guttersnipe, beach comber, and midnight assassin, was lodged in the "calaboose," built stoutly in a corner of the biggest and reddest of the Dutchman's godowns. As for the royal dancing woman, I was presently in the trader's phrase, to "have a look at her."

At his solicitation I followed around the house, past the gun-room window (locked fast enough now, you may be sure), and up steeply through a hedged, immaculate garden, which witnessed to the ordered quality of the owner's mind. At the upper end, under a wall of volcanic tufa, we came to a summerhouse done in the native style, stilts below, palmite thatch above, and walled on three sides only with hanging screens of bamboo. Striking through this screen from the west, the rose and green of the afterglow showed the woman as in a semi-luminous cavern, seated cross-legged in the center of the platform, her hands drooped between her knees, and her large, dark eyes fixed upon the sea beyond the roof of the Residence below.

Was it the perfect immobility of defiance and disdain? Not once did her transfixed gaze take us in. Was it the quiescence of defeat and despair--that level brooding over the ocean which had been to her, first and last, a cradle and roadway for her far, adventurious pilgrimages? She sat there before our peering eyes, the sudden widow, the daughter of potentates brought low, the goddess of an exuberant and passionate vitality struck with quietude; mute, astounded by catastrophe, yet unbowed. The beauty of that golden-skinned woman abashed me.

It did not abash the Dutchman. His was another and more indomitable fiber. It is fine to succeed, beyond expectation, detail by detail of strategy. His hands were clean. He remained the perfect administrator. Had there been no other way, he would not have flinched at any necessary lengths of wholesale or retail butchery. Still, it was nice to think that his hands were spotless. For instance, if that gunboat, with its purple-whiskered Amsterdammer of a captain, should just now happen in.

His face glowed in the dusk. His eyes shone with frank calculations. Fists on hips, head thrust out, one saw him casting up the sum of his treasure-trove.--But he was an epicure. He could wait. It was even delightful to wait. When I turned away he came down with me, his hands still on his hips and his eyes on the gently emerging stars.

The man was extraordinary. Sitting on the veranda, bombarding the direction of the foreshore with that huge deliberate fusillade of cigar smoke, he talked of home, of his boyhood on the dike at Volendam, and of his mother, who, bless her! was still alive to send him cheeses at Christmas-time.

It was midnight and the moon was rising when I got away and moved down toward the beach where the dinghy waited. The horizontal ray struck through the grating of the "calaboose" at the corner of the godown I was skirting. I saw the prisoner. The upright shadow of an iron bar cut his face in two, separating the high, soiled cheeks, each with an eye.

"You mustn't leave him get at her!"

I tell you it was not the same man that had come swimming and sniveling out to the schooner less than forty hours before. Here was a fierce one, a zealot, a flame, the very thin blade of a fine sword.

"Listen, Dole, if you leave that devil get at her--"

His eyes burned through me. He failed completely to accept the fact that he was done. His mind, ignoring the present, ran months ahead. With a flair of understanding, thinking of those three travesties of husbands and the wife who was no wife, I perceived what he meant.

I left him. He was a wild man, but the quality of his wildness showed itself in the fact that he squandered none of it in shaking the bars, shouting, or flinging about. His voice to the last, trailing me around the next corner, held to the same key, almost subdued.

"By God! if that--gets at her, I'll--I'll--"

"You'll what?" I mused. You see, even now I couldn't get rid of him as the drifter, the gutter Hamlet, the congenital howler against fate. "You'll what?" I repeated under my breath, and I had to laugh.

I got the vessel under way as soon as I came aboard. The Dutchman's shipment of copra was arranged for--a week, two, three weeks (as the wind allowed)--and I was to return from the lower islands, where my present cargo was assigned, and take it on.

As we stood offshore under the waxing moonlight, as I watched the island, gathering itself in from either extremity, grow small and smaller on the measureless glass of the sea, the whole episode seemed to swell up in my mind, explode, and vanish. It was too preposterous. Thirty-eight hours chosen at random out of ten thousand empty Polynesian years--that in that wink of eternity five human lives should have gone to pot simultaneously--a man wasn't to be taken in by that sort of thing.--

Through twelve days it remained at that. Discharging cargo in the furnace of Coco Inlet, if my thoughts went back to Taai, it was almost with the deprecating amusement a man will feel who has been had by a hoax. If those minstrel husbands were murdered and buried; if that Broadway imp sweated under the red-hot roof of the godown; if that incomparable, golden-skinned heiress of cannibal emperors sat staring seaward from the gilded cage of the Dutchman, awaiting (or no longer waiting) the whim of the epicure--if indeed any one of them all had ever so much as set foot upon that microscopic strand lost under the blue equator--then it was simply because some one had made it up in his head to while me away an empty hour. I give you my word, when at noon of the thirteenth day the mountain of Taai stood up once more beyond the bows, I was weary of the fantasy. I should have been amazed, really, to find a fellow named Signet housed in the Dutchman's private jail.

As a matter of fact, Signet was not in the jail.

When I went ashore in mid afternoon, wondering a little why no naked biscuit-beggars or gin swallowers had swum out to bother me that day, I found the trader of Taai sitting on his veranda, blowing puffs of smoke from those fine Manila Club perfectos out into the sunshine. Beside him leaned a shiny, twelve-gauge pump gun which he jostled with an elbow as he bade me by word and gesture to make myself at home.

I'm quite certain I looked the fool. My eyes must have stuck out. Half a dozen times I started to speak. With some vacant, fatuous syllable I tried to break the ice. Strange as it sounds, I was never so embarrassed in my life.--For the trader of Taai, the blatantly obvious proprietor of the island's industry and overlord of its destinies--sitting there before me now with a pump gun touching his elbow--was this fellow Signet.

Till now I don't know precisely what had happened; that is to say, none of the details of the act, horrid or heroic as they may have been. All I seemed to have was a memory of the Dutchman's voice: "Why do you not kill me? Ha-ha-ha! Then you could take my property." And again an echo of his disdainful laughter at that fool, "Ha-ha-ha!" as, on some midnight, he had kicked his dinner guest and his "coolie cotton pants" out into the rain.--Why not, indeed? But who now was the "fool?"

Signet, in the course of the afternoon, brought forth gravely a bill of sale, making over in an orderly fashion to B.R. Signet, New York, U.S.A., the real and personal property of the trading station at Taai, and "signed" in the identical, upright, Fourteenth Street grammar-school script, by "the Dutchman."--I understood Signet. Signet understood me. The thing was not even an attempt at forgery. It was something solely formal--as much as to say: "This is understood to be the basis of our mutual dealings. You will see I am owner of this place."

As for the Dutchman:

"Oh, the Dutchman? Well, he decided to go away. Go home."

Before the incalculable sang-froid of this rail bird, movie usher, alley dodger, and hanger-on at dancing academies, I could not so much as summon up the cheek to ask what he had done with the body. You'll say I ought to have acted; that I ought at least to have got up and left him. That shows two things--first, that you've never been a trader in the islands; second, that you cannot at all comprehend how--well, how stunning he was. Sitting there, a single fortnight removed from cotton pants and the beach, crime-stained, imperturbable, magnificent! Spawn of the White Lights! Emperor of an island! How's that?

"It's a rich island," he impressed upon me with an intention I was yet to plumb. "Dole," he exclaimed, "it's a gold mine!"

"Is--is she here?" I ventured to demand at last.

"Is she? Say! Come and have a look."

I was between laughing and wincing at that "have a look."

Going up the garden, Signet let me know that the woman was in love with him. I might believe it or not. She would do anything for him.

"Anything!" he exclaimed, standing squarely still in the path. And in his eyes I was somehow relieved to find a trace of wonder.

Obstacles! All his life had been a turning back from small, insurmountable obstacles. Of a sudden he beheld really vast obstacles tumbling down, verily at a touch. Here was just one more of them. By a lucky chance this "Queen Daughter" did not know by whose hand she had been made thrice a widow; it was the simplest thing to suppose it the trader, the same big, blond, European man who had presently removed her "for safety" to the summer house behind the Residence.--And from the trader, by a gesture of melodramatic violence, the other and slighter man had set her free.--Perhaps even that would not have intrigued her essentially barbaric interest as much as it did had it not been for his amazing attitude of, well, let's say, "refrainment." His almost absurdly fastidious concern for what the West would call "the sanctity of her person." You can imagine--to a Marquesan woman! That! She was not ugly!

As her gaze, from the platform, dwelt upon the shrewd, blade-sharp features of the man beside me, the elementary problem in her eyes seemed to redouble the peculiar, golden, Aryan beauty of her face. Let me tell you I am human. Perhaps Signet was human, too. Standing there, encompassed by the light of that royal and lovely woman's eyes, there was surely about him a glow--and a glow not altogether, it seemed to me, of "Smith's nickel and Jones's dime." I could have laughed. I could have kicked him. The impostor! Even yet I had failed to measure the man.

Back on the veranda again, dinner eaten, and dusk come down, Signet brought out an old guitar from among the Dutchman's effects (it had belonged probably to that defunct nephew of the dress clothes), and as he talked he picked at the thing with idle fingers. Not altogether idle, though, I began to think. Something began to emerge by and by from the random fingerings--a rhythm, a tonal theme.--Then I had it, and there seemed to stand before me again the swarded "high place," with torches flaring over upturned faces and mounting walls of green. Almost I sensed again the beat in my blood, the eye-ravishing vision of that gold-brown flame of motion, that voluptuous priestess.

"Oh, yes. That!" I murmured. "It's got something--something--that tune.--But how can you remember it?"

"She helps me out. I'm trying to put it in shape."

Indeed, when I left that night and before my oarsmen had got me a cable's length from the beach I heard the strumming resumed, very faintly, up in the dark behind the Residence; still tentatively, with, now and then through the flawless hush of the night, the guiding note of a woman's voice. (A woman profoundly mystified.)

A rehearsal? For what? For that almost mythical Broadway half around the bulge of the world? Had the fool, then, not got beyond that? Yet?

Here he was, lord of the daughter of a queen, proprietor of a "gold mine." For Signet was not to be hoodwinked about the commercial value of Taai. All afternoon and evening, as through the two days following, while my promised cargo was getting ferried out under the shining authority of the pump gun, he scarcely let a minute go by without some word or figure to impress upon me the extent of his "possessions." To what end?

Well, it all came out in a burst on the third evening, my last there. He even followed me to the beach; actually, regardless of the Dutchman's nephew's boots and trouser legs, he pursued me out into the shadows.

"A gold mine! Don't be a damned boob, Dole. You can see for yourself, a big proposition for a guy like you, with a ship and everything--"

Upon me he would heap all those priceless "possessions." Me! And in exchange he would ask only cabin passage for two from Taai beach to the Golden Gate. Only deck passage! Only anything!

"Set us down there, me and her, that's all. I'll give you a bill of sale. Why, from where you look at it, it's a find! It's a lead-pipe cinch! It's taking candy away from a baby, man!"

"Why don't you keep it, then?"

The soul of his city showed through. I saw him again as I had seen him swimming in his cotton pants, with that low-comedy whisker and that consuming little greedy nickel hope of paradise. Even the gestures.

"No, but can't you see, Dole? I got a bigger thing up my sleeve. God'l'mighty, d'you think I'm a farmer? You could go big here; I don't go at all. I ain't that kind. But put me down in New York with that woman there and that there dance--and that tune--Say! You don't understand. You can't imagine. Money? Say! And not only money. Say! I could take that up to Glauber's Academy, and I could say to Glauber, 'Glauber,' I could say--"

I had to leave him standing there, up to his knees in the inky water, heaping me frankly with curses. I shall not repeat the curses. At the end of them he bawled after me:

"But I'll get there! You watch me all the same, all the same, you damn--"

The reason I didn't up-anchor and get out that night was that, when I came aboard I discovered not far from my berth the unobtrusive loom of that Dutch gunboat, arrived for a "look-in" at last.

The only thing for me to do was to sit tight. If, when the state of the island's affairs had been discovered, there should be want of explanation or corroboration, it would be altogether best for me to give it. I wasn't yet through trading in those waters, you understand.

But Signet was no fool. He, too, must have seen the discreet shade of the visitor. When the morning dawned, neither he nor the royal dancer from the Marquesas was to be found. Some time in that night, from the windward beach, ill-manned and desperate, the royal sailing canoe must have set forth tumultuously upon its pilgrimage again.

I sat in a place in Honolulu. Soft drinks were served, and somewhere beyond a tidy screen of palm fronds a band of strings was playing. Even with soft drinks, the old instinct of wanderers and lone men to herd together had put four of us down at the same table. Two remain vague--a fattish, holiday-making banker and a consumptive from Barre, Vermont. For reasons to appear, I recall the third more in detail.

He let me know somewhere in the give-and-take of talk that he was a railway telegraph operator, and that, given his first long vacation, an old impulse, come down from the days of the Hawaiian hula phonograph records, had brought him to the isle of delight. He was disappointed in it. One could see in his candid eyes that he felt himself done out of an illusion, an illusion of continuous dancing by girls in rope skirts on moonlit beaches. It was an intolerable waste of money. Here, come so far and so expensively to the romantic goal, he was disturbed to find his imagination fleeing back to the incredible adventure of a Rock Island station, an iron-red dot on the bald, high plain of eastern Colorado--to the blind sun flare of the desert--to the immensity of loneliness--to the thundering nightly crisis of the "Eleven-ten," sweeping monstrous and one-eyed out of the cavern of the West, grating, halting, glittering, gossiping, yawning, drinking with a rush and gurgle from the red tank--and on again with an abrupt and always startling clangor into the remote night of the East.

He shifted impatiently in his chair and made a dreary face at the screening fronds.

"For the love o' Mike! Even the rags they play here are old."

The consumptive was telling the banker about the new coöperative scheme in Barre, Vermont.

"For the love o' Mike!" my friend repeated. "That ain't a band; it's a historical s'ciety. Dead and buried! Next they'll strike up that latest novelty rage, 'In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree!'--Now will you listen to that. Robbin' the cemetery!"

He needn't have asked me to listen. As a matter of fact I had been listening for perhaps a hundred seconds; listening, not as if with the ears, but with the deeper sensatory nerves. And without consciously grasping what the air was I had suffered an abrupt voyage through space. I saw a torch-lit sward, ringed with blue and saffron faces and high forest walls; I saw the half-nude, golden loveliness of a Polynesian woman shaken like a windy leaf. And the beat of a goat-hide drum was the beat of my blood. I felt my shoulders swaying.

I looked at the young man. His face expressed a facetious weariness, but his shoulders, too, were swaying.

"What tune is that?" I asked, in a level tone.

His contemptuous amazement was unfeigned.

"Holy Moses! man. Where you been?"

He squinted at me. After all, I might be "stringing him."

"That," he said, "is as old as Adam. It was run to death so long ago I can't remember. That? That's 'Paragon Park.' That is the old original first 'Shimmie' dance--with whiskers two foot long--"

"The original what?"

"Shimmie! Shimmie! Say, honest to God, don't you know--?" And with his shoulders he made a wriggling gesture in appeal to my wits, the crudest burlesque, it seemed, of a divinely abominable gesture in my memory.--"That?" he queried. "Eh?"

"Shimmie," I echoed, and, my mind skipping back: "Shemdance! Shame Dance!--I see!"

"Why?" he demanded, intrigued by my preoccupation.

"Nothing. It just reminded me of something."

Then he lifted a hand and smote himself on the thigh. "Me, too! By jinks! Say, I'd almost forgot that."

He hitched his chair upon me; held me down with a forefinger.

"Listen. That was funny. It was one night--last fall. It was just after Number Seventeen had pulled out, westbound, about one-forty in the morning. There wasn't anything else till six-one. Them are always the hardest hours. A fellow's got to stay awake, see, and nothin' to keep him--unless maybe a coyote howlin' a mile off, or maybe a bum knockin' around among the box cars on the sidin', or, if it's cold, the stove to tend. That's all. Unless you put a record on the old phonograph and hit 'er up a few minutes now and then. Dead? Say, boy!"

"Well, this night it was a bum. I'm sittin' there in the coop, countin' my fingers and listenin' to Limon calling off car numbers to Denver--just like that I'm sittin'--when I hear somethin' out in the waitin' room. Not very loud.--Well, I go out there, and there's the bum. Come right into the waitin' room.

"Bum! If he wasn't the father and mother and brother and sister of the original bum, I'll eat my hat. Almost a Jew-lookin' guy, and he'd saw hard service. But he's got a kind o' crazy glitter in his eye.

"'Well,' says I, just like that, 'Well, what do you want?'

"He don't whine; he don't handle the pan. He's got that look in his eye.

"'My woman is out in them box cars,' says he. 'I'm goin' to bring her in here where it's warm.' That's what he says. Not 'can I bring her in?' but 'goin' to bring her in!' From a hobo!

"Can you imagine? It makes me think. It comes to me the guy is really off his trolley. To keep him calm I says, 'Well--'

"He goes out. 'I'm shed o' him,' I says to myself. Not a bit. About three minutes and here he comes trottin' back, sure enough, bringin' a woman with him. Now Mister--What's-y'r-name--prepare to laugh. That there woman--listen--make up your face--she's a nigger!

"He says she ain't a nigger.

"'Mexican?' says I.

"'No,' says he.

"I give her another look, but I can't make much out of her, except she's some kind of a nigger, anyhow. She's sittin' on the bench far away from the light, and she's dressed in a second-hand horse blanket, a feed sack, and a bran' new pair of ar'tics. And she don't say a word.

"'Well,' says I, 'if she ain't some kind of nigger, I'll eat my--'

"But there he is, all of a sudden, squarin' off in front o' me, his mug stuck up and his eyes like a couple o' headlights. Imagine! The guy ain't got enough meat on his bones for a rest'rant chicken. Honest to God, he looked like he'd been through a mile o' sausage mill. But crazy as a bedbug. And there's somethin' about a crazy man--

"'Hold y'r gab!' says he. To me! That gets my goat.

"'Just for that,' says I, 'you can get out o' this station. And don't forget to take your woman along with you. Get out!'

"'Get out--hell!' says he. He sticks his mug right in my face.

"'That woman you speak so light of,' says he, 'is a queen. A Canuck queen,' say he.

"I had to laugh. 'Since when was there queens in Canada?' says I. 'And since when has the Canuck queens been usin' stove polish for talcum powder?'

"The guys grabs me by the coat. Listen. He was strong as a wire. He was deceivin'. A wire with ten thousand volts into it.

"'Look at me!' says he, breathin' hard between his teeth. 'And take care!' says he. 'I'm a man no man can monkey with. I'm a man that'll go through. I'm stained with crime. I've waded through seas o' blood. Nothin' in heaven or earth or hell can stop me. A month from now rubes like you'll be glad to crawl at my feet--an' wipe their dirty mugs on the hem o' that there woman's skirt.--Now listen,' says he. 'Get the hell into that there box o' yourn over there and be quiet.'

"Crazy as a loon. I hope to die! the guy was dangerous. I see that. It come to me it's best to humor him, and I go into the coop again. I sit there countin' my fingers and listenin' to Denver tellin' back them car numbers to Limon again. By and by I'm jumpy as a cat. I get up and stick a record in the old machine.--That's what brings the whole thing back to mind. That record is this 'Paragon Park.'

"First thing I know I'm out in the waitin' room again. And what you think I see? I give you a hundred guesses."

"I'll take one," I said to him. "What you saw was the finest exhibition of the 'Shimmie' you ever clapped an eye upon. Am I right?"

The young fellow's mouth hung open. He stared at me.

"Half undressed! Honest! That nigger woman! Horse blanket, feed sack, ar'tics--where was they? Shimmie? Say! Can you imagine, in that there prairie depot at three in the mornin', and a wind howlin' under the floor? Say! Well, I can't tell you, but talk about Shimmie! Say, she's like a dead one come to life."

"Yes," I agreed, "yes.--But what about the man?"

"Well, that man, now. The record's comin' to the end and I go back in to start it over. And, here's this hobo, come in behind me.

"'What's that?' says he, pointin' to the record I got in my hand.

"Then he grabs it and looks it over. He keeps turnin' it round and round and round, starin' at it.

"'I hope you'll know it again,' says I, with a laugh.

"My laugh seems to set him off into a shiver. Then down he throws that record o' mine onto the floor and stamps on it; busts it into a million pieces under his boots. I been tellin' you he's crazy.

"'Here there!' I yell at him.

"He looks at me. Looks right through me, it seems and beyond, with them there red-rimmed eyes.

"'Seas o' blood,' says he. That's all. 'Seas o' blood!'

"Then he turns around, walks out into the waitin' room, and sits down in a heap in the farthest corner. Never another peep. There he sits till daylight, and the nigger woman, with the horse blanket on again, she sits there beside him, holdin' his hand.

"'What's up with him?' I ask her.

"She says somethin' in Mexican--or some language, anyway. But I see she don't know any more 'n me.--It's just like this. The current's gone out o' the wire.--Last I ever see of 'em, she's leadin' him off in the sunrise toward the box cars--leadin' him by the hand.--Now did you ever hear a funnier experience than that to happen to a man?"

"No," I said, "I never did."

"You had to pity him," he added.

"Yes," I agreed.--And I could think of her leading him by the hand.

I saw Signet again. It was on my first and last voyage to the Marquesas. Under the shadow of a mountain, on a stone platform facing the sea, sat Signet, quite nude save for a loin cloth, and with an unequivocal black beard falling down on his breast. There was a calmness about him.

"How did you come here?" I asked, at length.

"She wanted it," he said.

"She's a wonderful woman," he said to me, "a wonderful woman. She would do anything for me, Dole. Anything! We've got a kid."

I made shift to get in a question I had carried long in mind. "Somebody beat you out at Papeete, then, after all?"

He turned upon me a faintly quizzical look.

"I mean, somebody saw her--some tourist--that time she danced at Papeete--Remember?--and got away with it?"

The thing seemed already so remote that he had to grope back. Then he laughed.

"Lord, no. Look here, Dole. It was her herself seen the thing at Papeete. On board a tourist boat. I found out about it since I learned her language good. Her and some others went aboard to dance the hula--same as always, you know. Then some of them, the tourists, understand--Well, they had to spring the latest thing from Broadway. And then this woman of mine--Well, you can imagine. Like a woman with a new hat. Got to run right off and show it to the whole damn length and breadth of the South Seas. That's all.--And once upon a time I thought I was bright.--"

Out of the half house at the rear of the platform came the daughter of a queen, bearing under one arm a prince of this island valley, and in the other hand a bowl of coconut wine for the visitor. And for her lord. For you will see that at last, despite the malignant thrusts and obstacles of destiny, this gutter snipe of Gotham had come to a certain estate.

When I left, he accompanied me slowly to the beach.

"You ought to like it here," I said. "After all, the city could never have given you so much."

"No," he said. Wide-eyed, he took in the azure immensity of the sea. "No. Here a guy has got time to think, think, without any hurry or worry.--I been thinking, Dole, a lot. I ain't going to say nothing about it, but Dole, I b'lieve I got an idea coming along. No flivver this time. A real, sure-fire hunch. Something that'll go big in the city. Big!"

And so I left him there in the shadow of the mountain, staring at the impassable sea.

KINDRED[19]

By HARRIET MAXON THAYER

(From The Midland)

If I had had a less positive sense of revulsion for him, I might have been able to treat him with more contempt, certainly with more indifference. It was a part of Con Darton's power that those who knew him should waver in their judgments of him, should in turn reproach themselves for their hardness of heart and then grow angry at their own lack of assuredness. Perhaps it was the disquieted gray eyes in the lean leathery face, or the thin-lipped mouth that I had seen close so foxly after some sanctimonious speech, or the voice which, when not savage with recrimination, could take on a sustained and calculated intonation of appeal,--perhaps these things aroused my interest as well as my disgust. Certain it is that other men of a like feather, sly, irascible, gone to seed in a disorderly Illinois town, I should have avoided. I made the excuse of Lisbeth, and it was true that her welfare, first as his daughter and later as the wife of my friend, was very dear to my heart. Yet that could not explain the hypnotism the man had for me, befogging, as it sometimes did, an honest estimate.

There were, of course, moments of certainty. I recalled village anecdotes of bitter wrangles among the Dartons with Con always coming out best. They were a quarreling pack of sentimentalists. From all accounts Miss Etta must have been at that time a rugged girl of twenty-eight, of striking, if ungentle, appearance; and only the unsteadied sensibilities and the too-ready acrimony could have foreshadowed the large blatant woman she was to become, a woman who alternated between a generous flow of emotion on the one hand and an unimaginative hardness on the other. Only Lin Darton could have given promise then of the middle-class, semi-prosperous business man who was to justify the Darton tradition. But from all that I could gather of those younger days, before Con's marriage to Selma Perkins, he was the cock of the walk, holding the reins over them all by virtue of his shrewdness, apparently understanding the robust, over-blooded strains of their temperament and not unwilling to sound these at his pleasure.

My own experience dates back to the first time that he stood out for me a vivid picture in that sagging barn-like old farmhouse behind the elms. I was ten years old then, and I was already beginning to think highly of my father's profession, which that winter had sent him into a nest of small asthma-ridden towns. It was my privilege to trot by his side, carrying his worn black medicine case and endeavoring vainly to keep pace with his long jerky strides. On this particular occasion he had been summoned suddenly to the Dartons'; and, being unable to leave promptly, had sent me ahead postehaste with instructions, and an envelope of white pills to be taken "only in case of extreme pain."

Arriving at the farmhouse, the peaked façade of which, built to suggest an unbegotten third story, looked more hideous than ever among the bare branches, I knocked with reddened knuckles at the door. There was no response; at last, my half-frozen hand smarting with the contact of the wood, I pushed open the door and went in.

It was very still inside--a strange unnatural stillness. Even Grega and Martie, the two little plain-faced girls, were not to be seen; the drab, rose-patterned carpet muffled my footsteps, which, for some inexplicable reason, I made as light as possible. The room, faded, and scrubbed to the point of painfulness, gave only two signs of disorder, a crumpled book of verse open on the table and a Bible lying face down on the worn, orange-colored sofa. But there was something vaguely uncanny about the whole house; the very air seemed thin, like the atmosphere of approaching death. An unnameable terror took hold of me. I waited, fearing to call out. A door shut upstairs. There were footsteps, and the sound of voices,--a man's and a woman's--whispering. Then more footsteps. This time some one was taking no trouble to walk lightly.

"Quietly now," the woman's voice cautioned.

"Ye said it was a boy?" This was Mr. Darton's voice, unmistakable now.

"I didn't say," the woman's whisper floated down to me as a door creaked open. "But it is--a girl. You must be ver--"

Her words were cut off by the report of a door banging shut. There was the sibilant sound of a breath being drawn in and, at the same moment, Mr. Darton's voice again.

"What the hell made ye think I'd want to see another girl for?" he growled.

A pause followed, the emptier for the preceding stridor of his voice. Then--"You c'n get along now--we ain't got no more call fur neighbors."

With that he came stamping down the stairs and slouched into the front room, where, upon his catching sight of me, a frightened look crossed his face, followed, almost instantly, by a queer expression, a mixture of relief and cunning that gave his face a grotesqueness that I can recall to this very day.

"Well, boy," he said in that low drawl and wavelike inflection of the voice that I was to learn to know so well, "yer father sent ye, did he?"

I proffered the note and the pills, and he frowned at them a second before pocketing them.

"Come--he-re." He seemed to pull at the words, giving each a retarded emphasis. As I approached, he drew me towards him, where he had sunk on the dingy, orange-fringed sofa. "N-ow, y're a nice young fellow--a bit scrawny, though. Ye--gotta horse?"

I shook my head.

"N-ow, then--ye aughtta have a h-orse. Yer pappy should see to't."

His gray eyes, then almost blue against the loose brown skin of his face, held me speechless.

"N-ow I gotta horse--a fine horse fur a boy. Ye might ride her--like to? Then, if yer pappy wanted, he cou'd buy her fur ye?"

I looked at him in doubt.

"Yes, he could. Yer pappy has more money than anyone hereabouts, and it ain't right--I tell you, it ain't right to have a little boy like you and not give him--eve-ry thing he wants!"

His last words ended in that slow climactic inflection that made whatever he said so indisputable. It was not unlike the minister's voice, I thought; and, my glance chancing to fall on the opened Bible, I was about to question him, when the door was pushed back hurriedly, admitting my father's lank, wiry figure along with a stream of chilling air.

"G-ood morning, Mr. Breighton--a f-ine morning."

"Morning, Darton," said my father crisply. "Can I go directly upstairs?"

"No hurry n-ow, Doctor. It's all over. Mrs. Carn's been here all morning and--"

It was at this moment that Mrs. Carn, her eyelids red from weeping, an old bumpy, red worsted shawl over her head, came nervously into the room; and, without so much as even a nod to any of us, edged quicky out of the front door.

"Well--" began my father, his clear, scrutinizing eyes fixed on Darton.

"A-nother sign," expostulated Mr. Darton, "of what ye might call the smallness of human van-ity. We must forgive 'er. Ye see Selma was gettin' so upset with her rancorous gossipin'--perhaps I should have been more careful--but it was a question of Selma and--"

"Quite right, Darton," my father nodded to him. "I'm going up for a moment."

I had walked to the front window with its starched, lacy curtain; and stood still, looking out in a puzzled maze at the strangeness of the morning's happenings, a certain sense of disconsolateness stealing over me. Beyond the row of dark, spare trees I could see a gaunt figure in a black skirt and a bumpy red shawl moving along the road; and the picture of her, scurrying away, remained, as such apparently unimportant figures often will, sharply engraven on my mind. As I recall it in late years, I often wonder how my father could have mistaken the lying, rancorous woman of Con Darton's description for this stern-lipped creature, who had gone by wordlessly, shutting the door gently behind her, a door that she was never to re-open.

I turned to find myself alone in the room. Mr. Darton had disappeared as unexpectedly but more quietly than he had entered. I could hear my father's footsteps going softly about upstairs; and his voice, which though quick and crisp, had a soothing quality, talking in a gentle monotone to some one. After about ten minutes he came to the head of the steps and called to me.

"Mrs. Darton says will you come up, Tom?"

Knees quivering with the queerness of it all as well as with the icy frigidity of the hallway, I mounted the uncarpeted stairs.

Following in the direction of the voices, I came to a dark, low-ceilinged room with a pine bed, on which lay a withered-looking woman with sparsely lashed eyelids and fine, straight, straw-colored hair. Near her was a small oblong bundle, wrapped round with a bright patch-work quilt; and out of this bundle a cry issued. As I peered into it, a red weazened face stared back at me, the eyes opening startlingly round. I looked long in wonder. The woman sighed; and, my gaze reverting to her, I thought suddenly of what a neighbor had once said to my father, "Selma Perkins used to be the prettiest girl in school. She was like the first arbutus flowers." Surely this woman with her pallid skin and her faded spiritless eyes could not have been the one they meant!

There was some talk between my Father and his patient, the gist of which I could not get, absorbed as I was with the face inside the patch-work quilt. We went out silently, after I had taken a last, long look into the bundle.--Lisbeth had come into my world.

* * * * *

Some twenty years were to go by before I was to realize the significance of the scene that I had witnessed that winter morning at the old frame farmhouse. It was the year of my return to America with Jim Shepherd, whose career as a rising young painter had just begun to be heralded, that I felt impelled to revisit the place of my childhood. Not my least interest lay in seeing Lisbeth again. I remembered her as a fragile upstanding girl of twelve with soft hair the color of dead leaves and gray inquiring eyes. But whatever it was that I was to find I was conscious that I would see it with new appreciation of values. For if my eight years of medical work abroad had sharpened my discernment, even more had my intimacy with Jim Shepherd swept my mind clean of prejudice and casuistry.

To strangers Jim must often have appeared naive and undevious. The fact was that his passion for truth-probing and his worship of the undiscovered loveliness of life had obscured whatever self-consciousness had been born in him. Meeting him for the first time was like entering another element. It left you a little flat. That candor and eagerness of his at first balked you, it made negligible your traditions of thought and speech. One ended by loving him.

On our arrival at the sparse little village I told him of the Dartons. I had had no news of them for the past four years, and inquiries among the neighbors left me only the more at sea. Lisbeth they seldom saw, they said; she never went to church or meetings; and, especially since her mother, in an unprecedented flare of rebellion, had gone to live with a married sister in town, she had grown silent and taciturn. As for old Con Darton, he was going to seed, in spite of the remnants of an earlier erudition that still clung to him. That is, though he went about unshaven and in slovenly frayed clothing, he still quoted fluently from the Bible and Gray's "Elegy." Among the villagers he had come to have the reputation of a philosopher and an ill-used man. He was poor, it seemed, so poor that he had abandoned the white farmhouse and had come to live in a box-like, unpainted shack at the foot of the hill, the new boarding of which stood out harshly against the unturfed soil. Built just across the way from a disused mill, near the creek, it had become known as the "mill house." In spite of this thriftiness, Con always had money for a new horse, which he would soon trade off for a better; although these transactions had, of late, become fewer, as Con was feared as a "shrewd one." The fact seemed to call forth his neighbors' admiration, just as the tale that he had been "deserted" called forth their pity. Lisbeth, they averred, who had stuck to him, was "a hard piece to get close to."

She was standing at the bottom of the hill where the creek ran between the deserted mill and the new shack; and, as I came down the hill, I felt a sharp twinge of pain at the contrast of the fragile line of her profile against the coarse, dark sweater, at the slender grace of her body against that dead, barn-sprinkled background. I could observe her easily without her knowledge, for she was looking up, as we so often used to at twilight, to the old plank high above the sagging mill, where the turkeys fly to roost towards evening, so awkwardly and comically, with a great breathless whirring of wings. I saw her lift her arms to them with a swift, urging gesture, as though to steady their ungainly flight, and I could not be certain that she was not talking to them. Again a pang for the contracting loneliness of those bitter winters that she had lived through and must still live through, stabbed me.

She turned with a low cry and a momentary flush of gladness. But I noticed, as I questioned her as an old friend might, that the flush melted into a level pallor, and her eyes, deeper and more unquiet than I had remembered them, either wandered up the road or reverted to the last of the turkeys soaring heavily to rest.

"I used to do all those things, Tom," she said in answer to my question.

"Used to?" I laughed. "Why, it's only five years ago I was hearing that you were the best little lady on skis and skates at the West-Highlands."

Her eyelids quivered at the word.

"That year--yes," she said and averted her face.

"You mean--" I had to prod, there was no other way about it--"that you only stayed--one year?"

She nodded.

"My Freshman year prep school."

"And then--?"

"I was needed here."

"Your father--?"

"Yes,--he needed me."

"There was Grega," I insisted. "She was the man of the family."

"She's married, you know."

I recalled having heard of an unsatisfactory marriage. So she had escaped!

"And Martie?"

"Working at a store in town."

A dull rage charred at the inner fibres of my being. Here was Lisbeth, the most delicate and responsible of them all, with, I supposed, much of her mother's early gentleness and beauty, interred in this--. I did not like to dwell on it. I switched back to skating.

"Come now. One does not forget these things at twenty or twenty-one."

She smiled at me ever so faintly, a smile that sent the winter chill of that arid spot scurrying into my veins.

"One grows old fast--in the country," was all she said.

I thought of the flying figures that I had met in Norway and Sweden. It was a moment before I spoke, and then I said the wrong thing.

"But it's this very sort of air, they say, that makes for vigor--and--"

"Yes," she said thinly, "those who live in cities--say so."

She turned, her meagre dress flapping about her knees like a flag. But at the foot of the rickety outer steps that ran across the bare front of the shack crookedly, like a broken arm, I caught her by the wrist.

"You'll be going to Mrs. Carn's funeral tomorrow, Lisbeth?"

She shook her head and I thought she paled.

It was an unheard of thing for the whole population not to turn out for the funeral of one of the villagers, and Mrs. Carn, I knew, had befriended Lisbeth, in spite of Old Con's displeasure. She must have noted my surprise, for she turned on me squarely, facing me with what seemed at the time an unnecessary display of staunchness.

"Perhaps you didn't know," she said very softly, "that the Minister--couldn't come--and--"

She paused, while I made some inadequate reply, for I, too, seemed caught in the sort of mirthless evasion that engulfed her.

"He--" she made a slight backwards motion of the head towards the upper room of the shack--"is going to--preach."

My startled exclamation must have disclosed all the horror I felt at this announcement, but, before I could speak again, she had gone swiftly up the rickety steps and pushed shut the flimsy board door behind her.

The next afternoon was one that I have never been able to erase from my mind, for even more vividly than my earlier impressions of Con Darton, it marked the wizardry as well as the fearfulness of his power. A hundred times during that burial service the sound of a banged door and a rasped voice sounded in my ears and the sight of a tense, hurrying figure in a black dress and a bumpy red shawl moved before my eyes. The thin figure was lying there now and over it, his rusty black coat tails curving in the wind, like wings bent to trap the air, his gray eyes misty with emotion, hovered the man whose door she had never entered since that fateful day of Lisbeth's birth. I could not but feel that the vision of him standing there told the story of his triumphs more grimly than any recital.

The service began in a sharp, fine drizzle of rain, through which his voice sang in shifting cadences, now large and full, now drooping to a premonitory whisper with an undeniably dramatic quality. In spite of myself the words stirred within me. As he read and spoke he laid aside the turns of speech that had become his through years of association with country folk. Almost he was another man.

"Man that is born of woman--"

The words reached down through the overlying structure of thought and habit. I felt a giving and a drawing away; saw the crowd sway to his will.

"In the midst of life we are--in death."

Again the tones woke me to a sharper sense of the scene. Tears stood in many eyes. The people had melted at his touch. They were his. For a while I lost myself in watching them, until again a changed intonation drew me back to the man before us.

"We therefore commit her body to the ground--earth to earth--ashes to ashes--dust to dust--"

My will was powerless to resist the beautifully delivered lines, to doubt the integrity of the man who uttered them. The little lumps of wet earth that he threw against the coffin struck against my heart with a sense of the futility of all things. And then as suddenly, drawn by something compellingly alive and pervading, I glanced at Jim, who stood next to me; and catching the slant of his vision followed it to the edge of the crowd, where, her thin dress clinging to her knees, her face almost blue with cold, stood Lisbeth; and there was across her eyes and mouth an expression of contempt and loathing such as I had never seen in a girl so young. Jim was watching her intently, noting, with that certain appraisal of his, the etched profile; and, with all an artist's sensibility, reading life into the line of head and shoulders. What if--the idea went through my mind with the intensity of sudden pain--what if Jim and Lisbeth--? The sound of sobbing broke in upon my reverie. Con Darton was delivering the funeral oration.

"My friends," I heard him saying through the streams of thought that encompassed me, "we are here out of respect for a woman all of ye knew,--and whose life--and whose character--ye all--knew." He paused to give more weight to what he was about to say. "Margaret Carn was like the rest of us. She had her qualities--and she had her--failings. I want to say to you today that there's a time fur knowing these things--and a time fur--forgettin' them." His voice on the last words dropped abruptly away. There was the sound of rain spattering among the loosened lumps of clay. "Such a time is now." His left hand dropped heavily to his side. "I tell you there is more rejoicing in Heaven over one sinner who repenteth than over ninety-and-nine--"

I grabbed Jim's arm to assure myself of something warm and human. But his eyes were still fixed on Lisbeth, whose gaze was in turn riveted on her father's face. It occurred to me with a swift sense of helplessness that she and I were probably the only two who could even vaguely realize any of the inner motives of Con Darton's mind, as we certainly were the only persons who knew how great a wrong had been done to Margaret Carn's memory that day. To the rest she was stamped forever as a lying gossip, forgiven by the very man she had striven to harm. I shuddered; and Jim, feeling it, turned to me and drew me towards Lisbeth. Outside of the scattering crowd she saw us and greeted me gravely; then gave her hand to Jim with a little quickening gesture of trust.

We went down the road together, taking the longest way to the foot of the hill, Jim loquacious, eager; Lisbeth silent. The rain had melted into a soft mist, and through it her face took on a greater remoteness, a pallid, elfin quality. At the foot of the hill, which had to be climbed again to reach the old farmhouse, she stopped, glancing up to the plank where the turkeys were already roosting.

"Not going up the hill, Lisbeth?" I asked.

She shook her head.

"We live here now," she said.

"Not--?"

"All the year round.--It's cheaper," she added with that little touch of staunchness that had become hers.

"But it's too--"

I was cut short by the look of anguish in her eyes, the most poignant sign of emotion that I had seen her show since my return. There was an awkward silence, while I stood looking at her, thinking of nothing so much as how her head would look against a worn, gold Florentine background, instead of silhouetted against these flat unchanging stretches of unbending roads and red barns. It seemed that she and Jim were saying something to each other. Then just as she turned to go, he stopped her.

"You'll forgive me, because I'm an old friend of Tom's," he was urging, "if I ask you to drive to town with Tom and myself for supper."

There was an incongruity in the request that could not have escaped either of them. I could see the color mounting to her temples and then ebbing away, leaving her whiter than before. Her lips parted to answer, but closed again sturdily.

"It couldn't--be arranged. If it could, I should have liked to," she supplemented stiffly.

It was a stiffness that made me want to cry out to the hilltops in rebellion.

"But suppose it could be arranged?" suggested Jim.

She looked away from us.

"It couldn't be," she replied in that same inflectionless voice.

It was her voice that cut so sharply. I reflected that it was only in the very old that we could bear that look of dead desire, that absence of all seeking, that was settling over her face.

"But you'll try," insisted Jim. "You won't say no now?"

With one reddened hand she smoothed the surface of her dress. "I'll try," she promised faintly.

Dinner over, prompted perhaps by a desire to look the old place over by myself, perhaps half inclined to pay a visit to Con, I left Jim in the library to his own devices, and stepped out alone along the road. The air was clear now, and the sleet had frozen to a thin crystal layer, a presage of winter, which glistened under the clear stars and sent them shivering up at me again. As I neared the mill house, I could hear voices through its scanty boarding, and decided, for the moment, to go on, following the bed of the creek, when an intonation, oddly familiar, brought me up like the crack of a whip. It is strange the power that sounds have to transport us, and again I saw a withered woman with straw-colored hair and a small, oblong bundle in a patch-work quilt. But, as I drew nearer, my thoughts were all for Lisbeth.

"Have my girl in town with that young puppy!" Old Con was rasping at her. "I know these artist-fellows, I tell you and--"

He ripped out an oath that took me bounding up the steps. My hand on the front door knob, however, I paused, catching sight of Lisbeth through the window. She was standing with her back towards the inner door her moth-like dress blending oddly with the pallor of her cheeks, the smudgy glow of the lamp light laying little warm patches on her hair. But it was her eyes, wide and dark, that stopped me. There was pain in them, and purport, a certain fierce intention, that made me wonder if I could not serve her better where I was. And, as I waited, her voice seeped thinly through the boarding.

"I don't believe it."--Her voice came quietly, almost without intonation. "Tom Breighton wouldn't be his friend then.--They're both fine and straight--and--"

"They are, are they?" he jeered. "Ye've learned to tell such things out here in th' country, I suppose--"

"There are things," she retorted, "I've learned."

He began drawling his words again, as he always did when he had got himself under control.

"I suppose ye're insinuatin' ye don't like it here--don't like what ye're pore ol' Father c'n do fur ye?"

Her look of contempt would have cut short another man.

"Ye--wantta--go?" he finished.

She nodded mutely. And at that he flared at her terribly.

"It's like ye," he shouted, "like yere mother, like all the Perkinses. Word-breakers! cowards! shirkers!"

The words seared. The careful articulation of the afternoon was gone.

"Promised--if I sent ye to school, ye'd stay here winters to look after ye're pore ol' Father--didn't ye?" He looked at her through narrow, reddish lids, where she had backed against the door. "Didn't ye?" he repeated. "But soon's he's done fur--soon's his money's gone--"

"Stop!" she cried. "Stop i--" Her breath caught.

He stared at her, the words shaken from him by the sheer force of her. She had not moved, but, somehow, as she stood there against the unvarnished door facing him, fists at her side, eyes brilliant, she appeared to tower over him.

"I'll stay," she was saying in a queer, fierce monotone, "I'll stay here this winter anyhow if I freeze for it! I'll scrub and cook and haul wood for ye till I've paid ye back--paid ye," she repeated more softly, "till no one can say the Perkinses don't keep their word! And then--in the spring--I'm going--it'll be for good--. For always," she added, and turned limply towards the door.

To my surprise he sank heavily into the rickety chair by the stove.

"Go then," he muttered. "It's all I c'ld expect."

The door closed on her and still he sat there before the fire, head bent forward, as though he had an audience. I shrank back closer into the shadows, drawing my coat collar more snugly about my throat. It was incredible that he should play a part before her--and now alone! His very posture suggested a martyred, deserted old man. I felt myself in the presence of something inexplicable.--Then, in a frenzy of suppressed rancor, such as I had never felt before, I climbed the hill, the lumps of mud and ice seeming to cling against my footsteps as I went.

* * * * *

The winter was a bitter one that year, such as only the winters in that Northern, prostrate land can be. The countryside appeared to crouch under a passive, laden-colored sky. Then the snow came settling in deeper and deeper layers, and, as it packed down, a coating of thin ice formed on its surface. One could walk on it at times, this crust that had grown over the land like a new skin.

We smuggled sweaters and coats to Lisbeth, making them old lest Con suspect us. But, even with all we could do for her, her suffering must have been without comparison. There was no fire in the shack except that in the old rusty cook stove which she tended, and the cold made an easy entrance through the loose carpentry of the walls. With it all there were the loneliness and the mental agony. At first, when she did not know how deep was Jim's devotion, there must have been times when life held out no promise to her except that of escape.

All this time the rest of the Dartons gave no sign. Old Con, I discovered, made occasional obscure trips to the city where he saw Lin Darton and Miss Etta, the former established as a second-rate real-estate dealer, the latter, as buyer for a large department store. Later it became more apparent that it was after these trips of his that he was able to purchase another horse. He quoted more and more frequently from the Bible and the "Elegy." Such feeling as any of the neighbors may have had for Lisbeth was now completely turned aside by her tight-lipped reticence and her deft evasion of all references to her situation. Old Con was thoroughly established as a brilliant fellow, ruined by his family.

From the first I saw that the winter had to be endured like a famine. Keep Jim away of course I could not, though I did persuade him, by dint of much argument, that it would be for Lisbeth's good to meet her away from the mill house; and what pleading he may have had with her to leave all and come with him, then and there, I could only imagine. Each time Lisbeth came back from these encounters a little paler, her lips a little firmer, her eyes burning with a steadier purpose. But it was the sort of purpose that robs instead of giving life, that strikes back on itself while it still clings to a sort of bitter triumph. Knowing her, I knew that it had to be so, for to despoil her of this high integrity would be to take from her something as essentially hers as was her sensitive spirit, her fine sureness of vision.

So we kept silence until, as the first signs of spring came on again, while the country alternately was flooded or lay under rigid pools of ice, the line of her mouth seemed to soften and a glow crept into her eyes and a dreaming. I held my breath and waited. Thin she was, like something worn to the thread. The fine color had given place to a blue tint in the cold, and to a colorless gray as she bent over the old stove within. But the exquisitely moulded line of cheek and chin, the grace of motion and the deep questing light in her eyes nothing could destroy. I believe that, to Jim, she grew more lovely as she appeared to fade.

At last the day came when the water ran in yellowed torrents in the creek or stood in stagnant pools under a new sun, when the blood bounded, overwarm, in the tired body. That day Old Con caught sight of them, walking arm in arm at the top of the hill, looking down as though to find a footing, and talking earnestly. They had never before ventured so near the mill. Catching sight of them from some distance, I foresaw the meeting before I could reach them. When I came close enough to see, Lisbeth was trembling visibly, as though from a chill, and Jim stood glowering down at Old Con.

Suddenly Lisbeth edged herself sidewise between them, shouldering Jim away.

"Don't touch him!" she cried. "It's what he's waiting for you to do! Can't you see the look on his face--that wronged look of a man that's done nothing but wrong all his life?"

She stopped, the words swelling within her, too big for utterance. Jim put a quieting arm about her; and just then Old Con made an abrupt motion towards her wrist.

"I guess," he said, "that a father--"

But she was before him.

"Father! He's not my father, d'ye hear? I've kept my word to him and now I'm going to keep it to myself! You see that sun over the hills?"--She turned to Con.--"It's the spring sun--it's summer--summer, d'ye hear? And it's mine--and I'm going to have it, before I'm dead like my mother died with her body still living! You're no more my father than that dead tree the sun can't ever warm again!--It's for good--I said it would be for good--and it is!"

We took her, sobbing dryly, between us, up the road.

That night in our house Lisbeth was married to Jim. A deep serenity seemed to hang about her as though for the moment the past had been shut away from her by a mist. As for Jim, there was a wonder in his eyes, not unlike that I had seen when he came upon an old Lippo Lippi, and a great comprehending reverence. There were tears at the back of my eyes--then the beauty of the scene drove all else back before it.

* * * * *

There is one more episode in the life of Con Darton and Lisbeth. Knowing him, it would be incredible that there should not be. It happened some five years later and I was concerned in it from the moment that I was summoned unexpectedly to Mr. Lin Darton's office in the city, a dingy though not unprosperous menage located in the cheaper part of the down town district. I found him sitting amid an untidy litter of papers at the table, talking through the telephone to some one who later developed to be Miss Etta; and I had at once a feeling of suffocation and closeness, due not alone, I believe, to the barred windows and the steaming radiator. The family resemblance that Mr. Lin Darton bore to Old Con threw into relief the former's honesty, and made more bearable his heavy sentimentalism, upon which Con had played as surely as on a bagpipe, sounding its narrow range with insistent evenness of response.

"I want to talk to you about Con," he said gravely, as soon as the receiver had been hung up, "and--Lisbeth." He uttered his niece's name as though it were a thing of which he could not but be ashamed.

I said nothing to this, and waited.

"As you are still in touch with her; and, as the situation is probably already partly known to you, I thought you might be able--willing--" He hesitated, paused; and a grieved look came into his eyes that was quite genuine. I realized the fact coldly.

"Whatever I can do," I assured him, "I shall be glad to."

"None of us," he continued, "have seen Lisbeth since that terrible night four years ago, when she turned Con away from her house."

I hesitated for a moment and then said: "It was three o'clock in the morning, if I remember, and he had written that he was coming to take her little son into the country, to give him a chance," I added bitingly, "of some real country air."

"It was a cold night," continued Lin Darton, as though he had not heard me, "and she has all she needs--while he--"

"To my mind, he had no business there!" I flared.

"He was her father."

He stared at me hard, as though he had uttered the final, indisputable word.

"He forfeited all right to that title years ago."

"When?" demanded Mr. Darton.

"On the day of her birth," I snapped back at him.

"I do not understand you," he said coldly. And, when I remained silent, he added: "There is no greater crime than that of a child towards a father."

"Unless it be, perhaps, that of a father towards a child."

His sadness seemed to weigh him against the desk. I relented.

"To go against one's own--against one's own," he repeated, "and Con so sick now--"

"You must forgive me, Mr. Darton, for my views," I said more gently, "and tell me what I can do."

He pulled himself together at that.

"Con's all gone to pieces, you know--at the old mill house--no money--no one to care for him. We wanted you to come out with us. Perhaps medical care might, even now--We thought maybe," he interrupted himself hastily, "that you could get Lisbeth to help out too--and maybe come herself--"

"Come herself!" I repeated, and my voice must have sounded the sick fear that struck me.

"Money's not the only thing that counts when it comes to one's own blood," he said sententiously.

There were no two ways about it, that was his final stand. So, having assumed them of my services that afternoon, I went straight to Lisbeth.

I found her bending over the youngest baby, and, when I told her, her body became rigid for an instant, then she stooped lower that I might not see the shadow that had fallen across her face. Finally she left the child and came to me with that old look of misery in her face that I had not seen there for so long, but with far more gentleness.

"Sit down here, Tom," she said, leading me to the window seat, where the strands of sunlight struck against her head, giving fire to her dull-brown hair. She had changed but slightly in appearance, I thought, from the girl that I had known five years before; still there was a change, a certain assurance was there, and a graciousness that came from the knowledge that she was loved.

"I think you know," she began, her eyes looking not at me but straight ahead, "that I've been happy--these five years--though perhaps not how happy. But in spite of it all--there is always that something--that fear here--clutching at me--that it may not all be real--that it can't last."

Again she looked at me and turned away, but not before I had caught a flash of terror in her eyes.

"Even with them all against me, Tom, I've stuck to it--to what I feel is my right. This is my home--and it's Jim's home--and the children's as well as it's mine--and, in a way, it's--inviolate. I've sworn that nothing ugly shall come into it--nothing shall ruin it--the way our lives were ruined out there!"

Her voice trembled, but her eyes, as she turned to me at the last, were steady.

"I'll send something, of course," she said; "you will take it to them. But I'll--not go."

With her message and her money I sought out Lin Darton and Miss Etta, and together we rambled in their open Ford along those flat, dead Illinois roads that I had not seen for so long.

It is a doctor's profession to save life, and there was a life to be saved, if it were possible. But he was nearer to the end than I had thought. Grega was there in that same barren room of the mill-house, doing things in a stolid, undeft sort of way. The bed had been pulled near the stove and the room was stuffier, more untidy than in the days when Lisbeth had been there. The creaky bed, the unvarnished walls, and the rusty alarm clock, that ticked insistently, all added to the sense of flaccidity. The afternoon was late and already dark; sagging clouds had gathered, shutting out what was left of the daylight. Miss Etta lit a smudgy lamp, sniffling as she did so.

From under the torn quilt the man stared back at me, with much of his old penetration, despite the fever that racked him.

"I--want--Lisbeth," were his first words to me.

I shook my head. "She cannot come just now," I told him, hand on his wrist. "But we are here to do everything for you."

"Tel-e-phone her," he said with his old emphasis on each syllable, "and tell--her that I'm--dy-ing. Don't answer me. You know that--I--am dy-ing and I--want--her."

Miss Etta, the tears streaming over her large face, went to do his bidding. I could hear her lumbersome footsteps going down the crazy outside stairway. He gave me a triumphant look as I lifted his arm, then abruptly he drew away from me. He had an ingrained fear of drugs of any sort. There was no gainsaying his fierce refusals, so I made him as comfortable as I could while we waited. The end was very near. His face, thin almost to emaciation, was flushed to a deep, feverish red, but his lips took on a more unbending line than ever and his eyes burned like bits of phosphorescence in the semidarkness. For an hour he lay there motionless with only the shadow of a smile touching his lips at intervals.

Miss Etta had returned, letting in a gust of damp air, but bringing no definite answer from Lisbeth. Would she come? I remembered her unyielding decision, her unflinching sincerity. The rain broke now suddenly, and came roaring down the hill towards the creek. Outside the branches of elms dragged, with a snapping of twigs, across the brittle roof. A rusty stream of water crawled sizzling down the pipe of the stove. It was hot--hot with the intolerable hotness of steam. The patchwork quilt looked thick and unsmoothed. I reflected that it never could look smoothed. And how their personalities bore down upon one with a swamping sensation! Miss Etta and Grega and Mr. Lin Darton were gathered into a corner of the room and an occasional whispering escaped them. The oppression was terrific. I began to want Lisbeth, to long for her to come, as she would come, like a cool blade cutting through density. And yet--I was not sure. I found myself staring through the black, shiny surface of the window, seeking relief in the obscuring dark. It gave little vision, except its own distorted reflections, but I could distinguish vaguely the outlines of the old mill with the shadowly raft in the high branches and the smudgy round spots that I knew to be the turkeys roosting.

A fiercer current tore at the framework of the mill-house. The water rapped pitilessly against the pane. The brownish stream thickened, as it made its way down the stovepipe and fell in flat puddles on the tin plate beneath it.--Would she come?

"If she doesn't come now!" whimpered Miss Etta. "An awful girl--awful!"

I began hoping of a sudden that she would not come. Though I craved her presence in that insufferable room, I was afraid for her. A sort of nameless terror had seized me that would not be dismissed. Yet what worse thing than she had already endured could come from that bundle of loose clothes on the bed? The figure moved uneasily under the covers and made an indefinite motion. I could only guess at the words addressed to Miss Etta as she bent over him. She shook her head.

"No," she said audibly, "not yet."

With one brown, fleshless hand, that lay outside the covers, he made a gesture of resignation, but the gray eyes, turning towards me, burned black.

I could make out fragmentary bits of conversation that issued from the corner of the room.

"When it comes to one's own blood--"

The rest was lost in a surge of wind and rain.

"An awful girl--"

"She ought to be--"

A low rumble came down the hill, followed by a more terrific onslaught of rain. Outside the clap of a door came as a relief. There were steps, then, just as I had expected, the door was thrust back and she stood there letting in the fresh air of heaven, a slender sheaf of gray in her long coat and small fur toque.

A satirical gleam of triumph gleamed across the sick man's face and vanished, leaving him a wronged and silently passive creature.

"You can shut the door tight, now you've come," said Miss Etta. "A draft won't do him any good."

With this greeting she turned her back. There was a moment's silence, while Lisbeth pushed shut the flimsy door, and I, to cover her embarrassment, helped her make it fast. I noticed then that she was carrying a small leather case.

"Thermos bottles," she explained, as an aroma of comfort escaped them. But the man on the bed shook his head, as she approached.

"Not now," he said plaintively. His look reproached her. Tears stood thickly in Miss Etta's eyes. She pulled Lisbeth aside with a series of jerks at her elbow.

"Too late for that now," I heard her whisper sententiously. And then: "You had your chance."

I saw the hand, that disengaged Miss Etta's clutch, tremble; and for an instant I thought the girl would break down under the benumbing thickness of their emotion. But she merely unfastened her coat, walking towards the window as though seeking composure, as I had, in the cold shadows without, in the blurred outlines of the old mill and the intrepid row of turkeys.

He beckoned to her, but she did not see him. Rapidly failing as he was, I was certain that he was by no means without power of speech. I touched her on the arm. His words came finally in monotonous cadences.

"I am dy-ing," he said. "You will--pray?"

I saw her catch her breath. My own hung in my throat and choked me. He was watching her intently now with overweighted gray eyes, that could not make one entirely forget the long cunning line of the mouth. What courage did she have to withstand this? He was dying--of that there could be little doubt. She had grown white to the roots of her hair.

"I do not pray," she said steadily.

His eyebrows met. "You--do not pray? Who--taught--you--not to p--ray?"

"You did," she said quietly.

He lay back with a sigh.

"Outrageous!" murmured Miss Etta through her tears. "An awful girl--awful!"

The man on the bed smiled. He lifted his hand and let it fall back on the cover.

"It's all right--all right--all--right." The reddish-brown eyelids closed slowly.

Involuntarily a wave of pity shook me. It was consummate acting. That a man should play a part upon the very edge of life held in it something awesome, compelling attention. I drew myself together, feeling his eyes, sharp for all their floating sadness, upon me. Was he--? Was I--?--A crackling of thunder shook the ground. When it had passed, the rain came down straight and hard and windless like rapier thrusts. The room seemed, if possible, closer, more suffocating. He beckoned to Lisbeth and she went and stood near him. He was to put her through a still harder ordeal.

"You have never cared for me," he whispered.

There was no sound except for the steady pour outside and the rustle of Miss Etta's garments as she made angry motions to Lisbeth. Even at this moment, I believe, had he shown sign of any honest wish for affection, she would have given all she had.

"Not for many years," she said, and for the first time her voice shook.

"Ah--h!" His breath went inwards.

Suddenly he began to fumble among the bed clothes.

"The picture," he said incoherently, "your mother's picture. Pick it up," he ordered, his eyelids drooping strangely. "No--no--under the bed."

Before I could stop her she had dropped to her knees and was fumbling among the rolls of dust under the bed. An overpowering dread had clutched at me, forcing the air from my lungs. But in that instant he had raised himself, by what must have been an almost incredible exercise of will, and grabbed her by the throat.

"Curse you!" he cried, shaking her as one would a rat, "you and your mother--cur--"

His hands dropped away, limp and brittle like withered leaves. He fell back.--

* * * * *

Of course they will always find excuses for the dead, and eulogies. Even as I helped her into Jim's small curtained car and took my place at the wheel, I knew that the things that they would say about her would be more than I could bear. We plunged forward, and a moment later, rounding a curve, our headlights came full upon the outlines of the old farm with its hideous false façade. I could not resist glancing at her, though I said nothing. Her eyes were on her hands, held loosely in her lap. She did not look at me until, with another lurch, we had swung about again, and all but the road in front of us was drawn back swiftly into obscurity. I found that she had turned towards me then, and, as I laid one hand across her arm, I felt her relax to a relieved trembling. Before us the night crowded down over the countryside, masking its ugliness like a film, through which our lights cut a white fissure towards town.

SHELBY[20]

By CHARLES HANSON TOWNE

(From The Smart Set)

When I sit down to write of Shelby--Lucien Atterwood Shelby, the author, whose romantic books you must have read, or at least heard of--I find myself at some difficulty to know where to begin. I knew him so well at one time--so little at another; and men, like houses, change with the years. Today's tenant in some old mansion may not view the garden as you did long ago; and the friend of a man's later years may not hold the same opinions the acquaintance of an earlier period once formed.

I think it best to begin with the time I met Shelby on the newspaper where we both, as cub reporters, worked. That was exactly twenty years ago.

The boys didn't take to Shelby. He was too dapper, too good-looking, and he always carried a stick, as he called it; we were unregenerate enough to say cane. And, most loathsome of all, he had an English accent--though he was born in Illinois, we afterwards learned. You can imagine how this accent nettled us, for we were all unassuming lads--chaps, Shelby would have called us--and we detested "side."

But how this new acquisition to the staff could write! It bothered us to see him hammer out a story in no time, for most of us had to work over our copy, and we made Hanscher, the old managing editor, raving mad sometimes with our dilatoriness. I am afraid that in those sadly distant days we frequented too many bars, and no doubt we wasted some of our energy and decreased our efficiency. But every young reporter drank more or less; and when Shelby didn't mix with us, and we discovered that he took red wine with his dinner at Mouqin's--invariably alone--we hated him more than ever.

I remember well how Stanton, the biggest-hearted fellow the Lord ever let live, announced one night in the copy room that he was going to get Shelby tight or die in the attempt, and how loud a laugh went up at his expense.

"It can't be done," was the verdict.

The man hadn't enough humanity, we figured. He was forever dramatizing himself, forever attitudinizing. And those various suits of his--how they agonized us! We were slouches, I know, with rumpled hair and, I fear not overparticular as to our linen during the greater part of the week. Some of us had families to support, even in those young days--or at least a father or a mother up the State to whom we had to send a monthly cheque out of our meagre wages.

I can't say that we were envious of Shelby because of his single-blessedness--he was only twenty-two at that time; but it hurt us to know that he didn't really have to work in Herald Square, and that he had neat bachelor quarters down in Gramercy Park, and a respectable club or two, and week-ended almost where he chose. His blond hair was always beautifully plastered over a fine brow, and he would never soil his forehead by wearing a green shade when he bent over his typewriter late at night. That would have robbed him of some of his dignity, made him look anything but the English gentleman he was so anxious to appear.

I think he looked upon us as just so much dust beneath his feet. He would say "Good evening" in a way that irritated every one of us--as though the words had to be got out somehow, and he might as well say them and get them over with, and as though he dreaded any reply. You couldn't have slapped him on the back even if you had felt the impulse; he wasn't the to-be-slapped kind. And of course that means that he wouldn't have slapped any of us, either. And he was the type you couldn't call by his first name.

Looking back, I sometimes think of all that he missed in the way of good-fellowship; for we were the most decent staff in New York, as honest and generous and warmly human a bunch as anyone could hope to find. We were ambitious, too, mostly college men, and we had that passion for good writing, perhaps not in ourselves, but in others, which is so often the newspaper man's special endowment. We were swift to recognize a fine passage in one another's copy; and praise from old Hanscher meant a royal little dinner at Engel's with mugs of cream ale, and an hour's difference in our arrival at the office next day. Oh, happy, vanished times! Magic moments that peeped through the grayness of hard work, and made the whole game so worth while.

Well, Stanton won out. He told us about it afterwards.

On the pretext that he wanted to ask Shelby's advice about some important personal matter, he urged him to let him give him as good a meal as Mouqin could provide, with a certain vintage of French wine which he knew Shelby was fond of. There were cocktails to begin with, though Shelby had intimated more than once that he abominated the bourgeois American habit of indulging in such poison. And there was an onion soup au gratin, a casserole, and artichokes, and special coffee, and I don't know what else.

"He got positively human," Stanton put it, later, as we clustered round him in the copy room. (Shelby hadn't turned up.) "I don't like him, you know; and at first it was hard to get through the soup; but I acted up, gave him a song and dance about my mythical business matter--I think he feared I was going to 'touch him'--and finally got a little tipsy myself. From then on it was easy. It was like a game."

It seems that afterwards, arm in arm, they walked out into Sixth Avenue in the soft snow--it was winter, and the Burgundy had done the trick--and Shelby, his inhibitions completely gone, began to weep.

"Why are you crying?" Stanton asked, his own voice thick.

"Because you fellers don't like me!" Shelby choked out.

The accent and the stick went together into the gutter, Stanton laughingly told us. An immortal moment! The poseur with his mask off, at last! Beneath all that grease-paint and charlatanism there was a solid, suffering, lonely man; and even in his own dazed condition Stanton was quick to recognize it, and to rejoice in the revelation.

Moreover, he was flattered, as we always are, when our judgments have proved right. Stanton had deliberately set out to find the real Shelby--and he had.

"A man who can write as he can has something in him--that I know," he had said generously more than once. He made us see that he had not been wrong.

But it was not the real Shelby that returned to the office. That is where he missed his great opportunity. Back strutted the pompous, stained-glass, pitiful imitation of an Englishman, in a louder suit than ever, and with a big new cane that made the old one look flimsy.

We despised him more than ever. For we would have taken him within our little circle gladly after Stanton's sure report; and there would have been chance after chance for him to make good with us. But no; he preferred the pose of aloofness, and his face betrayed that he was ashamed of that one night's weakness. He never alluded to his evening with Stanton; and when Minckle, who was certain the ice had been broken, put his arm around his shoulder the next day, he looked and drawled,

"I say, old top, I wish you wouldn't."

Of course that finished him with us.

"He can go to the devil," we said.

We wanted him fired, obliterated; but the very next evening there was a murder in Harlem, and old Hanscher sent Shelby to cover it, and his first-page story was the talk of the town. We were sports enough to tell him what a wonderful thing he had done. He only smiled, said "Thanks," and went on at his typewriter.

II

It was shortly after this that Marguerite Davis assailed New York with her beauty--a young actress with a wealth of hair and the kind of eyes you dream of. She captured the critics and the public alike. Her name was on every lip and the Broadway theater where she starred in "The Great Happiness" was packed to the doors. Such acclaim was never received by any young woman. We heard that Shelby went every night for a week to see some part of the play--he couldn't, because of his assignments, view the entire performance; and it was Minckle who, after the piece had been running a month in New York, found a photograph of the star in the top drawer of Shelby's desk. He had gone there for a match--you know how informal we newspaper men are. Moreover, the picture had been autographed.

"I wish you wouldn't touch that." It was Shelby's voice. Of course he had come in at the very moment poor Minckle made his startling discovery.

With quiet dignity, and with a flush on his cheeks, Shelby took the photograph from Minckle's hand, and replaced it in the drawer.

"I always keep matches on top of my desk--when I have any," he said, in a voice like ice.

There was no denying his justified anger. No man likes to have his heart secrets disclosed; and Shelby knew that even the Associated Press could not give more publicity to the discovery than Minckle could. He dreaded--and justly, I think--the wagging of heads that would be noticed from now on, the pitiless interest in his amour.

Stanton was the only one of us, except myself, later, who ever was privileged, if you care to put it that way, to visit Shelby's apartment--diggings, Shelby always called them. There, on the walls, he told us, were innumerable photographs of Miss Davis, in every conceivable pose. They looked out at one from delicate and heavy frames; and some were stuck informally in the mirror of his dresser, as though casually placed there to lighten up the beginning of each day, or perhaps because there was no other space for them.

"You must know her awfully well," Stanton ventured once.

"I have never met the lady," was all Shelby said; and Stanton told me there was a sigh that followed the remark.

"What!" this full-blooded young American reporter cried, astounded. "You've never met this girl, and yet you have all these--all these pictures of her?"

"I don't want to lose my dream, my illusion," was Shelby's answer.

A man who would not meet the toast of Broadway--and Fifth Avenue, for that matter--if he could, was, to Stanton and the rest of us, inconceivable.

It was at the close of that winter that Shelby left us. Some there were who said he was suffering from a broken heart. At any rate, he began to free-lance; and the first of those fascinating romantic short stories that he did so well appeared in one of the magazines. There was always a poignant note in them. They dealt with lonely men who brooded in secret on some unattainable woman of dreams. This sounds precious; but the tales were saved from utter banality by a certain richness of style, a flow and fervour that carried the reader on through twenty pages without his knowing it. They struck a fresh note, they were filled with the fire of youth, and the scenes were always laid in some far country, which gave them, oddly enough, a greater reality. Shelby could pile on adjectives as no other writer of his day, I always thought, and he could weave a tapestry, or create an embroidery of words that was almost magical.

He made a good deal of money, I believe, during those first few months after he went away from Herald Square. Apparently he had no friends, and, as I have said, invariably he seemed to dine alone at Mouqin's, at a corner table. Afterwards, he would go around to the Café Martin, then in its glory, where Fifth Avenue and Broadway meet, for his coffee and a golden liqueur and a cigarette. That flaming room, which we who were fortunate enough to have our youth come to a glorious fruition in 1902, attracted us all like a magnet. Here absinthe dripped into tall glasses, and the seats around the sides, the great mirrors and the golden curtains, which fluttered in summer and remained austerely in place in winter, made a little heaven for us all, and life one long cry of joy. Here women, like strange flowers that bloomed only at night, smiled and laughed the hours away; and the low whirr of Broadway drifted in, while the faint thunder of Fifth Avenue lent an added mystery to the place, as though the troubled world were shut out but could be reached again in an instant, if you wished to reach it.

Shelby liked to be seen in such places. He said he felt that he was on the Continent, and he liked to get nervously excited over a liqueur and a mazagan of coffee, and then flee to his cozy lodgings in Gramercy Park and produce page after page of closely written manuscript.

The pictures of Marguerite Davis remained a part of the furnishings of those rooms of his--that we heard; and I knew it directly shortly after this. For I, too, left the newspaper, and went into the magazine-editing game. I found a berth on that same popular periodical to which Shelby was then contributing his matchless stories; and part of my job was to see him frequently, take him to luncheon or dinner, talk over his future plans with him, discuss the possibility of his doing a novelette which later he could expand into a full-sized volume and thereby gain an added vogue.

It was during this period that I came to know him so well--came to know him, that is, as intimately as he wished to be known. Always there was a cloak of reserve which he put on with me, as with every one. I tried to broaden his horizon, to have him meet other men--and women. He would go with me once or twice to some party, for he was clever enough to see that he must not offend me, just as he knew that I must not offend him. We were too valuable to each other, and in that odd mixing up of our affairs in this world here we were, after so brief an interval, in the relationship of editor and contributor.

He knew, however, that I had always admired his literary gifts; but I confess that the feet of clay began to creep into view when he told me, one night at the Martin, that his favorite novelist of all time was--Marion Crawford! That explained so much to me that I had not understood before. I smiled tolerantly, for my own taste ran much higher; and I seemed from then on to sense a certain cheapness in Shelby's mind, as if I had lifted the cloth over a chair and discovered cherrywood where I had hoped to find Chippendale. It is through such marginalia that we come to know people. I could not reconcile Shelby's delicate style with so forlorn a taste for other literary dishes. I said then that he would never become a great writer. He would simply mark time, artistically speaking, after reaching a certain point. Thereafter everything he produced would be but repetition.

I was right. His virgin novel proved a rank failure. The man could do nothing sustained. He was essentially a person of brilliant flashes. The book, called, as you may remember, "The Shadow and the Substance," was a tour de force in vapid writing, and it almost severed his literary jugular vein. All the reviewers, delighted with a chance to play upon his title, said it contained far more shadow than substance.

Shelby had had easy sailing up till that time. His pride was hurt by the reception of the book; and he told me he was going to flee to London--which he straightway did. Then I heard of him in his beloved England; and from there he sent me several short manuscripts filled with his old grace and charm of style--a sort of challenge to his critics. But always we waited for the story with a punch; for the story that would show there was a soul in the fellow. These pale blossoms were all very well--as magazine bait to capture the young girl reader of our smart periodical; but too many of them cloyed. It was as though you served a banquet and made hors d'oeuvres the main dish.

Yet his popularity with our readers was tremendous. Letters, addressed in feminine handwriting, came to him in our care every day, from all over the land; and he was no doubt flattered by silly women who were fascinated even more by his fiction after we printed his romantic photograph. For he had a profile that captivated many a girl, eyes that seemed to speak volumes; and no doubt there were numerous boudoirs that contained his picture, just as his rooms contained so many likenesses of Marguerite Davis.

I next heard of him in Egypt, where he said he was gathering colour for a new romance. He stayed away several months, and then blew in one morning, better-looking than ever, brown and clear-eyed. He had been all over the Orient, and he said his note-book was full of material. Now he could sit down quietly and write. He had so much to put on paper, he told me.

But he hadn't. He dreamed adventure, he craved adventure; but nothing ever happened to him. His trips were invariably on glassy seas. He traveled by himself--he hadn't even one chum whom he cared to have share his joys; and though he penetrated the jungles of Africa at one time, the lions remained mysteriously in hiding, and the jaguars didn't even growl.

I remember that this came out one night at a dinner party he and I went to at the home of a friend of mine. A Captain Diehart was there--a most delightful man of fifty or so, who had just returned from a trip around the world; and he fascinated us all by his lively recounting of certain dramatic happenings in the Far East. Zulus had captured him once, and he had come perilously close to death on so many occasions that it was a miracle that he should be sitting here now, sipping his champagne and smoking his cigarette.

On the way home--I had a habit of seeing Shelby to his doorstep during this period--he turned to me and said:

"Isn't it strange, Allison, that nothing of that kind has ever happened to me? I move about all the while, I look eagerly for excitement, I hope always for the supreme adventure--and I never find it. Yet I love romance. Why does it never come to me?"

I was silent for a few paces. I felt so sorry for him. For once he had told me what was in his heart.

"You're in love with love," I said finally. "That's what's the matter with your work, Shelby, if you'll let me say so. I wonder if you have really loved a woman--or a friend, even? If the great thing should come into your life, wouldn't it illuminate your whole literary expression? Wouldn't you write eighty per cent better. Wouldn't everything you do be sharpened splendidly alive? Why don't you meet--Miss Davis?"

"My God, man!" he let out. "Won't you allow me to keep at least one dream?"

He tried to be tragic right there in the street; but I read him like a book.

"Don't be an ass, old fellow. You're not a poet, you know--you're a happy dabbler in prose; but you've got to wake up--you've got to have some vital experience before you can hope to reach the top. This vicarious loving isn't worth a tin whistle. You're like a soldier in the barracks compared to one who's in the thick of the fight. Wake up, shake yourself, get out of your shell, and see how much greater you'll be!"

He didn't like that. He never liked the truth. How few of us do!

The next thing I knew he was off for Japan, and he sent me pretty post-cards of geisha-girls, and tried to indicate that he was having the time of his life, at last. But there was something false--I cannot quite express it--about his messages. They didn't ring true at all. He knew it, and he knew that I knew it.

III

When he came back, after a year or so, there was a vast change in him. He was more sure of himself; and in the Martin one night he told me how various other periodicals were now after him. His rate would have to go up, and all that sort of thing. He liked me, and The Athenian, but one must grow, and there were wider fields for him to penetrate; and it was all right that we had made him what he was, but in the final summing up a man must think of himself, and one's career was one's career, you know. He brought in several fashionable names, I remember--I don't recall just how he did it, but he tried to appear casual when he spoke of Mrs. Thus-and-So, who had a mansion on Fifth Avenue; and he indicated that he often dined there now. They had met in the Orient, and Reggie was a corker, too, and he might summer at Newport, and what did I think of an offer of five thousand dollars from a great weekly for a serial dealing with high life?

He sickened me that evening. Yes, he was a prig, a snob, and I don't know what else. Frankly and coldly I told him to go to the dickens. Our magazine had existed without him once upon a time, and it could go on existing without him. I was sorry to see him make such a fool of himself.

His whole attitude changed.

"Oh, don't think I mean all I say, Allison!" he pleaded. "I'll continue to give you something now and again. After all, I've got a wide audience with you people, and I don't quite wish to lose it."

That irritated me more than ever--his stupid patronage, his abominable self-assurance. I remember paying the check very grandiloquently, and leaving him alone--as he was so fond of being, at one time--in the center of the room.

When we met thereafter of course we were exceedingly chilly to each other. Once I saw him with Mrs. Thus-and-So, and he cut me dead. I suppose I looked painfully inadequate, utterly unimportant to him that afternoon. He had moved to higher circles; and after all I was only a struggling young editor, who dressed rather badly--; all right for certain occasions, but hardly one to be seen bowing to at a moment like this! I read his mind, you see; and again he knew that I knew; and of course he hated me from that time forth.

It was at this time that the phrase, "See America First," came into such wide circulation. It was considered the thing to look over the Grand Canyon or the Yellowstone Park, or to run down to Florida, rather than cross the ocean; and I next heard of Shelby in the West, diligently writing--for other magazines. He had brought out one more novel, "The Orange Sunset," and it had gone far better than the first, which must have heartened him and given him a fresh impetus. He changed book publishers, too--went to a smarter firm who did much for him in the way of publicity. And special editions, in limp covers, helped his sales. Even his short stories were brought out, and as little brochures, in gorgeous binding with colored illustrations, a single tale would attract the romantic maiden. It was a chocolate-cream appeal; but cream-drops have their uses in this weary world.

The San Francisco earthquake--I believe they always allude to it out there as "the fire"--occurred--that next year; and Stanton, who had succeeded old Hanscher in Herald Square--the latter had died in harness at his desk--heard, in that mysterious way that newspaper men hear everything, that Shelby was in the ill-fated city when the earth rocked on that disastrous night. Immediately he telegraphed him, "Write two thousand words of your experiences, your sensations in calamity. Wire them immediately. Big check awaits you."

Silence followed. Stanton and I talked it over, and we concluded that Shelby must have been killed.

"If he isn't dead, here at last is the great adventure he has been longing for," I couldn't help saying.

No word ever came from him; but two weeks later he blew into town, and again Stanton found out that he had arrived.

"Why didn't you answer my wire?" he telephoned him.

"I couldn't," Shelby rather whimpered over the line. "You see, Stanton, old top, the thing got me too deeply. I just couldn't--I hope you'll understand--write one word of it."

But it was not the grief of the man who feels so deeply that he cannot shed a tear. It was the craven in Shelby that had shocked the meretricious Shelby into insensibility, into utter inarticulateness in one of the crowning disasters of the ages.

In the face of something so real, so terribly real, he was but a puny worm, with no vocabulary to express his emotions--for he had none, save the emotion of fear. That we knew from people who had been at the same hotel where he was stopping when the great shock came. He ran through the corridors like a frightened doe, in pajamas of silk, with wonderful tassels of green. He wrung his hands, and babbled like a lunatic. "Oh, my manuscripts! My manuscripts!" were the only intelligible words that came from his white lips.

Think of it! He thought of those piffling stories--those stories of unreality, when he was experiencing the biggest thing that ever came into his little life! Do you wonder that we cared even less for him after that? That I refused to see him at all, and that even wise, understanding Bill Stanton couldn't touch his syndicate stuff?

IV

There is, of necessity, a hiatus here. One cannot write of what one does not know. I lost all trace of Shelby during the intervening years, except that I saw spasmodic productions of his in various periodicals, and guessed that he must be working in those same bachelor quarters probably still surrounded with the pictures of Miss Davis. There were rumors, also, that he went frequently to the opera with very grand people, and dined and supped on Lower as well as Upper Fifth Avenue. It was whispered in editorial circles that he had come to care more as to where he could dine next week than how he could write next week. You see, he was most personable, and he could flatter ladies, and drink like a gentleman, and wear his evening clothes to perfection--he still had them made in London--and that sort of unmarried man is always in demand in New York. Add to these social graces the piquancy of a little literary reputation, and you have the perfect male butterfly.

Shelby fluttered his way through the corridors and drawing rooms of the rich, and his later work, if you will notice, always touches upon what is called smart society. We heard that he never mentioned his newspaper days--that he was not a little ashamed of having spent so many months bending over a typewriter in a dingy, cluttered office. Yet it was there he had learned to write; and had he been true to the best traditions of those days of exciting assignments, how far he might have gone on the long literary road!

The war came. Of course Shelby was beyond the draft age--quite far beyond it; but he had no ties, was in perfect physical condition, and he might have found in the trenches another contact that would have made a thorough man of him. Again, he had always loved England and the English so dearly that it would not have been surprising had he offered his services in some way to that country when she and her allies so needed assistance. But the lists of those who offered their lives then may be searched in vain for Shelby's name.

I heard vaguely that he had gone to Borneo in September, 1914; and there he remained, "to avoid such a nasty mess as the world had come to." You see, his was a process of evasion. He loved romance when it was sweet and beautiful; but he had not the vision to understand that there is also a hard, stern, iron romance--the romance of men's companionships in difficult places.

How he did it, I never knew; but he returned from Borneo a year later, and handed to his publishers a novel called "The Blowing Rose," which dealt, as its title would indicate, with anything but the War--a sentimental tale of the old South, full of lattices and siestas through long, slow afternoons, and whispered words of love, and light conversations at dusk, and all that sort of rot. And all the while, outside his door the guns were booming; at the gates of the world a perilous storm had broken. The earth was on fire; but while Rome burned, he, like Nero, played a fiddle--and was content.

Then he wrote a comedy of British manners, and nothing would do but that he must himself journey to London in war-time to see about its production there.

Stanton and I happened to see him the day before he sailed. We met him face to face on Fifth Avenue, and he bowed to us. We returned the salute, little dreaming that never again would we see him.

For Shelby sailed on the Lusitania.

There must be a hiatus here, too; for no one saw him die. The story runs that he must have been in his cabin when the awful moment came--that he was drowned like a rat in a trap. I wonder. And I wonder if he knew in that agonizing instant that he was doomed? But was it not better to die than to emerge again from so great a calamity--so historical an episode--as he had once before emerged, and find himself again inarticulate? At least there can be some glory for him now; for one likes to think that, after all, he might have told us how he felt in so supreme a moment, and linked it, through his delicate art, with his San Francisco sensations. Could those have been revived, and put upon paper? Could Shelby ever have made a fine gesture, know himself as we knew him, and told the truth.

I doubt it. For, looking over his published works tonight, I find only one or two epigrams worthy of a brief existence. And one of those I am sure he filched from an English wit, and redressed it for his purposes. That was the only time he cared for American tailoring.

But poor Shelby! Vicarious, indeed, were all the experiences, save two, of his shallow days. But in the face of each, he was speechless. There is a law of averages, a law of compensation, you know. The balance wheel turns; the tides change; the sands of occasion shift. Fate gave this man one overwhelmingly glorious chance to say something. He was mute. The second time she sealed his lips forever.

THE WALLOW OF THE SEA[21]

By MARY HEATON VORSE

(From Harper's Magazine)

After twenty years I saw Deolda Costa again, Deolda who, when I was a girl, had meant to me beauty and romance. There she sat before me, large, mountainous, her lithe gypsy body clothed in fat. Her dark eyes, beautiful as ever, still with a hint of wildness, met mine proudly. And as she looked at me the old doubts rose again in my mind, a cold chill crawled up my back as I thought what was locked in Deolda's heart. My mind went back to that night twenty years ago, with the rain beating its devil's tattoo against the window, when all night long I sat holding Deolda's hand while she never spoke or stirred the hours through, but stared with her crazy, smut-rimmed eyes out into the storm where Johnny Deutra was. I heard again the shuttle of her feet weaving up and down the room through the long hours.

It was a strange thing to see Deolda after having known her as I did. There she was, with her delight of life all changed into youngsters and fat. There she was, heavy as a monument, and the devil in her divided among her children--though Deolda had plenty of devil to divide.

My first thought was: "Here's the end of romance. To think that you once were love, passion, and maybe even carried death in your hand--and when I look at you now!"

Then the thought came to me, "After all, it is a greater romance that she should have triumphed completely, that the weakness of remorse has never set its fangs in her heart." She had seized the one loophole that life had given her and had infused her relentless courage into another's veins.

I was at the bottom of Deolda Costa's coming to live with my aunt Josephine Kingsbury, for I had been what my mother called "peaked," and was sent down to the seashore to visit her. And suddenly I, an inland child, found myself in a world of romance whose very colors were changed. I had lived in a world of swimming green with faint blue distance; hills ringed us mildly; wide, green fields lapped up to our houses; islands of shade trees dotted the fields.

My world of romance was blue and gray, with the savage dunes glittering gold in the sun. Here life was intense. Danger lurked always under the horizon. Lights, like warning eyes, flashed at night, and through the drenching fog, bells on reefs talked to invisible ships. Old men who told tales of storm and strange, savage islands, of great catches of fish, of smuggling, visited my aunt.

Then, as if this were merely the background of a drama, Deolda Costa came to live with us in a prosaic enough fashion, as a "girl to help out."

If you ask me how my aunt, a decent, law-abiding woman--a sick woman at that--took a firebrand like Deolda into her home, all I would be able to answer is: If you had seen her stand there, as I did, on the porch that morning, you wouldn't ask the question. The doorbell rang and my aunt opened it, I tagging behind. There was a girl there who looked as though she were daring all mankind, a strange girl with skin tawny, like sand on a hot day, and dark, brooding eyes. My aunt said:

"You want to see me?"

The girl glanced up slowly under her dark brows that looked as if they had been drawn with a pencil.

"I've come to work for you," she said in a shy, friendly fashion. "I'm a real strong girl."

No one could have turned her away, not unless he were deaf and blind, not unless he were ready to murder happiness. I was fifteen and romantic, and I was bedazzled just as the others were. She made me think of dancing women I have heard of, and music, and of soft, starlit nights, velvet black. She was more foreign than anything I had ever seen and she meant to me what she did to plenty of others--romance. She must have meant it to my aunt, sick as she was and needing a hired girl. So when Deolda asked, in that soft way of hers:

"Shall I stay?"

"Yes," answered my aunt, reluctantly, her eyes on the girl's lovely mouth.

While she stood there, her shoulders drooping, her eyes searching my aunt's face, she still found time to shoot a glance like a flaming signal to Johnny Deutra, staring at her agape. I surprised the glance, and so did my aunt Josephine, who must have known she was in for nothing but trouble. And so was Johnny Deutra, for from that first glance of Deolda's that dared him, love laid its heavy hand on his young shoulders.

"What's your name, dear?" my aunt asked.

"Deolda Costa," said she.

"Oh, you're one-armed Manel's girl. I don't remember seeing you about lately."

"I been working to New Bedford. My father an' mother both died. I came up for the funeral. I--don't want to go back to the mills--" Then sudden fury flamed in her. "I hate the men there!" she cried. "I'd drown before I'd go back!"

"There, there, dear," my aunt soothed her. "You ain't going back--you're going to work for Auntie Kingsbury."

That was the way Deolda had. She never gave one any chance for an illusion about her, for there was handsome Johnny Deutra still hanging round the gate watching Deolda, and she already held my aunt's heart in her slender hand.

My aunt went around muttering, "One-armed Manel's girl!" She appealed to me: "She's got to live somewhere, hasn't she?"

I imagine that my aunt excused herself for deliberately, running into foul weather by telling herself that Deolda Was her "lot," something the Lord had sent her to take care of.

"Who was one-armed Manel?" I asked, tagging after my aunt.

"Oh, he was a queer old one-armed Portygee who lived down along," said my aunt, "clear down along under the sand dunes in a green-painted house with a garden in front of it with as many colors as Joseph's coat. Those Costas lived 'most any way." Then my aunt added, over her shoulder: "They say the old woman was a gypsy and got married to one-armed Manel jumping over a broomstick. And I wouldn't wonder a mite if 'twas true. She was a queer looking old hag with black, piercing eyes and a proud way of walking. The boys are a wild crew. Why, I remember this girl Deolda, like a little leopard cat with blue-black shadows in her hair and eyes like saucers, selling berries at the back door!"

My uncle Ariel, Aunt Josephine's brother, came in after a while. As he took a look at Deolda going out of the room, he said:

"P--hew! What's that?"

"I told you I was sick and had to get a girl to help out--what with Susie visiting and all," said my aunt, very short.

"Help out? Help out! My lord! help out! What's her name--Beth Sheba?"

Now this wasn't as silly as it sounded. I suppose what Uncle Ariel meant was that Deolda made him think of Eastern queens and Araby. But my attention was distracted by the appearance of two wild-looking boys with a green-blue sea chest which served Deolda as a trunk. I followed it to her room and started making friends with Deolda, who opened the trunk, and I glimpsed something embroidered in red flowers.

"Oh, Deolda, let me see. Oh, let me see!" I cried.

It was a saffron shawl all embroidered with splotchy red flowers as big as my hand. It made me tingle as it lay there in its crinkly folds, telling of another civilization and other lands than our somber shores. The shawl and its crawling, venomous, alluring flowers marked Deolda off from us. She seemed to belong to the shawl and its scarlet insinuations.

"That was my mother's," she said. Then she added this astounding thing: "My mother was a great dancer. All Lisbon went wild about her. When she danced the whole town went crazy. The bullfighters and the princes would come--"

"But how--?" I started, and stopped, for Deolda had dropped beside the chest and pressed her face in the shawl, and I remembered that her mother was dead only a few days ago, and I couldn't ask her how the great dancer came to be in Dennisport in the cabin under the dunes. I tiptoed out, my heart thrilled with romance for the gypsy dancer's daughter.

When my aunt was ready for bed there was no Deolda. Later came the sound of footsteps and my aunt's voice in the hall outside my room.

"That you, Deolda?"

"Yes'm."

"Where were you all evening?"

"Oh, just out under the lilacs."

"For pity's sake! Out under the lilacs! What were you doing out there?"

Deolda's voice came clear and tranquil. "Making love with Johnny Deutra."

I held my breath. What can you do when a girl tells the truth unabashed.

"I've known Johnny Deutra ever since he came from the Islands, Deolda," my aunt said, sternly. "He'll mean it when he falls in love."

"I know it," said Deolda, with a little breathless catch in her voice.

"He's only a kid. He's barely twenty," my aunt went on, inexorably. "He's got to help his mother. He's not got enough to marry; any girl who married him would have to live with the old folks. Look where you're going, Deolda."

There was silence, and I heard their footsteps going to their rooms.

The next day Deolda went to walk, and back she came, old Conboy driving her in his motor. Old Conboy was rich; he had one of the first motors on the Cape, when cars were still a wonder. After that Deolda went off in Conboy's motor as soon as her dishes were done and after supper there would be handsome Johnny Deutra. We were profoundly shocked. You may be sure village tongues were already busy after a few days of these goings on.

"Deolda," my aunt said, sternly, "what are you going out with that old Conboy for?"

"I'm going to marry him," Deolda answered.

"You're what?"

"Going to marry him," Deolda repeated in her cool, truthful way that always took my breath.

"Has he asked you?" my aunt inquired, sarcastically.

"No, but he will," said Deolda. She looked out under her long, slanting eyes that looked as if they had little red flames dancing in the depths of them.

"But you love Johnny," my aunt went on.

She nodded three times with the gesture of a little girl.

"Do you know what you're headed for, Deolda?" said my aunt. "Do you know what you're doing when you talk about marrying old Conboy and loving that handsome, no-account kid, Johnny?"

We were all three sitting on the bulkheads after supper. It was one of those soft nights with great lazy yellow clouds with pink edges sailing down over the rim of the sea, fleet after fleet of them. I was terribly interested in it all, but horribly shocked, and from my vantage of fifteen years I said.

"Deolda, I think you ought to marry Johnny."

"Fiddledeedee!" said my aunt. "If she had sense she wouldn't marry either one of 'em--one's too old, one's too young."

"She ought to marry Johnny and make a man of him," I persisted, for it seemed ridiculous to me to call Johnny Deutra a boy when he was twenty and handsome as a picture in a book.

My prim words touched some sore place in Deolda. She gave a brief gesture with her hands and pushed the idea from her.

"I can't," she said, "I can't do it over again. Oh, I can't--I can't. I'm afraid of emptiness--empty purses, empty bellies. The last words my mother spoke were to me. She said, 'Deolda, fear nothing but emptiness--empty bellies, empty hearts.' She left me something, too."

She went into the house and came back with the saffron shawl, its long fringe trailing on the floor, its red flowers venomous and lovely in the evening light.

"You've seen my mother," she said, "but you've seen her a poor old woman. She had everything in the world once. She gave it up for love. I've seen what love comes to. I've seen my mother with her hands callous with work and her temper sharp as a razor edge nagging my father, and my father cursing out us children. She had a whole city in love with her and she gave up everything to run away with my father. He was jealous and wanted her for himself. He got her to marry him. Then he lost his arm and they were poor and her voice went. I've seen where love goes. If I married Johnny I'd go and live at Deutra's and I'd have kids, and old Ma Deutra would hate me and scream at me just like my mother used to. It would be going back, right back in the trap I've just come out of."

What she said gave me an entirely new vision of life and love. "They were married and lived happy ever afterward" was what I had read in books. Now I saw all at once the other side of the medal. It was my first contact, too, with a nature strong enough to attempt to subdue life to will. I had seen only the subservient ones who had accepted life.

Deolda was a fierce and passionate reaction against destiny. It's a queer thing, when you think of it, for a girl to be brought up face to face with the wreck of a tragic passion, to grow up in the house with love's ashes and to see what were lovers turned into an old hag and a cantankerous, one-armed man nagging each other.

My aunt made one more argument. "What makes you get married to any of 'em, Deolda?"

Now Deolda looked at her with a queer look; then she gave a queer laugh like a short bark.

"I can't stay here forever. I'm not going back to the mill."

Then my aunt surprised me by throwing her arms around Deolda and kissing her and calling her "my poor lamb," while Deolda leaned up against my aunt as if she were her own little girl and snuggled up in a way that would break your heart.

One afternoon soon after old Conboy brought Deolda home before tea time, and as she jumped out:

"Oh, all right!" he called after her. "Have your own way; I'll marry you if you want me to!"

She made him pay for this. "You see," she said to my aunt, "I told you I was going to marry him."

"Well, then come out motoring tonight when you've got your dishes done," called old Conboy.

"I'm going to the breakwater with Johnny Deutra tonight," said Deolda, in that awful truthful way of hers.

"You see what you get," said my aunt, "if you marry that girl."

"I'll get worse not marrying her," said Conboy. "I may die any minute; I've a high blood pressure, and maybe a stroke will carry me off any day. But I've never wanted anything in many years as I want to hold Deolda in my arms."

"Shame on you!" cried my aunt. "An old man like you!"

So things went on. Johnny kept right on coming. My aunt would fume about it, but she did nothing. We were all under Deolda's enchantment. As for me, I adored her; she had a look that always disarmed me. She would sit brooding with a look I had come to know as the "Deolda look." Tears would come to her eyes and slide down her face.

"Deolda," I would plead, "what are you crying about?"

"Life," she answered.

But I knew that she was crying because Johnny Deutra was only a boy. Then she would change into a mood of wild gayety, whip the shawl around her, and dance for me, looking a thousand times more beautiful than anyone I had ever seen. And then she would shove me out of the room, leaving me feeling as though I had witnessed some strange rite at once beautiful and unholy.

She'd sit mocking Conboy, but he'd only smile. She'd go off with her other love and my aunt powerless to stop her. As for Johnny Deutra, he was so in love that all he saw was Deolda. I don't believe he ever thought that she was in earnest about old Conboy.

So things stood when one day Capt. Mark Hammar came driving up with Conboy to take Deolda out. Mark was his real name, but Nick was what they called him, after the "Old Nick," for he was a devil if there ever was one, a big, rollicking devil--that is, outwardly. But gossips said no crueller man ever drove a crew for the third summer into the Northern Seas. I didn't like the way he looked at Deolda from the first, with his narrowed eyes and his smiling mouth. My aunt didn't like the way she signaled back to him. We watched them go, my aunt saying

"No good'll come of that!" And no good did.

All three of them came back excited and laughing. Old Conboy, tall as Mark Hammar, wide-shouldered, shambling like a bear, but a fine figure of an old fellow for all that; Mark Hammar, heavy and splendid in his sinister fashion; and between them Deolda with her big, red mouth and her sallow skin and her eyes burning as they did when she was excited.

"I'm saying to Deolda here," said Captain Hammar, coming up to my aunt, "that I'll make a better runnin' mate than Conboy." He drew her up to him. There was something alike about them; the same devil flamed out of the eyes of both of them. Their glances met like forked lightning. "I've got a lot more money than him, too," said Hammar, jerking his thumb toward Conboy. He roused the devil in Deolda.

"You may have more money," said she, "but you'll live longer! And I want to be a rich widow!"

"Stop your joking," my aunt said, sharply. "It don't sound nice."

"Joking?" says Captain Hammar, letting his big head lunge forward. "I ain't joking; I'm goin' to marry that girl."

My aunt said no more while they were there. She sat like a ramrod in her chair. That was one of the worst things about Deolda. We cover our bodies decently with clothes, and we ought to cover up our thoughts decently with words. But Deolda had no shame, and people with her didn't, either. They'd say just what they were thinking about.

After they left Deolda came to Aunt Josephine and put her arms around her like a good, sweet child.

"What's the matter, Auntie?" she asked.

"You--that's what. I can't stand it to hear you go on."

Deolda looked at her with a sort of wonder. "We were only saying out loud what every girl's thinking about when she marries a man of forty-five, or when she marries a man who's sixty-five. It's a trade--the world's like that."

"Let me tell you one thing," said my aunt. "You can't fool with Capt. Mark Hammar. It means that you give up your other sweetheart."

"That's to be seen," said Deolda in her dark, sultry way. Then she said, as if she was talking to herself: "Life--with him--would be interesting. He thinks he could crush me like a fly.--He can't, though--" And then all of a sudden she burst into tears and threw herself in my aunt's lap, sobbing: "Oh, oh! Why's life like this? Why isn't my Johnny grown up? Why--don't he--take me away--from them all?"

After that Captain Hammar kept coming to the house. He showed well enough he was serious.

"That black devil's hypnotized her," my aunt put it.

Deolda seemed to have some awful kinship to Mark Hammar, and Johnny Deutra, who never paid much attention to old Conboy, paid attention to him. Black looks passed between them, and I would catch "Nick" Hammar's eyes resting on Johnny with a smiling venom that struck fear into me. Johnny Deutra seldom came daytimes, but he came in late one afternoon and sat there looking moodily at Deolda, who flung past him with the air she had when she wore the saffron shawl. I could almost see its long fringes trailing behind her as she stood before him, one hand on her tilted hip, her head on one side.

It was a queer sort of day, a day with storm in the air, a day when all our nerves got on edge, when the possibility of danger whips the blood. I had an uncomfortable sense of knowing that I ought to leave Deolda and Johnny and that Johnny was waiting for me to go to talk. And yet I was fascinated, as little girls are; and just as I was about to leave the room I ran into old Conboy hurrying in, his reddish hair standing on end.

"Well, Deolda," said he, "Captain Hammar's gone down the Cape all of a sudden. He told me to tell you good-by for him. Deolda, for God's sake, marry me before he comes back! He'll kill you, that's what he'll do. It's not for my sake I'm asking you--it's for your sake!"

She looked at him with her big black eyes. "I believe you mean that, Conboy. I believe I'll do it. But I'll be fair and square with you as you are with me. You'd better let me be; you know what I'm like. I won't make you happy; I never pretended I would. And as for him killing me, how do you know, Conboy, I mightn't lose my temper first?"

"He'll break you," said Conboy. "God! but he's a man without pity! Don't you know how he drives his men? Don't you know the stories about his first wife? He's put some of his magic on you. You're nothing but a poor little lamb, Deolda, playing with a wolf, for all your spirit. There's nothing he'd stop at. Nothing," he repeated, staring at Johnny. "I wouldn't give a cent for that Johnny Deutra's life until I'm married to you, Deolda. I've seen the way Mark Hammar looks at him--you have, too. I tell you, Mark Hammar don't value the life of any man who stands in his way!" And the way the old man spoke lifted the hair on my head.

Then all of us were quiet, for there stood Captain Hammar himself.

"Why, Mark, I thought you'd gone down the Cape!" said Conboy.

"I lost the train," he answered.

"Well, what about that vessel you was going to buy in Gloucester?"

"I got to sail over," said Captain Hammar.

Conboy glanced out of the window. The bay was ringed around with heavy clouds; weather was making. Storm signals were flying up on Town Hill, and down the harbor a fleet of scared vessels were making for port.

"You can't go out in that, Mark," says Conboy.

"I've got the money," says Mark Hammar, "and I'm going to go. If I don't get down there that crazy Portygee'll have sold that vessel to some one else. It ain't every day you can buy a vessel like that for the price. He let me know about it first, but he won't wait long, and he's got to have the cash in his hands. He's up to some crooked work or he wouldn't 'a' sent the boy down with the letter; he'd 'a' sent it by post, or telegraphed even. He's let me know about it first, but he won't wait. It was getting the money strapped up that made me late. I had to wait for the old cashier to get back from his dinner."

"You and your money'll be in the bottom of the bay, that's where you'll be," said Conboy.

"If I'd taken in sail for every little bit o' wind I'd encountered in my life," said Mark Hammar, "I'd not be where I am now. So I just thought I'd come and run in on Deolda before I left, seeing as I'm going to marry her when I get back."

Johnny Deutra undid his long length from the chair. He was a tall, heavy boy, making up in looks for what he lacked in head. He came and stood over Mark Hammar. He said:

"I've had enough of this. I've had just enough of you two hanging around Deolda. She's my woman--I'm going to marry Deolda myself. Nobody else is going to touch her; so just as soon as you two want to clear out you can."

There was silence so that you could hear a pin drop. And then the wind that had been making hit the house like the blow of a fist and went screaming down the road. Deolda didn't see or hear; she was just looking at Johnny. He went to her.

"Don't you listen to 'em, Deolda. I'll make money for you; I'll make more than any of 'em. It's right you should want it. Tell 'em that you're going to marry me, Deolda. Clear 'em out."

That was where he made his mistake. He should have cleared them out. Now Captain Hammar spoke:

"You're quite a little man, ain't you, Johnny? Here's where you got a chance to prove it. You can make a hundred dollars tonight by taking the Anita across to Gloucester with me. We'll start right off."

Everyone was quiet. Then old Conboy cried out:

"Don't go, Mark. Don't go! Why, it's murder to tempt that boy out there."

At the word "murder" Deolda drew her breath in and clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes staring at Johnny Deutra. "Nick" Hammar pretended he hadn't noticed. He sat smiling at Johnny.

"We-ll," he drawled. "How about it, Johnny? Goin'?"

Johnny had been studying, his eyes on the floor.

"I'll go with you," he said.

Then again for a half minute nobody spoke. Captain Hammar glared, letting us see what was in his dark mind. Old Conboy shrunk into himself and Deolda sat with her wild eyes going from one to the other, but not moving. We were all thinking of what old Conboy had said just before Captain Hammar had flung open the door. A sudden impulse seized me; I wanted to cry out: "Don't go, Johnny. He'll shove you overboard." For I knew that was what was in "Nick" Hammar's mind as well as if he had told me. A terrible excitement went through me. I wanted to fling myself at "Nick" Hammar and beat him with my fists and say, "He sha'n't go--he sha'n't, he sha'n't!" But I sat there unable to move or speak. Then suddenly into the frozen silence came the voice of "Nick" Hammar. This is what he said in his easy and tranquil way:

"Well, I'm goin' along. Are you coming, Conboy?" He spoke as though nothing had happened. "I'll meet you down at the wharf, Johnny, in a half hour. I'll leave you to say good-by to Deolda." They went out, the wind blowing the door shut behind them.

Deolda got up and so did Johnny. They stood facing each other in the queer yellow light of the coming storm. They didn't notice my aunt or me.

"You going?" asked Deolda.

They looked into each other's eyes, and he answered so I could barely hear:

"Sure."

"You know what he's thinking about?" said Deolda.

Again Johnny waited before he answered in a voice hardly above a whisper:

"I can guess."

Deolda went up slowly to him and put one of her long hands on each of his shoulders. She looked deep into his eyes. She didn't speak; she just looked. And he looked back, as though trying to find out what she had in her heart, and as he looked a little flicker of horror went over his face. Then he smiled a slow smile, as though he had understood something and consented to it--and it was a queer smile to see on the face of a young fellow. It was as if the youth of Johnny Deutra had passed away forever. Then Deolda said to him:

"Good for you, Johnny Deutra!" and put out her hand, and he laid his in hers and they shook on it, though no word had passed between them. And all this time my aunt and I sat motionless on the haircloth sofa next to the wall. And I tell you as I watched them my blood ran cold, though I didn't understand what it was about. But later I understood well enough.

There never was so long an evening. The squall blew over and a heavy blow set in. I could hear the pounding of the waves on the outside shore. Deolda sat outside the circle of the lamp in a horrible tense quiet. My aunt tried to make talk, and made a failure of it. It was awful to hear the clatter of her voice trying to sound natural in the face of the whistle of the storm, and out wallowing in it the gasoline dory with its freight of hatred. I hated to go to bed, for my room gave on the sea, and it seemed as if the night and the tragedy which I had glimpsed would come peering in at me with ghastly eyes.

I had just got under the blanket when the door opened quietly.

"Who is that?" I asked.

"It's me--Deolda."

She went to the window and peered out into the storm, as though she were trying to penetrate its mystery. I couldn't bear her standing there; it was as if I could hear her heart bleed. It was as if for a while I had become fused with her and her love for Johnny Deutra and with all the dark things that had happened in our house this afternoon. I got out of bed and went to her and put my hand in hers. If she'd only cried, or if she'd only spoken I could have stood it; if she'd said in words what was going on inside her mind. But she sat there with her hand cold in mine, staring into the storm through all the long hours of the night.

Toward the end I was so tired that my mind went to sleep in that way your mind can when your body stays awake and everything seems far off and like things happening in a nightmare except that you know they're real. At last daylight broke, very pale, threatening, and slate colored. Deolda got up and began padding up and down the floor, back and forth, like a soul in torment.

About ten o'clock old Conboy came in.

"I got the license, Deolda," he said.

"All right," said Deolda, "all right--go away." And she kept on padding up and down the room like a leopard in a cage.

Conboy beckoned my aunt out into the entry. I followed.

"What ails her?" he asked.

"I guess she thinks she sent Johnny Deutra to his grave," said my aunt.

Conboy peered in the door at Deolda. Her face looked like a yellow mask of death with her black hair hanging around her.

"God!" he said, in a whisper. "She cares!" I don't believe it had dawned on him before that she was anything but a wild devil.

All that day the Anita wasn't heard from. That night I was tired out and went to bed. But I couldn't sleep; Deolda sat staring out into the dark as she had the night before.

Next morning I was standing outside the house when one of Deolda's brothers came tearing along. It was Joe, the youngest of one-armed Manel's brood, a boy of sixteen who worked in the fish factory.

"Deolda!" he yelled. "Deolda, Johnny's all right!"

She caught him by the wrist. "Tell me what's happened!"

"The other feller--he's lost."

"Lost?" said Deolda, her breath drawn in sharply. "Lost--how?"

"Washed overboard," said Joe. "See--looka here. When Johnny got ashore this is what he says." He read aloud from the newspaper he had brought, a word at a time, like a grammar-school kid:

"With a lame propeller and driven out of her course, the Anita made Plymouth this morning without her Captain, Mark Hammar. John Deutra, who brought her in, made the following statement:

"'I was lying in my bunk unable to sleep, for we were being combed by waves again and again. Suddenly I noticed we were wallowing in the trough of the sea, and went on deck to see what was wrong. I groped my way to the wheel. It swung empty. Captain Hammar was gone, washed overboard in the storm. How I made port myself I don't know--'"

Here his reading was interrupted by an awful noise--Deolda laughing, Deolda laughing and sobbing, her hands above her head, a wild thing, terrible.

"Go on," my aunt told the boy. "Go home!" And she and Deolda went into the house, her laughter filling it with awful sound.

After a time she quieted down. She stood staring out of the window, hands clenched.

"Well?" she said, defiantly. "Well?" She looked at us, and what was in her eyes made chills go down me. Triumph was what was in her eyes. Then suddenly she flung her arms around my aunt and kissed her. "Oh," she cried, "kiss me, Auntie, kiss me! He's not dead, my Johnny--not dead!"

"Go up to your room, Deolda," said my aunt, "and rest." She patted her shoulder just as though she were a little girl, for all the thoughts that were crawling around our hearts.

When later in the day Conboy came, "Where's Deolda?" he asked.

"I'll call her," I said. But Deolda wasn't anywhere; not a sign of her. She'd vanished. Conboy and Aunt Josephine looked at each other.

"She's gone to him," said Conboy.

My aunt leaned toward him and whispered, "What do you think?"

"Hush!" said Conboy, sternly. "Don't think, Josephine! Don't speak. Don't even dream! Don't let your mind stray. You know that crew couldn't have made port in fair weather together. The strongest man won--that's all!"

"Then you believe--" my aunt began.

"Hush!" he said, and put his hand over her mouth. Then he laughed suddenly and slapped his thigh. "God!" he said. "Deolda--Can you beat her? She's got luck--by gorry, she's got luck! You got a pen and ink?"

"What for?" said my aunt.

"I want to write out a weddin' present for Deolda," he said. "Wouldn't do to have her without a penny."

So he wrote out a check for her. And then in two months old Conboy died and left every other cent to Deolda. You might have imagined him sardonic and grinning over it, looking across at Deolda's luck from the other side of the grave.

But what had happened wasn't luck. I knew that she had sent her Johnny out informed with her own terrible courage. A weaker woman could have kept him back. A weaker woman would have had remorse. But Deolda had the courage to hold what she had taken, and maybe this courage of hers is the very heart of romance.

I looked at her, stately, monumental, and I wondered if she ever thinks of that night when the wallow of the sea claimed Mark Hammar instead of Johnny Deutra. But there's one thing I'm sure of, and that is, if she does think of it the old look of triumph comes over her face.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: The order in which the stories in this volume are printed is not intended as an indication of their comparative excellence; the arrangement is alphabetical by authors.]

[Footnote 2: Copyright, 1921, by George H. Doran Company. Copyright, 1921, by B.W. Huebsch. From "The Triumph of the Egg and other Stories."]

[Footnote 3: Copyright, 1921, by The Dial Publishing Company, Inc. Copyright, 1921, by Boni and Liveright, Inc. From "Ghitza, and Other Tales of Gypsy Blood."]

[Footnote 4: Copyright, 1921, by The Pictorial Review Company. Copyright, 1921, by Charles Scribner's Sons. From "Chance Encounters."]

[Footnote 5: Copyright, 1921, by The Curtis Publishing Company. Copyright, 1921, by Irvin S. Cobb. From a forthcoming volume to be published by George H. Doran Co.]

[Footnote 6: Copyright, 1921, by The Crowell Publishing Company. Copyright, 1922, by Lincoln Colcord.]

[Footnote 7: Copyright, 1920, by Charles J. Finger.]

[Footnote 8: Copyright, 1920, by The Dial Publishing Company, Inc. Copyright, 1922, by Waldo Frank.]

[Footnote 9: Copyright, 1920, by Charles Scribner's Sons. Copyright, 1922, by Katharine Fullerton Gerould.]

[Footnote 10: Copyright, 1920, by the International Magazine Co. Copyright, 1922, by Doubleday, Page & Co.]

[Footnote 11: Copyright, 1921, by The Pictorial Review Company, Inc. Copyright, 1922, by Susan Glaspell Cook.]

[Footnote 12: Copyright, 1921, by Harper & Brothers. Copyright, 1922, by Richard Matthews Hallet.]

[Footnote 13: Copyright, 1921, by Charles Scribner's Sons. Copyright, 1922, by Prances Noyes Hart.]

[Footnote 14: Copyright, 1921, by The International Magazine Company. Copyright, 1922, by Fannie Hurst.]

[Footnote 15: Copyright, 1921, by The Dial Publishing Company, Inc. Copyright, 1922, by Manuel Komroff.]

[Footnote 16: Copyright, 1920, by John T. Frederick. Copyright, 1922, by Frank Luther Mott.]

[Footnote 17: Copyright, 1921, by Smart Set Company, Inc. Copyright, 1922, by Vincent O'Sullivan.]

[Footnote 18: Copyright, 1920, by Harper & Brothers. Copyright, 1922, by Wilbur Daniel Steele.]

[Footnote 19: Copyright, 1921, by John T. Frederick. Copyright, 1922, by Harriet Maxon Thayer.]

[Footnote 20: Copyright, 1920, by Smart Set Company, Inc. Copyright, 1922, by Charles Hanson Towne.]

[Footnote 21: Copyright, 1921, by Harper & Brothers. Copyright, 1922, by Mary Heaton Minor.]

THE YEARBOOK OF THE AMERICAN SHORT STORY, OCTOBER, 1920, TO SEPTEMBER, 1921

ADDRESSES OF MAGAZINES PUBLISHING SHORT STORIES

I. AMERICAN MAGAZINES

NOTE. This address list does not aim to be complete, but is based simply on the magazines which I have consulted for this volume.

Adventure, Spring and Macdougal Streets, New York City. Ainslee's Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City. All's Well, Gayeta Lodge, Fayetteville, Arkansas. American Boy, 142 Lafayette Boulevard, Detroit, Michigan. American Magazine, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City. Argosy All-Story Weekly, 280 Broadway, New York City. Asia, 627 Lexington Avenue, New York City. Atlantic Monthly, 8 Arlington Street, Boston, Mass. Bookman, 244 Madison Avenue, New York City. Brief Stories, 714 Drexel Building, Philadelphia, Pa. Broom, 3 East 9th Street, New York City. Catholic World, 120 West 60th Street, New York City. Century, 353 Fourth Avenue, New York City. Chicago Tribune, Chicago, Illinois. Christian Herald, Bible House, New York City. Collier's Weekly, 416 West 13th Street, New York City. Cosmopolitan Magazine, 119 West 40th Street, New York City. Delineator, Spring and Macdougal Streets, New York City. Dial, 152 West 13th Street, New York City. Everybody's Magazine, Spring and Macdougal Streets, New York City. Follies, 25 West 45th Street, New York City. Good Housekeeping, 119 West 40th Street, New York City. Harper's Bazar, 119 West 40th Street, New York City. Harper's Magazine, Franklin Square, New York City. Hearst's International Magazine, 119 West 40th Street, New York City. Holland's Magazine, Dallas, Texas. Ladies' Home Journal, Independence Square, Philadelphia, Pa. Liberator, 34 Union Square East, New York City. Little Review, 24 West 16th Street, New York City. Live Stories, 35 West 39th Street, New York City. McCall's Magazine, 236 West 37th Street, New York City. McClure's Magazine, 76 Fifth Avenue, New York City. Magnificat, Manchester, N.H. Metropolitan, 432 Fourth Avenue, New York City. Midland, Box 110, Iowa City, Iowa. Munsey's Magazine, 280 Broadway, New York City. Open Road, 248 Boylston Street, Boston, Mass. Outlook, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City. Pagan, 23 West 8th Street, New York City. People's Favorite Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City. Pictorial Review, 216 West 39th Street, New York City. Popular Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City. Queen's Work, 626 North Vandeventer Avenue, St. Louis, Mo. Red Book Magazine, North American Building, Chicago, Ill. Saturday Evening Post, Independence Square, Philadelphia, Pa. Scribner's Magazine, 597 Fifth Avenue, New York City. Short Stories, Garden City, Long Island, N.Y. Smart Set, 25 West 45th Street, New York City. Snappy Stories, 35 West 39th Street, New York City. Sunset, 460 Fourth Street, San Francisco, Cal. Telling Tales, 799 Broadway, New York City. To-day's Housewife, Cooperstown, N.Y. Top-Notch Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City. Wayside Tales, 6 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Ill. Western Story Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City. Woman's Home Companion, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City. Woman's World, 107 South Clinton Street, Chicago, Ill.

II. ENGLISH MAGAZINES

Apple of Discord, 53, Victoria Street, London, S.W.1. Blackwood's Magazine, 37, Paternoster Row, London, E.C.4. Blue Magazine, 115, Fleet Street, London, E.C.4. Bystander, Graphic Buildings, Whitefriars, London, E.C.4. Cassell's Magazine, La Belle Sauvage, Ludgate Hill, London, E.C.4. Chamber's Journal, 38, Soho Square, London, W.C.1. Colour Magazine, 53, Victoria Street, London, S.W.1. Cornhill Magazine, 50A Albemarle Street, London, W.1. Country Life, 20, Tavistock Street, Strand, London, W.C.2. English Review, 18, Bedford Square, London, W.C.1. Eve, Great New Street. London, E.C.4. Fanfare, 31, Percy Street, London, W.1. Form, Morland Press, Ltd., 190, Ebury Street, London, S.W.1. Grand Magazine, 8-11, Southampton Street, Strand, London, W.C.2. Graphic, Graphic Buildings, Whitefriars, London, E.C.4. Home Magazine, 8-11 Southampton Street, Strand, London, W.C.2. Hutchinson's Magazine, 34 Paternoster Row, London, E.C.4. John O'London's Weekly, 8-11 Southampton Street, London, W.C.2. Lady, 39 Bedford Street, Strand, London, W.C.2. Lady's World, 6, Essex Street, Strand, London, W.C.2. Lloyd's Story Magazine, 12, Salisbury Square, London, E.C.4. London, Fleetway House, Farringdon Street, London, E.C.4. London Mercury, Windsor House, Bream's Buildings, London, E.C.4. Looking Forward, Windsor House, Bream's Buildings, London, E.C.4. Manchester Guardian, 3, Cross Street, Manchester. Nash's and Pall Mall Magazine, 1, Amen Corner, Paternoster Row, London. E.C.4. Nation and Athenæum, 10, Adelphi Terrace, London, W.C.2. New Age, 38, Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane, London, E.C.4. New Magazine, La Belle Sauvage, Ludgate Hill, London, E.C.4. New Statesman, 10, Great Queen Street, Kingsway, London, W.C.2. Novel Magazine, Henrietta Street, London, W.C.2. Outward Bound, Edinburgh House, 2, Eaton Gate, London, S.W.1. Pan, Long Acre, London, W.C.2. Pearson's Magazine, 17-18 Henrietta Street, London, W.C.2. Premier, The Fleetway House, Farringdon Street, London, E.C.4. Queen, Bream's Buildings, London, E.C.4. Quest, 21, Cecil Court, Charing Cross Road, London, W.C.2. Quiver, La Belle Sauvage, Ludgate Hill, London, E.C.4. Red Magazine, The Fleetway House, Farringdon Street, London, E.C.4. Royal Magazine, 17-18 Henrietta Street, London, W.C.2. Saturday Westminster Gazette, Tudor House, Tudor Street, London, E.C.4. Sketch, 172, Strand, London, W.C.2. Sovereign Magazine, 34, Paternoster Row, London, E.C.4. Sphere, Great New Street, London, E.C.4. Story-Teller, La Belle Sauvage, Ludgate Hill, London, E.C.4. Strand Magazine, 8-11, Southampton Street, Strand, London, W.C.2. Times Literary Supplement, Printing House Square, London, E.C.4. Truth, Bolt Court, Fleet Street, London, E.C.4. Vanity Fair, 1, Amen Corner, Paternoster Row, London, E.C.4. Vineyard, Care of Allen & Unwin, Ltd., Ruskin House, 40, Museum Street, London, W.C.1. Voices, Care of Chapman & Hall, Ltd., 11, Henrietta Street, London, W.C.2. Wide World Magazine, 8-11, Southampton Street, Strand, London, W.C.2. Windsor Magazine, Warwick House, Salisbury Square, London, E.C.4. Yellow Magazine, The Fleetway House, Farringdon Street, London, E.C.4.

THE BIBLIOGRAPHICAL ROLL OF HONOR OF AMERICAN SHORT STORIES

OCTOBER, 1920, TO SEPTEMBER, 1921

NOTE. Only stories by American authors are listed. The best stories are indicated by an asterisk before the title of the story. The index figures 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7 prefixed to the name of the author indicate that his work has been included in the Rolls of Honor for 1914, 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, and 1920 respectively. The list excludes reprints. "Oscar" by Djuna Barnes should be added to the Roll of Honor in "The Best Short Stories of 1920."

(567) ABDULLAH, ACHMED (for biography, see 1918).

Dutiful Grief. Lute of Jade.

ALLEN, JAMES LANE. Born in Lexington, Kentucky, 1849. Educated at Transylvania University. Taught in the secondary schools and at Kentucky University and Bethany College. Author of "Flute and Violin," 1891; "Blue Grass Region," 1892; "John Gray," 1893; "Kentucky Cardinal," 1895; "Aftermath," 1896; "Summer in Arcady," 1896; "Choir Invisible," 1897; "Reign of Law"; "Mettle of the Pasture;" "Bride of the Mistletoe," 1909; "Doctor's Christmas Eve," 1910; "Heroine in Bronze," 1912; "Last Christmas Tree," 1914; "Sword of Youth," 1915; "Cathedral Singer," 1916; "Kentucky Warbler," 1918. Lives in New York City.

*Ash-Can.

(34567) ANDERSON, SHERWOOD (for biography, see 1917).

*Brothers. *New Englander. *Unlighted Lamps.

(7) BERCOVICI, KONRAD (for biography, see 1920).

*Fanutza.

(14567) BURT, MAXWELL STRUTHERS (for biography, see 1917).

Buchanan Hears the Wind. *Experiment.

(567) CABELL, JAMES BRANCH (for biography, see 1918).

*Image of Sesphra.

(23) CHILD, RICHARD WASHBURN. Born at Worcester, Massachusetts, August 5, 1881. Graduate of Harvard University and Harvard Law School. Admitted to the Bar in 1906. Appointed United States Ambassador to Italy, 1921. Author of "Jim Hands," 1910; "Man In The Shadow," 1911; "Blue Wall" 1912; "Potential Russia," 1916; "Bodbank," 1916; "Velvet Black," 1921. Lives in Rome, Italy.

Screen.

(2345) COBB, IRVIN S. (for biography, see 1917).

*Darkness. Short Natural History.

(2) COLCORD, LINCOLN. Born at sea, off Cape Horn, August 14, 1883. Educated at Searsport, Maine, High School and University of Maine. Spent first fourteen years of his life at sea on the China coast. Civil Engineer 1906-9. Author of "The Drifting Diamond," 1912; "Game of Life and Death," 1914; "Vision of War," 1915. Washington correspondent of Philadelphia Ledger, 1917 to 1919. Lives at Searsport, Maine.

*Instrument of the Gods.

(456) CRABBE, BERTHA HELEN (for biography, see 1917).

On Riverside Drive.

(7) FINGER, CHARLES J. (for biography, see 1920).

Derailment of Train No. 16. *Lizard God.

(4) FRANK, WALDO (for biography, see 1917).

*Under the Dome.

(123457) GEROULD, KATHARINE FULLERTON (_for biography, see 1917_).

*French Eva.

(4) GLASGOW, ELLEN (for biography, see 1917).

*Past.

(456) GLASPELL, SUSAN (MRS. GEORGE CRAM COOK) (for biography, see 1917).

*His Smile.

(346) HALLET, RICHARD MATTHEWS (for biography, see 1917).

*Harbor Master.

HART, FRANCES NOYES. Born at Silver Spring, Maryland, August 10, 1890. Educated at Chicago Latin School, privately in Connecticut and abroad, and at the Sorbonne in the Collège de France. Interested in anything from baseball to Bach. First short story, "Contact," published in the Pictorial Review, December, 1920, and awarded second prize by O. Henry Memorial Committee Society of Arts and Sciences. Published "Mark" 1913, and "My A.E.F.," 1920, under name of Frances Newbold Noyes. Lives in New York City.

*Green Gardens.

(256) HECHT, BEN (for biography, see 1918).

Bomb-Thrower.

(23456) HURST, FANNIE (for biography, see 1917).

*She Walks in Beauty.

(6) IMRIE, WALTER MCLAREN (for biography, see 1919).

Remembrance.

(7) KOMROFF, MANUEL. Born in New York City. Educated in New York public schools, and special courses at Yale University. Journalist. First short story published in Reedy's Mirror two years ago. Lives in New York City.

*Little Master of the Sky.

MOTT, FRANK LUTHER.

*Man With the Good Face.

(457) O'HIGGINS, HARVEY J. (for biography, see 1917).

*Peter Quayle.

(3457) O'SULLIVAN, VINCENT (for biography, see 1917).

*Master of Fallen Years.

(4) PORTOR, LAURA SPENCER.

Sightseers.

(1237) POST, MELVILLE DAVISSON (for biography, see 1920).

Unknown Disciple.

(5) Rhodes, Harrison (Garfield) (for biography, see 1918).

Miss Sunshine.

ROBBINS, TOD. Born in Brooklyn, N.Y., June 25, 1888. Educated at Polytechnic Preparatory School, Mercersburg Academy, and Washington and Lee University. Well-known amateur athlete. First short story "Married," published in The Parisienne, February, 1917. Author of "The Unholy Three," 1917; "Red of Surley," 1919; "Silent, White and Beautiful," 1920. Lives in New York City.

Toys of Fate.

SCOBEE, BARRY. Born at Pollock, Missouri, May 2, 1885. Educated at Missouri State Normal School. Journalist and printer. Chief interests metaphysics and mountains. Was in regular army 1907-10, including Philippine campaign. First story "The Whip In the Thatch," Young's Magazine, March. 1915. Lives in Bellingham, Washington.

*The Wind.

(3457) SPRINGER, FLETA CAMPBELL (for biography, see 1917).

*Role of Madame Ravelles.

(234567) STEELE, WILBUR DANIEL (for biography, see 1917).

*At-Two-in-the-Bush. *Footfalls. *Life. *Shame Dance. 'Toinette of Maisonnoir.

THAYER, HARRIET MAXON (MRS. GILBERT THAYER). Born at Wauwatosa, Wisconsin, 1889. Attended University of Wisconsin and School of Journalism, Columbia University. Fairy tales in Philadelphia North American and in the Guide, Milwaukee, 1921. Married Gilbert Thayer, September 5, 1921. Served in France with American Red Cross Canteen, 1918 and 1919.

*Kindred.

TOWNE, CHARLES HANSON. Born in Louisville, Kentucky, February 2, 1877. Educated in New York public schools and College of the City of New York. Author of "Quiet Singer"; "Manhattan"; "Youth"; "Beyond the Stars"; "To-day and To-morrow"; "The Tumble Man"; and "Autumn Loiterers." Has been editor of The Designer, Smart Set, and McClure's Magazine. Lives in New York City.

*Shelby.

(56) VENABLE, EDWARD C. Born at Petersburg, Virginia, July 4, 1884. Graduate of Princeton University, 1906. Served in France in Field Ambulance Service and Flying Corps, 1917-19. Author of "Pierre Vinton," 1914; "Short Stories," 1915; "Wife of the Junior Partner," 1915; "Lasca," 1916; "Ali Babette," 1917; and "At Isham's," 1918. Lives in Baltimore, Maryland.

*Madame Tichepin.

(34567) VORSE, MARY HEATON (for biography, see 1917).

*Wallow of the Sea.

(567) WILLIAMS, BEN AMES (for biography, see 1918).

*Man Who Looked Like Edison.

(6) WORMSER, G. RANGER. Born in New York City, February 24, 1893. Educated privately. First short story "Tragedy's Fool," published in English edition of the Smart Set, 1910. Author of "The Scarecrow," 1918. Lives in New York City.

Gossamer. Second-Hand.

(67) YEZIERSKA, ANZIA (for biography, see 1919).

My Own People.

THE ROLL OF HONOR OF FOREIGN SHORT STORIES IN AMERICAN MAGAZINES

OCTOBER, 1920, TO SEPTEMBER, 1921

NOTE. Stories of special excellence are indicated, by an asterisk. The index figures 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7 prefixed to the name of the author indicate that his work has been included in the Rolls of Honor for 1914, 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, and 1920 respectively. The list excludes reprints.

I. ENGLISH AND IRISH AUTHORS

(1234567) AUMONIER, STACY.

Beautiful Merciless One. *Little White Frock.

(7) BECK, L. ADAMS.

*How Great is the Glory of Kwannon! *Interpreter.

(6) BEERBOHM, MAX.

*T. Fenning Dodworth. *William and Mary.

(34) BERESFORD, J.D.

*Expiation.

(123567) BLACKWOOD, ALGERNON.

Confession.

COPPARD, A.E.

*Hurly-Burly. *Tiger.

(123456) GALSWORTHY, JOHN.

*Awakening. *Timber. *Hedonist.

(2) GIBBON, PERCEVAL.

Statistics.

HUDSON, STEPHEN.

Southern Women.

HUXLEY, ALDOUS.

*Tillotson Banquet.

MCFEE, WILLIAM.

Knights and Turcopoliers.

ROBERTS, CECIL.

Silver Pool.

(7) SINCLAIR, MAY.

*Lena Wrace. *Return.

(57) STEPHENS, JAMES.

*In the Beechwood.

(27) WALPOLE, HUGH.

*Bombastes Furioso. *Critic. *Strange Case of Mr. Nix. *Lucy Moon. *Lizzie Rand. *Nobody! *Peter Westcott's Nursery.

II. TRANSLATIONS

(35) "GORKI, MAXIM." (Russian.)

*Rivals.

MANN, THOMAS. (German.)

*Loulou.

REMIZOV, ALEKSEI. (Russian.)

*White Heart.

(7) SCHNITZLER, ARTHUR. (German.)

*Greek Dancer.

SWEDEN, PRINCE CARL WILHELM LUDWIG OF. (Swedish.)

Pearls.

THE BEST BOOKS OF SHORT STORIES OF 1921: A CRITICAL SUMMARY

THE BEST AMERICAN BOOKS

1. ANDERSON. The Triumph of the Egg. Huebsch. 2. BERCOVICI. GHITZA. Boni and Liveright. 3. BURT. Chance Encounters. Scribner. 4. CABELL. The Line of Love. McBride. 5. SOCIETY OF ARTS AND SCIENCES. O. Henry Prize Stories, 1920. Doubleday, Page.

THE BEST ENGLISH BOOKS

1. AUMONIER. Golden Windmill. Macmillan. 2. CHOLMONDELEY. The Romance of His Life. Dodd, Mead. 3. COPPARD. Adam and Eve and Pinch Me. Knopf. 4. HUDSON. Dead Man's Plack. Dutton. 5. MANSFIELD. Bliss. Knopf. 6. MERRICK. A Chair on the Boulevard. Dutton. 7. NEVINSON. Original Sinners. Huebsch. 8. STEPHENS. Irish Fairy Tales. Macmillan. 9. WALPOLE. The Thirteen Travellers. Doran.

THE BEST TRANSLATIONS

1. BYNG, editor. Roumanian Stories. Lane. 2. CHEKHOV. The Horse-Stealers. Macmillan. 3. CHEKHOV. The Schoolmaster. Macmillan. 4. CHEKHOV. The Schoolmistress. Macmillan. 5. FRANCE. Seven Wives of Bluebeard. Lane. 6. HAMP. People. Harcourt and Brace. 7. JACOBSEN. Mögens. Brown. 8. JAMMES. Romance of the Rabbit. Brown. 9. POPOVIC, editor. Jugo-Slav Stories. Duffield. 10. SCHNITZLER. The Shepherd's Pipe. Brown. 11. TURGENEV. Knock, Knock, Knock. Macmillan. 12. TURGENEV. The Two Friends. Macmillan.

THE BEST NEW ENGLISH PUBLICATIONS

1. BERESFORD. Signs and Wonders. Golden Cockerel Press. 2. CORKERY. Hounds of Banba. Talbot Press. 3. FISHER. Romantic Man. Secker. 4. LYONS. MARKET BUNDLE. Butterworth. 5. MCCALLIN. Ulster Fireside Tales. Heath Cranton. 6. MACKLIN, translator. 29 Short Stories. Philpot. 7. MOORMAN. Tales of the Ridings. Mathews. 8. MOORMAN. More Tales of the Ridings. Mathews. 9. STEIN. Three Lives. Lane. 10. WOOLF. Monday or Tuesday. Hogarth Press.

BELOW FOLLOWS A RECORD OF THIRTY DISTINCTIVE VOLUMES PUBLISHED BETWEEN OCTOBER 1, 1920 AND SEPTEMBER 30, 1921.

I. AMERICAN AUTHORS

GHITZA AND OTHER ROMANCES OF GYPSY BLOOD, by Konrad Bercovici (Boni & Liveright). This is the best volume of short stories published by an American author this year. It consists of nine epic fragments which are studies in passionate color of Roumanian gypsy life. Mr. Bercovici's work bears no trace of special literary influences, and he has moulded a new form for these stories which disobeys successfully all the codes of story writing. Whether we are to regard him as an American or a European artist seems of little importance. The essential point is that he and Sherwood Anderson are the most significant new short story writers who have emerged in America within the past five years.

HOMESPUN AND GOLD, by Alice Brown (The Macmillan Company). Miss Brown's new collection of fifteen short stories, which she has written during the past thirteen years, is not one of her best books, but it is of considerable importance as one more contribution to the literature of New England regionalism. Its qualities of homely fidelity and quiet humor make it distinctly worth reading, and one story, "White Pebbles" ranks with Miss Brown's best work.

THE VELVET BLACK, by Richard Washburn Child (E.P. Dutton & Company). I do not regard this as more than a piece of extremely competent craftsmanship, and its interest to the man of letters is largely technical, but it contains one excellent story full of dramatic suspense and a certain literary honesty. I think "Identified" might be commended to a short story anthologist.

THE SONS O' CORMAC, AN' TALES OF OTHER MEN'S SONS, by Aldis Dunbar (E.P. Dutton & Company). This collection of fifteen Irish fairy and hero tales, told by a gardener to a little boy, show considerable deftness of fancy, and although the idiom Mr. Dunbar uses is borrowed and not quite convincing, his book seems to me almost as good as those of Seumas MacManus, which probably suggested it.

GREAT SEA STORIES (Brentano's) and MASTERPIECES OF MYSTERY (4 vols.) (Doubleday, Page & Co.), edited by Joseph Lewis French. These anthologies, which are somewhat casually edited, are worthy of purchase by students of the short story who do not possess many anthologies, for they contain a number of standard texts. But I do not think highly of the selections, which are of a thoroughly conventional nature.

"MOMMA," AND OTHER UNIMPORTANT PEOPLE, by Rupert Hughes (Harper & Brothers). This is an unimportant book containing one superb story, "The Stick-In-the-Muds," which I had the pleasure of printing last year in this series. It is one of the stories which Mr. Hughes has written for his own pleasure and not for the preconceived pleasure of his large and critical public. I consider that it ranks with the excellent series of Irish-American studies which Mr. Hughes published a few years ago.

MASTER EUSTACE, by Henry James (Thomas Seltzer). This volume, which is a companion to "A Landscape Painter," reprints five more early stories of Henry James, not included in any American edition now in print. They have all the qualities of "Roderick Hudson" and "The American," and should be invaluable to the students of Henry James's technique. It would have been a matter of regret had these stories not been rendered accessible to the general public.

FAMOUS DETECTIVE STORIES and FAMOUS PSYCHIC STORIES, edited by J. Walker McSpadden (Thomas Y. Crowell Company). These two anthologies have been edited on more or less conventional lines, but they contain several important stories which are not readily accessible, and I can commend them as texts for students of the short story.

TALES FROM A ROLLTOP DESK by Christopher Morley (Doubleday, Page & Company). I record this volume for the sake of one admirable story, "Referred to the Author," which almost any contemporary of Mr. Morley would have been glad to sign. Apart from this, the volume is ephemeral.

THE SLEUTH OF ST. JAMES'S SQUARE by Melville Davisson Post. (D. Appleton & Company). This volume contains the best of Mr. Post's well-known mystery stories, and I take special pleasure in calling attention to "The Wrong Sign," "The Hole in the Mahogany Panel," and "The Yellow Flower." These stories show all the resourceful virtuosity of Poe, and are models of their kind. While they seem to me to possess no special literary value, they have solved some important new technical problems, and I believe they will repay attentive study.

DEVIL STORIES, edited by Maximilian J. Rudwin (Alfred A. Knopf). This is an excellent anthology revealing a wide range of reading and introducing a number of good stories which are likely to prove new to most readers. The editor has added to the value of the volume by elaborate annotation. He wears his learning lightly however, and it only serves to adorn his subject.

CHRISTMAS ROSES, AND OTHER STORIES, by Anne Douglas Sedgwick (Houghton Mifflin Company). This admirable series of nine studies dealing with the finer shades of character are subdued in manner. Mrs. de Sélincourt has voluntarily restricted her range, but she has simply "curtailed her circumference to enlarge her liberty," and I believe this volume is likely to outlast many books which are more widely talked about.

CAPE BRETON TALES, by Harry James Smith (The Atlantic Monthly Press). This little volume of short stories and studies deals with the Arcadian life of Cape Breton and the Gaspé coast. I am speaking from personal knowledge when I state that, this is the first time the Acadian has been understood by an English speaking writer, and if Mr. Smith's art works within narrow limits, it is quite faultless in its rendering. This volume suggests what a loss American letters has sustained in the author's death.

II. ENGLISH AND IRISH AUTHORS

THE GOLDEN WINDMILL, AND OTHER STORIES, by Stacy Aumonier (The Macmillan Company). For some years Mr. Aumonier has been quietly winning an important place for himself in English letters by his admirable short stories, and this place has been fittingly recognized by Mr. Galsworthy, among others, during the past year. Eight of the nine stories in the present volume seem to me as good as stories written in the traditional technique can be, and I regard this book as only second in excellence to the volumes of A.E. Coppard and Katherine Mansfield of which I shall speak presently.

MORE LIMEHOUSE NIGHTS, by Thomas Burke (George H. Doran Company). It is a wise counsel of perfection which says that sequels are barred, and I do not believe that Mr. Burke has chosen wisely in endeavoring to repeat the artistic success of "Limehouse Nights." Apart from "The Scarlet Shoes" and "Miss Plum-Blossom," this volume seems to me to be second-rate, and I feel that Mr. Burke has already exhausted his Limehouse field.

ADAM AND EVE AND PINCH ME, by A.E. Coppard (Alfred A. Knopf). I have endeavored elsewhere to express my opinion of "Adam and Eve and Pinch Me" by dedicating this year's annual volume to Mr. Coppard. I believe that he ranks as an artist among the best continental writers. He sees life as a pattern which he simplifies, and weaves a closely wrought fabric which is a symbol of human life as seen by a disinterested but happy observer. His range is wide, and if he presents the uncommon instance of a man who has absorbed all that two men as different as Chekhov and Henry James have to teach, he brings to this fusion a personal view which transmutes the values of his masters into a new set of values. To do this successfully is the sign of a fine artist.

DEAD MAN'S PLACK, AND AN OLD THORN, by W.H. Hudson (E.P. Dutton & Company). Mr. Hudson's devoted readers have long known of the existence of these two stories, and have regretted that the author did not see fit to issue them in book form. The first story is a short study in historical reconstruction equal to the best of Jacobsen's work, while "The Old Thorn" ranks with "El Ombu" as one of Mr. Hudson's best two short stories. The volume is, of course, a permanent addition to English literature.

TOP O' THE MORNIN', by Seumas MacManus (Frederick A. Stokes Company). Mr. MacManus's new collection of Irish tales has ups and downs like a Galway road, but his ups are very good indeed and show that he has by no means lost the folk imagination which made his early books rank among the very best of their kind. I can specially commend to the reader "The Widow Meehan's Cassimeer Shawl," "The Bellman of Carrick," and "The Heart-Break of Norah O'Hara."

BLISS AND OTHER STORIES, by Katherine Mansfield (Alfred A. Knopf). I have no hesitation in stating after careful thought that Miss Mansfield's first book of short stories at once places her in the great European tradition on a par with Chekhov and De Maupassant. This is certainly the most important book of short stories which has come to my notice since I began to edit this series of books. I say this with the more emphasis because, although her technique is the same as that of Chekhov, she is one of the few writers to whom a close study of Chekhov has done no harm. Most American short story writers are bad because they copy "O. Henry," and most English short story writers are bad because they copy Chekhov. Chekhov and "O. Henry" were both great writers because they copied nobody. I hope that the success of Miss Mansfield's book will not have the effect of substituting a new model instead of these two. Mr. Knopf is to be complimented for his taste in publishing the best two volumes of short stories of the year. It is a disinterested service to literature.

A CHAIR ON THE BOULEVARD, by Leonard Merrick (E.P. Dutton & Company). It is unnecessary at this date to point out the special excellences of Leonard Merrick. They are such as to ensure him a tolerably secure position in the history of the English short story. But it may be well to point out that the vice of his excellence is his proneness to sentimentality. This is more evident in Mr. Merrick's other volumes than in the present collection, which is really a reissue of his best stories, including that masterpiece, "The Tragedy of a Comic Song." If one were to compile an anthology of the world's best twenty stories, this story would be among them.

SELECTED ENGLISH SHORT STORIES (XIX AND XX CENTURIES), edited by H.S.M. (Oxford University Press). This volume has the merit of containing in very short compass twenty-eight stories by English and American authors, not too conventionally selected, which would form admirable texts for a short story course. It includes stories by Mark Rutherford and Richard Garnett which are likely to be unfamiliar to most readers, and if taken in conjunction with the previous volume in the same series, provides a tolerably complete conspectus of the development of the short story in England and America since 1800.

ORIGINAL SINNERS, by Henry W. Nevinson (B.W. Huebsch, Inc.). It has always been a mystery to me why Mr. Nevinson's short stories are so little known to American readers. His earlier volumes "The Plea of Pan" and "Between the Acts," are eagerly sought by collectors, but they have been permitted to go out of print, I believe, and the general public knows very little about them. To nine out of ten people, Mr. Nevinson is known as a publicist and war correspondent, but it is by his short stories that he will live longest, and the present volume is one more illustration of the place which has always been occupied in English literature by the gifted amateur. The stories in the present volume all lead back by implication to the golden age, and if Mr. Nevinson's mood is elegiac, he never refuses to face reality.

IRISH FAIRY TALES, by James Stephens (The Macmillan Company). We think of Mr. Stephens primarily as a poet and an ironic moralist, but in the present volume a new side of his genius is revealed. It might seem that too many writers have attempted with more or less success to reproduce the spirit of the gray Irish Sagas by retelling them, and we think of Standish O'Grady, Lady Gregory, "A.E.," and others. But Mr. Stephens has seen them in the fresh light of an unconquerable youth, and I am more than half inclined to think that this is the best book he has given us.

SAVITRI, AND OTHER WOMEN, by Marjorie Strachey (G.P. Putnam's Sons). Marjorie Strachey has presented the feminist point of view in eleven short stories drawn from the folklore of many nations. Her object in telling these stories is a sophisticated one, and I suspect that her success has been only partial, but she has considerable resources of style to assist her, and I think that the volume is worthy of some attention.

THE THIRTEEN TRAVELLERS, by Hugh Walpole (George H. Doran Company). Mr. Walpole has collected in this volume twelve studies of English life in the present transition stage between war and peace. He has studied with considerable care those modifications of the English character which are noticeable to the patient observer, and his volume has some value as an historical document apart from its undoubted literary charm. While it will not rank among the best of Mr. Walpole's books, it is full of excellent genre pieces rendered with subtlety and poise.

III. TRANSLATIONS

THE HORSE-STEALERS AND OTHER STORIES, and THE SCHOOLMISTRESS AND OTHER STORIES, by Anton Chekhov translated from the Russian by Constance Garnett (The Macmillan Company). Mrs. Garnett's excellent edition of Chekhov is rapidly drawing to a conclusion. In the two volumes now under consideration we find the greater part of Chekhov's very short sketches, notably many of the humorous pieces which he wrote in early life. These are most often brief renderings of a mood, or quiet ironic contrasts which set forth facts without drawing any moral or pointing to any intellectual conclusion.

LITTLE PIERRE, and THE SEVEN WIVES OF BLUEBEARD, by Anatole France; edited by Frederic Chapman, James Lewis May, and Bernard Miall. (John Lane). The first of these volumes presents another instalment of the author's autobiography in the form of a series of delicately rendered pictures portrayed with quiet deftness and a laughing irony which is half sad. In "The Seven Wives of Bluebeard" he has retold four legends and endowed them with a philosophic content of smiling ironic doubt which accepts life as we find it and preaches a gentle disillusioned epicureanism. Both volumes are faultlessly translated.

PEOPLE, by Pierre Hamp; translated by James Whitall (Harcourt, Brace, and Company). Among the poets and prose writers who have emerged in France during the past ten years and formulated a new social and artistic philosophy, Pierre Hamp is by no means the least important figure. He has already published about a dozen volumes of mingled fiction and economic comment which form a somewhat detailed history of the French workingman in his social and industrial relations, but "People" is the first volume which has yet been translated into English. His attitude as revealed in these stories is full of indignant pity, and he gives us a series of sharply etched portraits, many of which will not be forgotten readily. He does not conceal his propagandist tendencies, but they limit him as an artist less in these stories than in his other books. Mr. Whitall's translation is excellent, and conveys the author's rugged style convincingly.

LITTLE RUSSIAN MASTERPIECES in Four Volumes, chosen and translated from the Russian by Zénaïde A. Ragozin (G.P. Putnam's Sons). This collection is valuable as a supplement to existing anthologies because it wisely leaves for other editors the most familiar stories and concentrates on introducing less known writers to the English-speaking public. The editor has broadened her scheme in order to include Polish authors. Among the less familiar figures who are here introduced, I may mention Lesskof, Mamin-Sibiriàk, and Slutchefsky. I can cordially recommend this admirable series.

THE TWO FRIENDS AND OTHER STORIES, by Ivan Turgenev; translated from the Russian by Constance Garnett (The Macmillan Company). Mrs. Garnett, to whom we are ever grateful, has surprised us delightfully by offering us some hitherto untranslated novelettes by Turgenev which seem to me to rank among his masterpieces. In each of them he has compressed a whole life cycle into a brief series of significant incidents and made them the microcosm of a larger human world. This is one of the most important volumes of the year.

VOLUMES OF SHORT STORIES PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES

OCTOBER, 1920, TO SEPTEMBER, 1921: AN INDEX

NOTE. An asterisk before a title indicates distinction. This list includes single short stories, and collections of short stories. Volumes announced for publication in the autumn of 1921 are listed here, although in some cases they had not yet appeared at the time this book went to press.

I. AMERICAN AUTHORS

ABBOTT, ELEANOR HALLOWELL. Peace on Earth, Good Will to Dogs. Dutton.

ANDERSON, SHERWOOD. *Triumph of the Egg. Huebsch.

BAILEY, CAROLYN SHERWIN. Enchanted Bugle. F.A. Owen Pub. Co.

BAILEY, TEMPLE. Gay Cockade. Penn Pub. Co.

BARDEEN, CHARLES WILLIAM. Castiron Culver. C.W. Bardeen.

BARNES, WILLIAM CROFT. Tales from the X-bar Horse Camp. Breeders' Gazette.

"BENIGNUS, WILLIAM." Woodstock Stories, Poems and Essays. Author.

BERCOVICI, KONRAD. *Ghitza. Boni and Liveright.

BESKOW, ELIZABETH MARIA. Faith of a Child. Rose Printing Co.

BOREHAM, FRANK W. Reel of Rainbow. Abingdon Press.

BRADDY, NELLA, editor. Masterpieces of Adventure, 4 vol. Doubleday, Page.

BRUNO, GUIDO. Night in Greenwich Village. Author. Sentimental Studies. Author.

BURT, MAXWELL STRUTHERS. *Chance Encounters. Scribner.

CABELL, JAMES BRANCH. *Line of Love. McBride.

CHAMBERLAIN, GEORGE AGREW. Pigs to Market. Bobbs-Merrill.

CHILD, RICHARD WASHBURN. Velvet Black. Dutton.

COLES, BERTHA LIPPINCOTT. Wound Stripes. Lippincott.

COLUM, PADRAIC. *Children of Odin. Macmillan.

CONNOLLY, JAMES B. *Tide Rips. Scribner.

COTTER, WINIFRED. Sheila and Others. Dutton.

CRADOCK, WILLIAM H.C. Everyday Stories. Jacobs.

DELAND, MARGARET. Old Chester Secret. Harper.

DELL, ETHEL M. Rosa Mundi. Putnam.

DREVES, F.M. Joyful Herald of the King of Kings. Herder.

DUNBAR, ALDIS. *Sons o' Cormac. Dutton.

EVARTS, HAL G. Bald Face. Knopf.

FORD, SEWELL. Inez and Trilby May. Harper. Meet 'em with Shorty McCabe. Clode.

FRECK, LAURA F., editor. Short Stories of Various Types. Merrill.

FRENCH, JOSEPH LEWIS, editor. *Great Sea Stories. Brentano's.

GATLIN, DANA. Missy. Doubleday, Page.

GELZER, JAY. Street of a Thousand Delights. McBride.

GROSS, ANTON. Merchants of Precious Goods. Roxburgh.

GRUELLE, JOHN B. Raggedy Andy Stories. Volland.

HARRIS, KENNETT. Meet Mr. Stegg. Holt.

HAY, CORINNE. Light and Shade 'round Gulf and Bayou. Roxburgh.

HILL, FREDERICK TREVOR. Tales Out of Court. Stokes.

KAHLER, HUGH MACNAIR. Babel. Putnam.

KELLAND, CLARENCE BUDINGTON. Scattergood Baines. Harper.

KITTREDGE, DANIEL WRIGHT. Mind Adrift. Seattle: S.F. Shorey.

LASELLE, MARY AUGUSTA, editor. Joy in Work. Holt.

LAWSON, J.C. Tales of Aegean Intrigue. Dutton.

LEVINGOR, ELMA EHRLICH. Playmates in Egypt. Jewish Pub. Soc. of America.

LINCOLN, JOSEPH C. "Old Home House." Appleton.

LONDON, JACK. *Brown Wolf. Macmillan.

MARQUIS, DON. Carter, and Other People. Appleton.

MEANS, E.K. Further E.K. Means. Putnam.

MORLEY, CHRISTOPHER. Tales from a Rolltop Desk. Doubleday, Page.

MURDOCK, VICTOR. Folks. Macmillan.

NADIR, MOISHE. Peh-el-peh (Face to Face). Pagan Pub. Co.

NEWTON, ALMA. Shadows. Lane.

O'BRIEN, EDWARD J. Best Short Stories of 1920. Small, Maynard.

OEMLER, MARIE CONWAY. Where the Young Child Was. Century.

PERKINS, LAWRENCE. Cross of Ares. Brentano's.

RICHARDS, CLARICE E. Tenderfoot Bride. Revell.

RINEHART, MARY ROBERTS. Truce of God. Doran.

RUDWIN, MAXIMILIAN JOSEF, editor. *Devil Stories. Knopf.

RUTLEDGE, ARCHIBALD. Old Plantation Days. Stokes.

SAVAGE, NANNIE H. Sketches. Author.

SCARBOROUGH, DOROTHY, editor. *Famous Modern Ghost Stories. Putnam. Humorous Ghost Stories. Putnam.

SHEARD, VIRGINIA STANTON. Golden Appletree. McCann.

SHORE, VIOLA BROTHERS. Heritage. Doran.

SMITH, HARRY JAMES. *Cape Breton Tales. Atlantic Monthly Press.

SMITH, LOGAN PEARSALL. *Stories from the Old Testament. Luce.

SOCIETY OF ARTS AND SCIENCES, editors. *O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories of 1920. Doubleday, Page.

STOCKING, JAY T. Mr. Friend-o'-Man. Interchurch Press.

STRINGER, ARTHUR. Twin Tales. Bobbs-Merrill.

TAYLOR, CHARLES FORBES. Riveter's Gang. Revell.

TERHUNE, ALBERT PAYSON. Buff; a Collie. Doran.

TRAGOR, HANNAH. Festival Stories of Child Life in a Jewish Colony in Palestine. Dutton. Stories of Child Life in a Jewish Colony in Palestine. Dutton.

VAN VECHTEN, CARL, editor. *Lords of the Housetops. Knopf.

WALKLEY, WILLIAM S. Three Golden Days. Revell.

WIGGIN, KATE DOUGLAS. Homespun Tales. Houghton, Mifflin.

WILEY, HUGH. Jade. Knopf.

WILSON, JOHN FLEMING. Scouts of the Desert. Macmillan.

WITWER, H.C. Leather Pushers. Putnam.

II. ENGLISH AND IRISH AUTHORS

ARLEN, MICHAEL. Romantic Lady. Dodd, Mead.

AUMONIER, STACY. Golden Windmill. Macmillan.

BAILEY, H.C. Call Mr. Fortune. Dutton.

BIBESCO, PRINCESS. I Have Only Myself to Blame. Doran.

BUCHAN, JOHN. Path of the King. Doran.

BURKE. THOMAS. *More Limehouse Nights. Doran.

CHOLMONDELEY, MARY. *Romance of His Life. Dodd, Mead.

COPPARD, A.E. *Adam and Eve and Pinch Me. Knopf.

CORELLI, MARIE. Love of Long Ago. Doubleday, Page.

"DEHAN, RICHARD." Villa of the Peacock. Doran.

DE MONTMORENCY, J.E.G. Admiral's Chair. Oxford University Press.

GREEN, PETER. Our Kid. Longmans, Green.

HAGGARD, SIR RIDER. Smith and the Pharaohs. Longmans, Green.

HUDSON, W.H. *Dead Man's Plack, and An Old Thorn. Dutton.

LAWSON, KATE, LADY. Life of Gnat. Warne.

M., H.S., editor. *Selected English Short Stories. 2d series. Oxford University Press.

"SAPPER." Man in Ratcatcher. Doran.

MANSFIELD, KATHERINE. *Bliss. Knopf.

MAUGHAM, W. SOMERSET. *Trembling of a Leaf. Doran.

MERRICK, LEONARD. *Chair on the Boulevard. Dutton.

NEVINSON, HENRY WOODD. *Original Sinners. Huebsch.

STEPHENS, JAMES. *Irish Fairy Tales. Macmillan.

STRACHEY, MARJORIE. *Savitri and Other Women. Putnam.

WALPOLE, HUGH. *Thirteen Travellers. Doran.

III. TRANSLATIONS

BALZAC, HONORE DE. (French.) Short Stories. Boni and Liveright.

BYNG, LUCY, translator. (Roumanian.) *Roumanian Stories. Lane.

CHEKHOV, ANTON. (Russian.) *Horse-Stealers. Macmillan. *Schoolmaster. Macmillan. *Schoolmistress. Macmillan.

DOSTOEVSKY, FEDOR. *Friend of the Family. Macmillan.

"FRANCE, ANATOLE." (French.) *Little Pierre. Lane. *Seven Wives of Bluebeard. Lane.

HAMP, PIERRE. (French.) *People. Harcourt, Brace.

JACOBSEN, JENS PETER. (Danish.) *Mögens. Brown.

JAMMES, FRANCIS. (French.) *Romance of the Rabbit. Brown.

MEREJKOVSKI, DMITRI. (Russian.) *Menace of the Mob. Brown.

"NERVAL, GERARD DE." (French.) *Daughters of Fire. Brown.

POPOVIC, PAVLE, editor. (Jugo-Slav.) *Jugo-Slav Stories. Duffield.

SCHNITZLER, ARTHUR. (German.) *Shepherd's Pipe. Brown.

TURGENEV, IVAN. (Russian.) *Knock, Knock, Knock. Macmillan. *Two Friends. Macmillan.

VOLUMES OF SHORT STORIES PUBLISHED IN ENGLAND AND IRELAND ONLY

OCTOBER, 1920, TO SEPTEMBER, 1921: AN INDEX

NOTE. An asterisk before a title indicates distinction.

I. AMERICAN AUTHOR

STEIN, GERTRUDE. *Three Lives. Lane.

II. ENGLISH AND IRISH AUTHORS

ATKEY, BERTRAM. Winnie O'Wynn and the Wolves. Cassell.

BARCYNSKA, COUNTESS. Love's Last Reward. Hurst and Blackett.

BENSON, E.F. Countess of Lowndes Square. Cassell.

BERESFORD, J.D. *Signs and Wonders. Golden Cockerel Press.

BESTE, FLORENCE. Home in Kentucky. Stockwell.

BEVAN, C. ELRUTH. Collection of Ghosts. Morland.

"BIRMINGHAM, GEORGE A." Lady Bountiful. Christophers.

BLATCHFORD, ROBERT. Spangles of Existence. Lane.

BOWEN, MARJORIE. Pleasant Husband. Hurst and Blackett.

BYRON, LESLEY. Opportunist Sinn Feiners. Heath Cranton.

CASTLE, AGNES and EGERTON. Romances in Red. Hodder and Stoughton.

CLARKE, B.A. Free Hand. Ward, Lock.

CORKERY, DANIEL. *Hounds of Banba. Talbot Press.

DAVIS, F. HADLAND. Peony of Pao-Yu. Theosophical Pub. Co.

EARLE, SYBIL K.L. Olla Podrida. Morland.

FINDLATER, JANE HELEN. Green Grass-Widow. Murray.

FISHER, HERVEY. *Romantic Man. Seeker.

FRANCIS, BRAND. Comedy and Tragedy. Holden and Hardingham.

GARVICE, CHARLES. Miss Smith's Fortune. Skeffington.

GONNE, FRANCIS. Fringe of the Eternal. Burns, Oates, and Washbourne.

HAZELWOOD, A. Decision. Morland.

HOUSMAN, LAWRENCE. *Gods and Their Makers. Allen and Unwin.

HOWARD, FRANCIS MORTON. Little Shop in Fore Street. Methuen.

KEEN, RALPH HOLBROOK. *Little Ape. Henderson's.

KYFFIN-TAYLOR, BESSIE. From Out of the Silence. Books, Ltd.

LE QUEUX, WILLIAM. In Secret. Odham's.

LOWTHER, ALICE. Down the Old Road. Heath Cranton.

LYONS, A. NEIL. *Market Bundle. Butterworth.

MCCALLIN, WILLIAM. *Ulster Fireside Tales. Heath, Cranton.

MOORMAN, F.W. *More Tales of the Ridings. Mathews. *Tales of the Ridings. Mathews.

PEIRSON, FANNY. Noble Madness. Swarthmore Press.

PEMBERTON, MAX. Prince of the Palais Royal. Cassell.

PULLEN, A.M. Invisible Sword. S. Allen Warner.

PURDON, K.F. *Candle and Crib. Talbot Press.

QUEER STORIES from "Truth," 22d Series. Cassell.

RANSOME, ARTHUR. Soldier and Death. John G. Wilson.

RAYMOND, ADOLPHUS, and BUNIN, A. Amongst the Aristocracy of the Ghetto. Stanley Paul.

"ROHMER, SAX." Haunting of Low Fennel. Pearson.

SPETTIGUE, J.H. Nero. Lane.

ST. MARS, F. Off the Beaten Track. Chambers.

TAYLOR, SISTER EMILY. Diamonds in the Rough. Stockwell.

WAUGH, ALEC. *Pleasure. Grant Richards.

WAUGH, JOSEPH LAING. Heroes in Homespun. Hodder and Stoughton.

WEEKS, WILLIAM. 'Twas Ordained. Exeter: W. Pollard and Co.

WILCOX, ANNE SYMS. Settler's Story of 1820. Stockwell.

WINTLE, W. JAMES. Ghost Gleams. Heath Cranton.

WOOLF, LEONARD. *Stories of the East. Hogarth Press.

WOOLF, VIRGINIA. *Monday or Tuesday. Hogarth Press.

III. TRANSLATIONS

ANDREYEV, LEONID. (Russian.) *And it Came to Pass that the King was Dead. Daniel. *His Excellency the Governor. Daniel.

DUVERNOIS, HENRI. (French.) Holidays. Philpot.

MACKLIN, ALYS EYRE, translator (French.) *29 Short Stories. Philpot.

VOLUMES OF SHORT STORIES PUBLISHED IN FRANCE

OCTOBER, 1920, TO SEPTEMBER, 1921: AN INDEX

NOTE. An asterisk before a title indicates distinction.

BARBEY D'AUREVILLY, J. *Cachet d'Onyx. La Connaissance. BODIN, MARGUERITE. Psaumes d'amour. Figuière. BOURGET, PAUL. *Anomalies. Plon. BOUTET, FREDERIC. *Adventures Sombres et Pittoresques. Ferenczi. DOYON, RENE LOUIS. Proses Mystiques. La Connaissance. FARRERE, CLAUDE. Betes et Gens Qui s'Aimérent. Flammarion. GEFFROY, GUSTAVE. Nouveaux contes du pays d'Ouest. Crès. GIRIEUD, MAXIME. Contes du Temps Jamais. La Sirène. GOBIMEAU, COMTE DE. *Mademoiselle Irnois. Nouv. Revue franç. HENRIOT, EMILE. *Temps Innocents. Emile Paul. LEVEL, MAURICE. Morts Étranges. Ferenczi. LICHTENBERGER, ANDRA. Scènes en Famille. Plon. MACORLAN, PIERRE. *A Bord de l'Etoile Matutine. Crès. MAURICE-VERNE. Milles-et-une Nuits. Albin Michel. MELHOUF, DJEBAL. Père Robin. Boet, Constantine. MENASCHE, ELIE-L. CONTES DE L'INDE CRUELLE. Bouchet et Barri. MILLE, PIERRE. *Histoires exotiques et merveilleuses. Ferenczi. MORAND, PAUL. *Tendres Stocks. Nouv. Revue franç. NANDEAU, LUDOVIC. Histoire des Wagon et de la Cabine. Pierre Lafitte. NESMY, JEAN. Arc-en-ciel. Grasset. PERGAUD, LOUIS. *Rustiques. M. de F. PILLON, MARCEL. Contes à ma consine. Figuière. REGISMAUSET, CHARLES. Livre de Mes Amis. Sansot. RENAUD, J. JOSEPH. Clavecin Hanté. Pierre Lafitte. RICHEPIN, JEAN. *Coin des Fous. Flammarion. "TAILLEFER." Contes de Grenoble, Audin et Cir. TISSERAND, ERNEST. Contes de la popote. Crès. TURPIN, FRANCOIS. Contes Inutiles. La Connaissance. VERNON, YVONNE. Chine, Japan, Stamboul. Tohner.

ARTICLES ON THE SHORT STORY

OCTOBER, 1920, TO SEPTEMBER, 1921

Authors of articles are printed in capital letters.

The following abbreviations are used in this index:

Ain. Ainslee's Magazine Ath. Athenæum A.W. All's Well B.E.T. Boston Evening Transcript Book. (London) Bookman (London) Book. (N.Y.) Bookman (New York) Book. J. Bookman's Journal Cen. Century Det. Sun. N. Detroit Sunday News Dial Dial Eng. R. English Review Fortn. R. Fortnightly Review Free. Freeman Harp. M. Harper's Magazine. Liv. A. Living Age L. Merc. London Mercury L. St. Live Stories M. de F. Mercure de France N.A. Rev. North American Review Nat. (N.Y.) Nation (New York) Nat. (London) Nation (London) New S. New Statesman N. Rep. New Republic N.R.F. Nouvelle Revue Française N.Y. Times New York Times Review of Books Outl. (London) Outlook (London) R.D.M. Revue des Deux Mondes Sat. West. Saturday Westminster Gazette Scr. Scribner's Magazine So. Atl. Q. South Atlantic Quarterly S.S. Smart Set Times Lit. Suppl. Times Literary Supplement (London) Unp. R. Unpartisan Review W. Rev. Weekly Review 19th Cent. Nineteenth Century and after

AIKEN, CONRAD. Anton Chekhov. Free. April 6. (3:90.) Short Story As Poetry. Free. May 11. (3:210.)

ALDINGTON, RICHARD. James Joyce. Eng. R. April. (32:333.)

American Short Story. By Constance Mayfield Rourke. Free. Oct. 6, '20. (2:91.)

Andreyev, Leonid. By Clarendon Ross. N. Rep. May 25. (26:382.)

Artzibashef, Michael. By Berenice C. Skidelsky. A.W. Aug. (1:189.) A.W. Sept (1:202.)

ASTÉRIOTIS, DÉMÉTRIUS. Jean Psichari. M. de F. Dec. 15, '20. (144:797.) D. Voutyras. M. de F. April 15. (147:526.)

BAGENAL, H. Leo Nicolaievitch Tolstoy. Free. Feb. 16. (2:548.)

BATLLE, CARLOS DE. Vicente Blasco Ibáñez. Liv. A. Oct. 23, '20. (307:293.)

BEAUNIER, ANDRÉ. M. Franc-Nohain. R.D.M. Sept. 1. (65:217.)

BECHHOFER, C.E. James Branch Cabell. Times Lit. Suppl. June 16. (20:387.) Theodore Dreiser; Willa Sibert Cather. Times Lit. Suppl. June 23. (20:403.)

Beerbohm, Max. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Dec. 23. (19:873.) Anonymous. Nat. (London). March 19. (28:883.) By Henry D. Davray. M. de F. July 1. (149:245.) By Herbert S. Gorman. N.Y. Times. Jan. 2. (9.) By Desmond MacCarthy. New S. Dec. 18, '20. (16:339.) By Carl Van Doren. Nat. (N.Y.). Dec. 29, '20. (111:785.) By S.W. Ath. Dec. 31, '20. (888.)

BELL, LISLE. Henry James. Free. Dec. 29, '20, (2:381.)

BENNETT, ARNOLD. Chekhov, Maupassant, and James.

Bennett, Arnold. By St. John Ervine. N.A. Rev. Sept. (214:371.)

Beresford, J.D. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. June 30. (20:417.) Sat. R. Jul. 2. (132:19.)

BERNSTEIN, HERMAN. Count Lyof Tolstoi. N.Y. Times. Jan. 9. (3.)

BERTRAND, LOUIS. Paul Bourget. R.D.M. Dec. 15, '20. (60:723.)

Bierce, Ambrose. By Walter Jerrold. Book. (London.) June. (60:132.)

BIRRELL, AUGUSTINE. Henry James. Nat. (London). July 16. (29:581.)

BJORKMAN, EDWIN. Knut Hamsun. N. Rep. Apr. 13. (26:195.)

BLACK, JOHN. Lord Dunsany. Book. (N.Y.). April. (53:140.)

Blasco Ibáñez, Vicente. By Carlos de Sic Batlle. Liv. A. Oct. 23, '20. (307:293.) By Jean Gasson. M. de F. Aug. 15. (32:244.) By T.R. Ybarra. N.Y. Times. Jan. 23. (16.)

Bloch, Jean Richard. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Oct. 14, '20. (19:662.)

BLUMENFELD, L. Léon Kobrin. M. de F. March 15. (146:826.)

Boccaccio, Giovanni. Anonymous. New S. Nov. 6, '20. (16:144.)

BOURGET, PAUL. Prosper Mérimée. Liv. A. Nov. 6, '20. (307:346.)

Bourget, Paul. By Louis Bertrand. R.D.M. Dec. 15, '20. (60:723.) By C.F. Ath. Oct. 15, '20. (532.) By Louis Martin-Chauffier. N.R.F. Dec. '20. (8:934.).

BOYD, ERNEST A. Jens Peter Jacobsen. Free. May 25. (3:259.) James Stephens. Free. March 9. (2:619.)

BRAITHWAITE, WILLIAM STANLEY. Willa Cather. B.E.T. Feb. 16.

BRENNECKE, ERNEST. Thomas Hardy. N.Y. Times. June 5. (12.)

BREWSTER, DOROTHY. Fyodor Dostoevski. Nat. (N.Y.). Aug. 10. (113:155.)

Buchan, John. By Louise Maunsell Field. N.Y. Times. Jul. 3. (9.)

Bunin, I.A. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Aug. 18. (20:530.) By Jean Chuzeville. M. de F. Sept. 15. (32:815.)

BURKE, KENNETH. Francis Jammes. Free. May 11. (3:211.)

Burke, Thomas. Anonymous. Nat. (London). June 25. (29:476.) By Allen Monkhouse. New S. April 30. (17:106.)

BURT, MAXWELL STRUTHERS. By Blanche Colton Williams. Book. (N.Y.). March. (53:53.)

Burt, Maxwell Struthers. Henry W. Nevinson. Book. (N.Y.). May. (53:253.)

Cabell, James Branch. By C.E. Bechhofer. Times Lit. Suppl. June 16. (20:387.) By Richard Le Gallienne. N.Y. Times. Feb. 13. (3.) By Robert Morss Lovett. N. Rep. Apr. 13. (26:187.)

CARROLL, LATROBE. Willa Sibert Cather. Book. (N.Y.). May. (53:212.)

CASSON, JEAN. Vicente Blasco Ibáñez. M. de F. Aug. 15. (32:244.) Ramon Gomez de la Serna. M. de F. Jan. 15. (145:516.) Miguel de Unamuno. M. de F. June 15. (148:819.)

Cather, Willa Sibert. By C.E. Bechhofer. Times Lit. Suppl. June 23. (20:403.) By William Stanley Braithwaite. B.E.T. Feb. 16. By Latrobe Carroll. Book. (N.Y.). May. (53:212.) By Francis Hackett. N. Rep. Jan. 19. (25:233.) By Carl Van Doren. Nat. (N.Y.). Jul. 27. (113:92.) By O.W. Ath. Dec. 31, '20. (890.)

CHEKHOV, ANTON. Diary. Free. April 6. (3:79.) Notebook. M. de F. Jan. (3:285.) Free. April 13. (3:104). April 20. (3:127.) April 27. (3:152.) May 4. (3:175.) May 11. (3:199.) May 18. (3:225.) May 25. (3:247.) June 1. (3:272) June 8. (3:296.) June 15. (3:320.) June 22. (3:344.) June 29. (3:368.) July 6. (3:392.) July 13. (3:415.) July 20. (3:440.)

Chekhov, Anton. By Conrad Aiken. Free. April 6. (3:90.) Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Nov. 18, '20. (19:756.) Anonymous. L. St. Dec. '20. (125.) Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. April 21. (20:257.) Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Sept. 22. (20:609.) By Arnold Bennett. L. Merc. Oct., '20. (2:677.) By N. Bryllion Fagin. P.L. Autumn. (32:416.) By Maxim Gorky. Free. May 25. (3:251.) By Maxim Gorky. New S. April 16. (17:52.) Free. May 25. (3:251.) June 1. (3:275.) June 8. (3:298.) By Alexander Kuprin. Free. Aug. 10. (3:511.) Aug. 17. (3:535.) Aug. 24. (3:561.) Aug. 31. (3:583.) By Prince D.S. Mirski. Outl. (London.). Jul. 30. (48:90.) By J. Middleton Murry. Ath. Jan. 1. (11.) Nat. (London). June 4. (29:365.)

CHEW, SAMUEL C. George Meredith. N. Rep. Jan. 26. (25:267.)

Chuzeville, Jean. Ivan A. Bunin. M. de F. Sept. 15. (32:815.)

Collette. By Benjamin Crémieux. N.R.F. Dec., '20. (8:939.)

COLLIS-MORLEY, LACY. Federigo Tozzi; Mario Puccini. Nat. (London). July 16. (29:585.)

Colum, Padraic. By Constance Mayfield Rourke. N. Rep. May 4. (26:300.)

Conrad, Joseph. Anonymous. Nat. (London). March 19. (28:881.) Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. March 3. (20:141.) By Louise Maunsell Field. N.Y. Times. May 8. (10.) By Robert Lynd. New S. Mar. 12. (16:674.) By William McFee. Book. (N.Y.). Apr. (53:102.)

CONRAD, JOSEPH. Five Prefaces. L. Merc. Mar. (3:493.)

Coppard, A.E. Anonymous. Nat. (London). Jul. 30. (29:656.) By Malcolm Cowley. Dial. Jul. (71:93.)

Corkery, Daniel. Anonymous. Nat. (London). Apr. 2. (29:27.) By Shane Leslie. Dub. R. Apr. (168:289.)

Coster, Charles D. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Oct. 14, '20. (19:663.)

COURNOS, JOHN. Count Lyof Tolstoi. Times Lit. Suppl. Dec. 30, '20. (19:889.)

COWLEY, MALCOLM. A.E. Coppard. Dial. Jul. (71:93.) Katharine Mansfield. Dial. Sept. (71:365.)

CRÉMIEUX, BENJAMIN. Collette. N.R.F. Dec., '20. (8:939.)

D'Annunzio, Gabrielle. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Jan. 6. (20:7.)

DAVRAY, HENRY D. Max Beerbohm. M. de F. Jul. 1. (149:245.) Henry James. M. de F. Feb. 15. (146:68.)

De Coster, Charles. Anonymous. New S. Jan. 22. (16:482.)

DELEBECQUE, JACQUES. R.L. Stevenson. M. de F. Jan. 1. (145:55.)

Dostoevsky, Fyodor. Anonymous. Ath. Dec. 3, '20. (758.) Anonymous. Times. Lit. Suppl. Dec. 9, '20. (19:811.) By Dorothy Brewster. Nat. (N.Y.). Aug. 10. (113:155.) By Herbert S. Gorman. N.Y. Times. Aug. 7. (6.) By Allan Monkhouse. New S. Mar. 5. (16:646.) By Clarendon Ross. N. Rep. Jan. 12. (25:205.) By Louis Gillet. R.D.M. Dec. 15, '20. (60:851.)

Dreiser, Theodore. By C.E. Bechhofer. Times Lit. Suppl. June 23. (20:403.) By Edward H. Smith. Book. (N.Y.). Mar. (53:27.)

DUGAS, L. Prosper Mérimée. M. de F. Oct. 1, '20. (143:113.)

Dunsany, Lord. By John Black. Book. (N.Y.). Apr. (53:140.) By C.E. Lawrence. Liv. A. Aug. 27. (310:531.) Book. (London). Jul. (60:172.) By Odell Shepard. Scr. May. (69:595.)

Easton, Dorothy. By H.S.G.N. Rep. Feb. 23. (25:384.)

EDGETT, EDWIN FRANCIS. W.H. Hudson. B.E.F. Jan. 12. (6.)

ELLIOT, JOHN. H.G. Wells. Book. (N.Y.). Feb. (52:542.)

ERVINE. ST. JOHN. Arnold Bennett. N.A. Rev. Sept. (214:371.)

EWART, WILFRID. Thomas Hardy. 19th Cent. Sept. (90:427.)

FAGIN, N. BRYLLION. Anton Chekhov. P.L. Autumn. (32:416.)

FIELD, LOUISE MAUNSELL. John Buchan. N.Y. Times. Jul. 3. (9.) Joseph Conrad. N.Y. Times. May 8. (10.)

FINGER, CHARLES J. R.B. Cunninghame-Graham. A.W. Jul. (1:168.)

Fisher, Hervey. By Orlo Williams. Ath. Feb. 11. (157.)

Flaubert, Gustave. Anonymous. Nat. (N.Y.) Jul. 13. (113:33.) By Georges-A. Le Roy. M. de F. Dec. 15, '20. (144:788.)

Franc-Nohain, M. By André Beaunier. R.D.M. Sept. 1. (65:217.)

France, Anatole. By Pitts Sanborn. Free. Feb. 9. (2:514.)

G., H.S. Aldous Huxley. N. Rep. Oct. 13, '20. (24:172.) Dorothy Easton. N. Rep. Feb. 23. (25:384.)

Gálvez, Manuel. By Isaac Goldberg. B.E.T. Feb. 16. '21.

BARTHOU, LOUIS. Guy de Maupassant. R.D.M. Oct. 15, '20. (59:746.)

GILLET, LOUIS. Fyodor Dostoevski. R.D.M. Dec. 15, '20. (60:851.) Lyof Tolstoi. R.D.M. Oct. 1, '20. (59:633.)

Gogol, Nikolas. By "Parijanine." Liv. A. Jul. 2. (310:51.)

Goedhart-Becker, J.M. By J.L. Walch. M. de F. Dec. 15, '20. (144:794.)

Gogol, Nikolai Vassilievitch. By Albert Jay Nock. Free. Jan. 26. (2:464.)

GOLDBERG, ISAAC. Manuel Gálvez. B.E.T. Feb. 16, '21.

Gomez de la Serna, Ramon. By Jean Casson. M. de F. Jan. 15. (145:516.)

GORKI, MAXIM. Count Lyof Tolstoi. N.R.F. Dec., '20. (8:862.)

GORKY, MAXIM. Anton Chekhov. New S. Apr. 16. (17:52.) Free. May 25. (3:251.) June 1. (3:275.) June 8. (3:298.)

GORMAN, HERBERT S. American Short Story. N.Y. Times. Mar. 6., (10.) Max Beerbohm. N.Y. Times. Jan. 2. (9.) Fyodor Dostoevski. N.Y. Times. Aug. 7. (6.)

Govoni, Corrado. By Mario Praz. L. Merc. Sept. (4:527.)

Graham, R.B. Cunninghame. By Charles J. Finger. A.W. Jul. (1:168.) By C. Lewis Hind. Free. May 18. (3:237.) By Mariano Joachin Lorente. A.W. Jan. (1:6.)

GUÈRINOT, A. Guy de Maupassant. M. de F. June 15. (148:597.)

Hamilton, Anthony. Anonymous. New S. Apr. 23. (17:83.) Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Apr. 7. (20:225.)

H., R. Katharine Mansfield. N. Rep. Mar. 23. (26:114.)

HACKETT, FRANCIS. James Stephens. N. Rep. Dec. 22, '20. (25:111.) Lyof Tolstoi. N. Rep. Jan. 5. (25:172.) Willa Sibert Cather. N. Rep. Jan. 12. (25:233.)

Hamp, Pierre. By Gilbert Thomas. Free. June 29. (3:379.)

Hamsun, Knut. Anonymous. N.Y. Times. June 26. (8.) Anonymous. New S. Nov. 13, '20. (16:170.) By Edwin Bjorkman. N. Rep. Apr. 13. (26:195.) By Allen Wilson Porterfield. Nat. (N.Y.) Dec 8, '20. (111:652.) By Allen Shoenfield. Det. Sun. N. Dec. 19, '20. By W.W. Worster. Fortn. R. Dec., '20. (114:1003.)

Hardy, Thomas. By Ernest Brennecke. N.Y. Times. June 5. (12.) By Wilfrid Ewart. 19th Cent. Sept. (90:427.) By H.M. Tomlinson. N. Rep. Jan. 12. (25:190.)

HARWOOD, H.C. Hugh Walpole. Outl. (London). Jul. 23. (48:75.)

Hearn, Lafcadio. Anonymous. New S. Sept. 10. (17:628.) Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Aug. 25. (20:545.) Anonymous. Sat. R. Sept. 24. (48:380.)

"Henry, O." By William Johnston. Book. (N.Y.). Feb. (52:536.) By Archibald L. Sessions. Ain. Sept. (48:150.)

Hergesheimer, Joseph. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Dec. 16, '20. (19:854.) By Edward Shanks. L. Merc. Jan. (3:337.)

HIND, C. LEWIS. R.B. Cunninghame Graham. Free. May 18. (3:237.)

HOPKINS, R. THURSTON. Robert Louis Stevenson. Book. J. Jan. 14. (3:194.)

Hudson, W.H. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Dec. 9, '20. (19:823.) Anonymous. Nat. (London). Jan. 22. (28:584.) Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Sept. 29. (20:625.) By Edwin Francis Edgett. B.E.T. Jan. 12. (6.) By H.J. Massingham. L. Merc. Nov. '20. (3:73.) By Forest Reid. Ath. Jan. 14. (39.)

Hurst, Fannie. By Inez Haynes Irwin. Book. (N.Y.). June. (53:335.)

Huxley, Aldous. By H.S.G. N. Rep. Oct. 13, '20. (24:172.)

Huysmans, Joris Karl. By Albert Thibaudet. N.R.F. Dec., '20. (8:93.) By Cuthbert Wright. Dial. Dec., '20. (69:655.)

IRWIN, INEZ HAYNES. Fannie Hurst. Book. (N.Y.). June. (53:335.)

Jacobsen, Jens Peter. By Ernest Boyd. Free. May 25. (3:259.)

James, Henry. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. May 12. (20:298) June 30. (20:417.) Liv. A. Jul. 30. (310:267.) By Arnold Bennett. L. Merc. Oct., '20. (2:677.) By Lisle Bell. Free. Dec. 29, '20. (2:381.) By Augustine Birrell. Nat. (London). Jul. 16. (29:581.) By Henry-D. Davray. M. de F. Feb. 15. (146:68.) By Desmond MacCarthy. New S. Dec. 18, '20. (16:339.) By Brander Matthews. N.Y. Times. June 12. (2.) By Wilfrid L. Randell. Fortn. R. Sept. (116:458.) By Stanley Went. Unp. Rev. Oct., '20. (14:381.)

Jammes, Francis. By Kenneth Burke. Free. May 11. (3:211.)

JERROLD, WALTER. Ambrose Bierce. Book. (London). June. (60:132.)

JOHNSTON, WILLIAM. O. Henry. Book. (N.Y.). Feb. (52:536.)

Joyce, James. By Richard Aldington. Eng. R. Apr. (32:333.) By Evelyn Scott. Dial. Oct., '20. (69:353.)

Karkavitsas, Andreas. By Aristides E. Phoutrides. W. Rev. Dec. 8, '20. (3:566.)

KAYE, A. LISTER. Fyodor Sologub. Fortn. R. Oct., '20. (114:663.)

Kipling, Rudyard. By Arthur Bartlett Maurice. N.Y. Times. May 22. (4.)

Kobrin, Léon. By L. Blumenfeld. M. de F. Mar. 15. (146:826.)

KUPRIN, ALEXANDER. Anton Chekhov. Free. Aug. 10. (3:511.) Aug. 17. (3:535.) Aug. 24. (3:561.) Aug. 31. (3:583.)

Kurz, Isolde. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. June 30. (20:415.)

Larbaud, Valery. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Dec. 2, '20. (19:790.)

LAWRENCE, C.E. Lord Dunsany. Liv. A. Aug. 27. (310:531.) Book. (London). Jul. (60:172.)

LE GALLIENNE, RICHARD. James Branch Cabell. N.Y. Times. Feb. 13. (3.)

Le Roy, Georges A. Gustave Flaubert. M. de F. Dec. 15, '20. (144:788.)

LESLIE, SHANE. Daniel Corkery. Dub. Rev. Apr. (168:289.)

LINATI, CARLO. Giovanni Verga. Dial. Aug. (71:150.)

LONDON, CHARMIAN. Jack London. Cen. Mar. (101:545.) May. (102:105.) June. (102:287.) Jul. (102:443.) Aug. (102:599.)

London, Jack. By Charmian London. Cen. March. (101:545.) May (102:105.) June. (102:287.) Jul. (102:443.) Aug. (102: 599.)

LORENTE, MARIANO JOACHIN. R.B. Cunninghame Graham. A.W. Jan. (1:6.)

LOVETT, ROBERT MORSS. James Branch Cabell. N. Rep. Apr. 13. (26:187.)

LYND, ROBERT. Joseph Conrad. New S. Mar. 12. (16:674.)

MACCARTHY, DESMOND. Max Beerbohm. New S. Dec. 18, '20. (16:339.) Henry James. New S. Dec. 18, '20. (16:339.) Katharine Mansfield. New S. Jan. 15. (16:450.) Guy de Maupassant. New S. Sept. 24. (17:677.) Leonard Woolf and Virginia Woolf. New S. Apr. 9. (17:18.)

MCFEE, WILLIAM. Joseph Conrad. Book. (N.Y.). Apr. (53:102.)

MACY, JOHN. Edgar Allen Poe. Free. Mar. 9. (2:622.)

MANN, DOROTHEA LAWRANCE. Anne Douglas Sedgwick. B.E.T. Jan. 29, '21.

MANSFIELD, KATHARINE. Gertrude Stein. Ath. Oct. 15, '20. (520.)

Mansfield, Katharine. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Dec. 16, '20. (19:858.) Ath. Jan. 21. (67.) Nat. (London). Feb. 5. (28:639.) By Malcolm Cowley. Dial. Sept. (71:365.) By R.H.N. Rep. Mar. 23. (26:114.) By Desmond MacCarthy. New S. Jan. 15. (16:450.) By Jasper Pendlethwaite. Sat. West. Jan. 1. (16.) By Edward Shanks. L. Merc. Jan. (3:337.)

MARTIN-CHAUFFIER, LOUIS. Paul Bourget. N.R.F. Dec. '20. (8:934.)

MASON, LAWRENCE. H.W. Nevinson. Free. Aug. 10. (3:524.)

MASSINGHAM, H.J.M. W.H. Hudson. L. Merc. Nov. 20. (3:73.) Guy de Maupassant. Nat. (London.) Oct. 30, '20. (28:166.)

MATTHEWS, BRANDER. Henry James. N.Y. Times. June 12. (2.) Edgar Allen Poe. N.Y. Times. Mar. 13. (3.) Mark Twain. Harp. M. Oct., '20. (141: 635.)

Maupassant, Guy de. By Arnold Bennett. L. Merc. Oct., '20. (2: 677.) By A. Guèrinot. M. de F. June 15. (148:597.) By Louis Barthou. R.D.M. Oct. 15, '20. (59:746.) By Desmond MacCarthy. New S. Sept. 24. (17:677.) By H.J.M. Massingham. Nat. (London.) Oct. 30, '20. (28:166.) By Albert Thibaudet. N.R.F. Dec., '20. (8:923.)

MAURICE, ARTHUR BARTLETT. Rudyard Kipling. N.Y. Times. May 22. (4.)

MENCKEN, H.L. Mark Twain. S.S. Oct., '20. (138.)

Meredith, George. By Samuel C. Chew. N. Rep. Jan. 26. (25:267.) By E.T. Raymond. Liv. A. Oct. 23, '20. (307:222.)

Mérimée, Prosper. By Paul Bourget. Liv. A. Nov. 6, '20. (307:346.) By L. Dugas. M. de F. Oct. 1, '20. (143:113.) By Camille Pitollet. M. de F. Nov. 15, '20. (144:252.)

MIRSKI, PRINCE D.S. Anton Chekhov. Outl. (London.) Jul. 30. (48:90.)

MONKHOUSE, ALLAN. Thomas Burke. New S. Apr. 30. (17:106.) Fyodor Dostoievsky. New S. Mar. 5. (16:646.)

Moorman, F.W. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Oct. 21, '20. (19:679.)

Morand, M. Paul. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Mar. 3. (20:142.) By J. Middleton Murry. Nat. (London). Apr. 23. (29:137.)

MORGAN, EDITH PARSONS. Victor Murdock. N. Rep. Sept. 14. (28:79.)

MORRISSEY, FRANK R. Mark Twain. Book. (N.Y.). Apr. (53:143.)

Murdock, Victor. By Edith Parsons Morgan. N. Rep. Sept. 14. (28:79.)

MURRY, J. MIDDLETON. Anton Chekhov. Ath. Jan. 7. (11.) Nat. (London). June 4. (29:365.) Paul Morand. Nat. (London.) Apr. 23. (29:137.) Hugh Walpole. Nat. (London.) Jul. 16. (29:584.)

Nevinson, Henry W. Anonymous. Nat. (London). Jan. 15. (38:554.) By Maxwell Struthers Burt. Book. (N.Y.). May. (53:253.) By Lawrence Mason. Free. Aug. 10. (3:524.)

NICHOLS, ROBERT. Oscar Wilde. New S. Dec. 11, '20. (16:310.)

NOCK, ALBERT JAY. Vassilievitch Nikolai Gogol. Free. Jan. 26. (2:464.)

O'CONOR, NORREYS JEPHSON. James Stephens. B.E.T. Dec. 18.

"PARIJANINE." Nikolas Gogol. Liv. A. Jul. 2. (310:51.)

PECKHAM, H. HOUSTON. Mark Twain, So. Atl. Q. Oct., '20. (19:332.)

PENDLETHWAITE, JASPER. Katharine Mansfield. Sat. West. Jan. 1. (16.)

Pérez de Ayala, Ramón. By J.B. Trend. Nat. (London). Jul. 9. (29:550.)

PHOUTRIDES, ARISTIDES E. Andreas Karkavitsas. W. Rev. Dec. 8, '20. (3:566.)

PITOLLET, CAMILLE. Prosper Mérimée. M. de F. Nov. 15, '20. (144:252.)

Poe, Edgar Allen. By Brander Matthews. N.Y. Times. Mar. 13. (3.) By John Macy. Free. Mar. 9. (2:622.) By Merton S. Yewdale. N.A. Rev. Nov., '20. (212:686.)

PORTERFIELD, ALLEN WILSON. Knut Hamsun. Nat. (N.Y.). Dec. 8, '20. (111:596.)

PRAZ, MARIO. Corrado Govoni. L. Merc. Sept. (4:527.) Federico Tozzi. L. Merc. Jan. (3:321.)

Psichari, Jean. By Démétrius Astériotis. M. de F. Dec. 15, '20. (144:797.)

Puccini, Mario. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Aug. 25. (20:546.) By Lucy Collis-Morley. Nat. (London.). Jul. 16. (29:585.)

RANDELL, WILFRID L. Henry James. Fortn. R. Sept. (116:458.)

RAYMOND, E.T. George Meredith. Liv. A. Oct. 23, '20. (307:222.)

REID, FORREST. W.H. Hudson. Ath. Jan. 14. (39.)

Rejmont, Ladislas. By Z.-L. Zaleski. M. de F. Oct. 1, '20. (143:35.)

Régnier, Henri de. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Dec. 23, '20. (19:869.)

Robbins, Tod. Anonymous. Nat. (N.Y.). Nov. 24, '20. (111:596.)

ROSS, CLARENDON. Leonid Andreyev. N. Rep. May 25. (26:382.) Fyodor Dostoevski. N. Rep. Jan. 12. (25:205.)

"Ross, Martin." See "Somerville, E. [OE].," and "Ross, Martin."

ROURKE, CONSTANCE MAYFIELD. American Short Story. Free. Oct. 6, '20. (2:91.) Padraic Colum. N. Rep. May 4. (26:300.)

ROWLAND-BROWN, LILIAN. Ivan Turgenev. 19th Cent. Aug. (90:230.)

Sainte-Beuve, C.A. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Oct. 28, '20. (19:695.)

SANBORN, PITTS. Anatole France. Free. Feb. 9. (2:514.)

Schickele, René. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Jan. 27. (20:58.)

SCHOENFIELD, ALLEN. Knut Hamsun. Det. Sun. N. Dec. 19, '20.

SCHREINER, OLIVE. Anonymous. Nat. (London). Dec. 18, '20. (28:416.) Nat. (N.Y.). Dec. 29, '20. (111:769.)

SCOTT, EVELYN. James Joyce. Dial. Oct., '20. (69:353.)

Sedgwick, Anne Douglas. Anonymous. Nat. (London). Oct. 16, '20. (28:84.) By Dorothea L. Mann. B.E.T. Jan. 29, 1921 By Rebecca West. New S. Oct. 9, '20. (16:20.)

Seidel, Ina. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. June 30. (20:415.)

SESSIONS, ARCHIBALD L. O. Henry. Ain. Sept. (48:150.)

SHANKS, EDWARD. Katharine Mansfield. } Joseph Hergesheimer. } L. Merc. Jan. (3:337.)

SHEPARD, ODELL. Lord Dunsany. Scr. May. (69:595.)

Short Story As Poetry. By Conrad Aiken. Free. May 11. (3:210.)

SKIDELSKY, BERENICE C. Michael Artzibashef. A.W. Aug. (1:189.) A.W. Sept. (1:202.)

SMITH, EDWARD H. Theodore Dreiser. Book. (N.Y.). Mar. (53:27.)

Söderberg, Hjalmar. By Charles Wharton Stork. Book. (N.Y.). Apr. (53:142.)

Sologub, Fyodor. By A. Lister Kaye. Fortn. R. Oct., '20. (114:663.) "Somerville, E. [OE].," and "Ross, Martin." Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Oct. 23, '20. (19:697.)

SQUIRE, J.C. The Short Story. Outl. (London.) Sept. 17. (48:234.)

Stein, Gertrude. By Katharine Mansfield. Ath. Oct. 15, '20. (520.)

Stephens, James. By Ernest A. Boyd. Free. Mar. 9. (2:619.) By Francis Hackett. N. Rep. Dec. 22, '20. (25:111.) By Norreys Jephson O'Conor. B.E.T. Dec. 18, '20.

Stevenson, Robert Louis. Anonymous. New S. Nov. 27, '20. (16:240.) Times Lit. Suppl. Oct. 28, '20. (19:699.) Nat. (London). Jan. 18. (28:554.) By Jacques Delebecque. M. de F. Jan. 1. (145:55.) By R. Thurston Hopkins. Book. J. Jan. 14. (3:194.) By F.R. Ath. Nov. 12, '20. (650.)

STORK, CHARLES WHARTON. Hjalmar Söderberg. Book. (N.Y.). Apr. (53:142.)

THIBAUDET, ALBERT. Emile Zola; Guy de Maupassant; Joris-Karl Huysmans. N.R.F. Dec., '20. (8:923.)

THOMAS, GILBERT. Pierre Hamp. Free. June 29. (3:379.)

Tolstoi, Count Lyof. By H. Bagenal. Free. Feb. 16. (2:548.) By Herman Bernstein. N.Y. Times. Jan. 9. (3.) By John Cournos. Times Lit. Suppl. Dec. 30, '20. (19:888.) By Louis Gillet. R.D.M. Oct. 1, '20. (59:633.) By Maxim Gorki. N.R.F. Dec., '20. (8:862.) By Francis Hackett. N. Rep. Jan. 5. (25:172.)

TOMLINSON, H.M. Thomas Hardy. N. Rep. Jan. 12. (25:190.)

Tozzi, Federigo. By Lucy Collis-Morley. Nat. (London.) Jul. 16. (29:585.) By Mario Praz. L. Merc. Jan. (3:321.)

Trancoso, Fernandez. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Aug. 25. (20:546.)

TREND, J.B. Ramón Pérez de Ayala. Nat. (London). Jul. 9. (29:550.)

Turgenev, Ivan. By Lilian Rowland-Brown. 19th Cent. Aug. (90:230.)

"Twain, Mark." Anonymous. Nat. (London). Oct. 23, '20. (28:136.) New S. Oct. 2, '20. (15:707.) Liv. A. Nov. 27, '20. (307:555.) By Brander Matthews. Harp. M. Oct., '20. (141:635.) By H.L. Mencken. S.S. Oct., '20. (138.) By Frank R. Morrissey. Book. (N.Y.). Apr. (53:143.) By H. Houston Peckham. So. Atl. Q. Oct., '20. (19:332.) By V.R. Ath. Oct. 8, '20. (470.)

Unamuno, Miguel de. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Jul. 28. (20:483.) By Jean Casson. M. de F. June 15. (148:819.)

VALE, CHARLES. Oscar Wilde. Dial. Sept. (71:359.)

VAN DOREN, CARL. Max Beerbohm. Nat. (N.Y.), Dec. 29, '20. (111:785.) Willa Sibert Cather. Nat. (N.Y.). Jul. 27. (113:92.)

Verga, Giovanni. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. May 26. (20:339.) By Carlo Linati. Dial. Aug. (71:150.)

Voutyras, D. By Démétrius Astériotis. M. de F. Apr. 15. (147:526.)

Walch, J.L. J.M. Goedhart-Becker; Karel Wasch. M. de F. Dec. 15, '20. (144:794.)

Walpole, Hugh. Anonymous. Sat. R. Jul. 30. (132:150.) By H.C. Harwood. Outl. (London). Jul. 23. (48:75.) By J. Middleton Murry. Nat. (London.) Jul. 16. (29:584.)

Wasch, Karel. By J.L. Walch. M. de F. Dec. 15, '20. (144:794.)

Wells, H.G. By John Elliot. Book. (N.Y.). Feb. (52:542.)

Went, Stanley. Henry James. Unp. Rev. Oct., '20. (14:381.)

WEST, REBECCA. Anne Douglas Sedgwick. New S. Oct. 9, '20. (16:20.)

Wilde, Oscar. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Nov. 18, '20. (19:754.) By Robert Nichols. New S. Dec. 11, '20. (10:310.) By Charles Vale. Dial. Sept. (71:359.)

WILLIAMS, BLANCHE COLTON. Maxwell Struthers Burt. Book. (N.Y.). Mar. (53:53.)

WILLIAMS, ORLO. Hervey Fisher. Ath. Feb. 11. (157.)

Woolf, Virginia. By Desmond MacCarthy. New S. Apr. 9. (17:18.)

WORSTER, W.W. Knut Hamsun. Fortn. R. Dec., '20. (114:1003.)

Wright, Cuthbert. Joris-Karl Huysmans. Dial. Dec., '20. (69:655.)

YBARRA, T.R. Vicente Blasco Ibáñez. N.Y. Times. Jan. 23. (16.)

YEWDALE, MERTON S. Edgar Allen Poe. N.A. Rev. Nov., '20. (212:686.)

ZALESKI, Z.L. Stefan Zeromski; Ladislas Rejmont. M. de F. Oct. 1, '20. (143:35.)

Zeromski, Stefan. By Z.-L. Zaleski. M. de F. Oct. 1. '20. (143:35.)

Zola, Emile. By Albert Thibaudet. N.R.F. Dec., '20. (8:923.)

INDEX OF SHORT STORIES IN BOOKS

OCTOBER, 1920, TO SEPTEMBER, 1921

NOTE. One, two, or three asterisks are prefixed to the titles of stories to indicate distinction. Three asterisks prefixed to a title indicate the more or less permanent literary value of the story. Cross references after an author's name refer to previous volumes of this series.

The following abbreviations are used in the index:

Aumonier Aumonier. Golden Windmill and Other Stories.

Bercovici Bercovici. Ghitza and Other Romances of Gypsy Blood.

Brown B Brown. Homespun and Gold.

Burke Burke. More Limehouse Nights.

Burt B Burt. Chance Encounters.

Cabell A Cabell. Lines of Love.

Chekhov F Chekhov. Schoolmistress and Other Stories.

Chekhov G Chekhov. Horse-Stealers and Other Stories.

Child Child. Velvet Black.

Cholmondeley Cholmondeley. Romance of His Life and Other Romances.

Coppard Coppard. Adam and Eve and Pinch Me.

Dunbar Dunbar. Sons o' Cormac an' Tales of Other Men's Sons.

France France. Seven Wives of Bluebeard.

French C French. Masterpieces of Mystery. Ghost Stories.

French D French. Masterpieces of Mystery. Mystic-Humorous Stories.

French E French. Masterpieces of Mystery. Riddle Stories.

French F French. Masterpieces of Mystery. Detective Stories

French G French. Great Sea Stories.

Hamp Hamp. People.

Hudson Hudson. Dead Man's Plack and An Old Thorn.

Hughes B Hughes. Momma and Other Unimportant People.

James B James. Master Eustace.

Jugo-Slav Popovic. Jugo-Slav Stories.

MacManus B MacManus. Top o' the Mornin'.

McSpadden B McSpadden. Famous Psychic Stories.

McSpadden C McSpadden. Famous Detective Stories.

Mansfield Mansfield. Bliss and Other Stories.

Marquis Marquis. Carter, and Other People.

Maugham Maugham. Trembling of a Leaf.

Merrick C Merrick. Chair on the Boulevard.

Morley Morley. Tales From a Rolltop Desk.

Nevinson B Nevinson. Original Sinners.

New Dec. B New Decameron. Volume the Second, Containing the Second Day.

Oxford Oxford. Selected English Short Stories. Second Series. (XIX and XX Centuries.)

Post C Post. Sleuth of St. James's Square.

Ragozin Ragozin. Little Russian Masterpieces.

Roumania Roumania. Roumanian Stories.

Rudwin Rudwin. Devil Stories.

Sedgwick Sedgwick. Christmas Roses and Other Stories.

Smith B Smith. Cape Breton Tales.

Stephens Stephens. Irish Fairy Tales.

Strachey Strachey. Savitri and Other Women.

Turgenev Turgenev. Two Friends and Other Stories.

Van Vechten A Van Vechten. Lords of the Housetops.

Walpole Walpole. Thirteen Travellers.

I. AMERICAN AUTHORS

ALDEN, WILLIAM LIVINGSTON. *Monty's Friend. Van Vechten A.203.

ANDERSON, SHERWOOD. (1876- .) (See 1920.) ***Other Woman. O'Brien D. 3.

ANONYMOUS. Great Valdez Sapphire. French E. 44. Printer's Devil. Rudwin. 136.

BABCOCK, EDWINA STANTON. (See 1920.) ***Gargoyle. O'Brien D. 12.

BACON, PEGGY. *Queen's Cat Van, Vechten A. 220.

BERCOVICI, KONRAD. (1882- .) **Bear-Tamers Daughter. Bercovici. 181. ***Fanutza. Bercovici. 135. ***Ghitza. Bercovici. 7. O'Brien D. 36. ***Hazi, Wife of Tender Surtuck. Bercovici. 159. ***Law of the Lawless. Bercovici. 27. ***Tinka. Bercovici. 112. **Vlad's Son, Bercovici. 54. *Yahde, the Proud One. Bercovici. 85 **Yancu Lantaru. Bercovici. 209.

BIERCE, AMBROSE. (1842-1914.) (See 1918 and 1920.) ***Horseman in the Sky. Oxford. 252. ***Moxon's Master. McSpadden B. 177.

BLASHFIELD, EVANGELINE WILBOUR. *Ghoul, McSpadden B. 245.

BONE, DAVID W. *Merchant's Cup. French G. 203.

BRANDENBURG, BROUGHTON. Mystery of the Steel Disk. McSpadden C. 233.

BROWN, ALICE. (1857- .) (See 1918 and 1920.) **Ann Eliza. Brown B. 79. **Brush of Paint. Brown B. 181. **Confessions. Brown B. 259. *Deserters. Brown B. 210. **Homespun Wizardry. Brown B. 43. **House of the Bride. Brown B. 139 *Mary Felicia. Brown B. 22. **Path of Stars. Brown B. 201. **Question of Wills. Brown B. 158. **Red Poppies. Brown B. 64. **Return of Father. Brown B. 101. **Up on the Mountain. Brown B. 283 **Wedding Ring. Brown B. 1. ***White Pebbles. Brown B. 239. **Widow's Third. Brown B. 222.

BRYNER, EDNA CLARE. ***Life of Five Points. O'Brien D. 49.

BURT, MAXWELL STRUTHERS. **"Bally Old" Knott. Burt B. 217. ***Blood-Red One. Burt B. 197. *Devilled Sweetbreads. Burt B. 117. ***"Dream or Two." Burt B. 152. ***Each in His Generation, Burt B. 252. ***Experiment. Burt B. 39. ***Scarlet Hunter. Burt B. 1. ***Shining Armor. Burt B. 79.

CABELL, JAMES BRANCH. **Adhelmar at Puysange. Cabell A. 35. ***Castle of Content. Cabell A. 173. ***Conspiracy of Arnaye. Cabell A. 145 ***In Necessity's Mortar. Cabell A. 113 ***In Ursula's Garden. Cabell A. 203. ***Love-Letters of Falstaff. Cabell A. 63. **Porcelain Cups. Cabell A. 229. ***"Sweet Adelais." Cabell A. 87. ***Wedding Jest. Cabell A. 9.

CAMP, (CHARLES) WADSWORTH. (1879- .) ***Signal Tower. O'Brien D. 66.

CARRYL, GUY WETMORE. ***Zut. Van Vechten A. 11.

CHILD, RICHARD WASHBURN. (1881- .) *Avenger. Child. 243. **Cracking Knee. Child. 114. **Experiment in Resource. Child. 217. *Fiber. Child. 183. Foxed. Child. 352. ***Identified. Child. 27. *In Dancing Shadows. Child. 307. *Nightingale. Child. 53. *Pode. Child. 280. *Velvet Black. Child. 1. *Whiff of Heliotrope. Child. 79.

COOPER, JAMES FENIMORE. (1789-1851.) **Wreck of the Royal Caroline. French G. 129.

CRAM, RALPH ADAMS. (1863- .) *Sister Maddelena. French C. 167.

CREW, HELEN COALE. (1866- .) ***Parting Genius. O'Brien D. 83.

DUNBAR, ALDIS. *Conn the Boaster. Dunbar. 200. *Constant Green Jerkin. Dunbar. 1. *Eiveen Cold-Heart. Dunbar. 41. *Ethlenn o' the Mist. Dunbar. 68. *Fair Ailinn. Dunbar. 106. *Grainne the Haughty. Dunbar. 165. *Harvestin' o' Dermond. Dunbar. 21. *How Cormac Lost His Kingdom. Dunbar. 134. *King Diarmid an' Pol. Dunbar. 94. *King o' the Three Winds. Dunbar. 212. *Light O' Me Eyes. Dunbar. 181. *Questin' o' Cleena. Dunbar. 55. *Servin' o' Culain. Dunbar. 120. *Wild Apples an' Golden Grain. Dunbar. 80. *Wind an' Wave an' Wandherin Flame. Dunbar. 151.

FERNALD, CHESTER BAILEY. (1869- .) *Chan Tow the Highrob. French D. 143.

FREEMAN, MARY E. WILKINS. (1862- .) (See 1918 and 1920.) ***Cat. Van Vechten A. 1. ***Shadows on the Wall. McSpadden. B. 269.

GEROULD, KATHARINE FULLERTON. (1879- .) (See 1918.) ***Habakkuk. O'Brien D. 90.

GREEN, ANNA KATHARINE (ANNA KATHARINE GREEN ROHLFS.) (1846- .) Grotto Spectre. McSpadden C. 199. Missing: Page Thirteen. French F. 108.

HANSHEW, THOMAS W. (1857-1914.) Mystery of the Steel Room. McSpadden C. 293.

HANSHEW, THOMAS W. and MARY E. Rope of Fear. French F. 200.

HARLAND, HENRY. (1861-1905.) *House of Eulalie. Oxford. 396.

HARTE, FRANCIS BRET. (1839-1902.) (See 1918 and 1920.) ***How Santa Claus Came to Simpson's Bar. Oxford. 202. ***Outcasts of Poker Flat. Oxford. 190.

HARTMAN, LEE FOSTER. (1879- .) ***Judgment of Vulcan. O'Brien D. 116.

HAWTHORNE, NATHANIEL. (1804-1864.) (See 1918.) ***Birth-Mark. French E. 94. ***Grey Champion. Oxford. 32. ***Maypole of Merry Mount. Oxford. 19. ***Old Esther Dudley. Oxford. 64. ***Roger Malvin's Burial. Oxford. 41. ***White Old Maid. McSpadden B. 1.

HEARN, LAFCADIO. (1850-1904.) (See 1920.) ***Ghost. French D. 101.

"HENRY, O." (WILLIAM SYDNEY PORTER.) (1867-1910.) (See 1918 and 1920.) ***Gift of the Magi. Oxford. 406. ***Madame Bo-Peep, of the Ranches. Oxford. 430. ***Municipal Report. Oxford. 412.

HUGHES, RUPERT. (1872- .) (See 1918.) Butcher's Daughter. Hughes B. 256. College Lorelei. Hughes B. 152. *Dauntless Bookkeeper. Hughes B. 317. *Father of Waters. Hughes B. 78. Innocence. Hughes B. 121. *"Momma." Hughes B. 1. Quicksilver Window. Hughes B. 289. Read It Again. Hughes B. 60. Split. Hughes B. 213. ***Stick-In-The-Muds. Hughes B. 33; O'Brien D. 148. *Story I Can't Write. Hughes B. 237. Yellow Cords. Hughes B. 193. You Hadn't Ought To. Hughes B. 336.

IRVING, WASHINGTON. (1783-1859.) (See 1918.) **Devil and Tom Walker. Rudwin 28.

JAMES, HENRY. (1843-1916.) (See 1920.) ***Benvolio. James B. 203. ***Four Meetings. Oxford. 301. ***Light Man. James B. 147. ***Longstaff's Marriage. James B. 57. ***Master Eustace. James B. 7. ***Owen Wingrave. Oxford. 260. ***Théodolinde. James B. 111.

JANVIER, THOMAS A. **Madame Jolicoeur's Cat. Van Vechten A. 163.

LONDON, JACK. (1876-1916.) *Terrible Solomons. French G. 306.

MACMANUS, SEUMAS. (1870- .) (See 1920.) **All on the Brown Knowe. MacManus B. 242. *Barney Brian's Monument. MacManus B. 225. ***Bellman of Carrick. MacManus B. 207. *Billy Baxter's Holiday. MacManus B. 101. **Cadger-Boy's Last Journey. MacManus B. 41. *Capture of Nelly Carribin. MacManus B. 192. *Case of Kitty Kildea. MacManus B. 77. Five Minutes a Millionaire. MacManus B. 156. ***Heart-Break of Norah O'Hara. MacManus B. 261. **Lord Mayor o' Buffalo. MacManus B. 1. *Minister's Racehorse. MacManus B. 59. *Mrs. Carney's Sealskin. MacManus B. 176. *Wee Paidin. MacManus B. 119. **When Barney's Trunk Comes Home. MacManus B. 136. ***Widow Meehan's Cassimeer Shawl. MacManus B. 18.

MARQUIS, DON. (ROBERT PERRY.) (1878- .) *Behind the Curtain. Marquis. 263. *Bubbles. Marquis. 135. *Carter. Marquis. 3. *Chances of the Street. Marquis. 169. *Kale. Marquis. 107. *Locked Box. Marquis. 245. *Looney the Mutt. Marquis. 89. *McDermott. Marquis. 55. *Never Say Die! Marquis. 35. *Old Man Murtrie. Marquis. 21. *Penitent. Marquis. 223. *Professor's Awakening. Marquis. 185.

MASON, GRACE SARTWELL. (1877- .) ***His Job. O'Brien D. 169.

MATTHEWS, JAMES BRANDER. (1852- .) (See 1920.) **Rival Ghosts. French D. 238.

MELVILLE, HERMAN. (1819-1891.) ***Capture of the Great White Whale. French G. 145.

MOFFETT, CLEVELAND (LANGSTON). (1863- .) *Mysterious Card. French E. 3.

MORLEY, CHRISTOPHER (DARLINGTON). (1890- .) Advice to the Lovelorn. Morley. 27. Battle of Manila Envelopes. Morley. 169. Climacterie. Morley. 187. Commutation Chophouse. Morley. 126. Curious Case of Kenelm Digby. Morley. 58. Gloria and the Garden of Sweden. Morley. 99. Pert Little Hat. Morley. 142. Prize Package. Morley. 1. Punch and Judy. Morley. 198. ***Referred to the Author. Morley. 211. *Urn Burial. Morley. 158.

O'BRIEN, FITZ-JAMES. (See 1918.) ***Diamond Lens. French D. 38. ***Lost Room. French E. 232.

OPPENHEIM, JAMES. (1882- .) ***Rending. O'Brien D. 187.

PEATTIE, ELIA (WILKINSON). (1862- .) **From the Loom of the Dead. McSpadden B. 235.

PERKINS, FREDERICK BEECHER. Devil-Puzzlers. Rudwin. 179.

POE, EDGAR ALLEN. (1809-1849.) (See 1918 and 1920.) ***Black Cat. Van Vechten A. 149. **Bon-Bon. Rudwin. 112. ***Cask of Amontillado. Oxford. 100. ***Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar. McSpadden B. 17. ***Oblong Box. French E. 76. ***Purloined Letter. French F. 3. McSpadden C. 1. Oxford. 78.

POST, MELVILLE DAVISSON. (1871- .) (See 1918 and 1920.) American Horses. Post C. 213. **Cambered Foot. Post C. 70. *End of the Road. Post C. 171. **Fortune Teller. Post C. 130. ***Hole in the Mahogany Panel. Post C. 150. *House by the Loch. Post C. 317. *Last Adventure. Post C. 193. *Lost Lady. Post C. 46 *Man in the Green Hat. Post C. 90. *Pumpkin Coach. Post C. 260. **Reward. Post C. 23. **Satire of the Sea. Post C. 301. *Spread Rails. Post C. 235. *Thing on the Hearth. Post C. 1. ***Wrong Sign. Post C. 107. ***Yellow Flower. Post C. 282.

REEVE, ARTHUR BENJAMIN. (1880- .) Black Hand. McSpadden C. 167. French F. 33.

RICKFORD, KATHERINE. (See 1920.) ***Joseph: a Story. French C. 70.

ROBERTSON, MORGAN. *Derelict Neptune. French G. 282.

ROCHE, ARTHUR SOMERS. (1883- .) ***Dummy-Chucker. O'Brien D. 198.

SEDGWICK, ANNE DOUGLAS. (MRS. BASIL DE SÉLINCOURT.) (1873- .) (See 1918.) ***Autumn Crocuses. Sedgwick. 279. **Carnations. Sedgwick. 168. ***Christmas Roses. Sedgwick. 1. ***Daffodils. Sedgwick. 92. ***Evening Primroses. Sedgwick. 253. **Hepaticas. Sedgwick. 63. ***Pansies. Sedgwick. 121. **Pink Foxgloves. Sedgwick. 147. ***Staking a Larkspur. Sedgwick. 208.

SIDNEY, ROSE. (1888- .) ***Butterflies. O'Brien D. 214.

SMITH, HARRY JAMES. (1880-?.) **Bucherons. Smith B. 19. ***Fly, My Heart. Smith B. 121. **Garland for Pettipaw. Smith B. 101. **La Belle Mélanie. Smith B. 32. **Privilege. Smith B. 63. **Siméon's Son. Smith B. 44. ***Their True Love. Smith B. 79.

SPRINGER, FLETA CAMPBELL. (1886- .) (See 1920.) ***Rotter, O'Brien D. 236.

STEELE, WILBUR DANIEL. (1886- .) (See 1918 and 1920.) ***Out of Exile. O'Brien D. 266. **Yellow Cat. French C. 207.

"STORM, ETHEL." ***Three Telegrams. O'Brien D. 293.

TARKINGTON, BOOTH. (1869- .) **Gipsy. Van Vechten A. 124.

"TWAIN, MARK." (SAMUEL LANGHORNE CLEMENS..) (1835-1910.) (See 1920.) *Dick Baker's Cat. Van Vechten A. 144. Mr. Bloke's Item. French D. 96.

WARNER, CHARLES DUDLEY. (1829-1900.) *Calvin. Van Vechten A. 226.

WHEELWRIGHT, JOHN TYLER. (1856- .) ***Roman Bath. O'Brien D. 312.

WHITMAN, STEPHEN FRENCH. ***Amazement. O'Brien D. 320.

WILLIAMS, BEN AMES. (1889- .) (See 1920.) ***Sheener. O'Brien D. 348.

WOOD, FRANCES GILCHRIST. (See 1920.) ***Turkey Red. O'Brien D. 359.

II. ENGLISH AND IRISH AUTHORS

ARCHER, WILLIAM. (1856- .) **My Fascinating Friend. French E. 207.

AUMONIER, STACY. (See 1918.) ***Bent Tree. Aumonier. 199. ***Brothers. Aumonier. 59. ***Golden Windmill. 3. ***Good Action. Aumonier. 137. ***Great Unimpressionable. Aumonier. 213. ***Little White Frock. Aumonier. 109. *"Old Iron." Aumonier. 79. ***Source of Irritation. Aumonier. 35. ***Them Others. Aumonier. 169.

BENSON, EDWARD FREDERIC. (1867- .) (See 1920.) ***Man Who Went Too Far. McSpadden B. 143. French D. 109.

BLACKWELL, BASIL. (See 1920.) History of Andrew Niggs. New Dec. B. 31.

BLACKWOOD, ALGERNON. (1869- .) (See 1920.) ***Listener. French C. 3. ***May-Day Eve. French D. 3. ***Psychical Invasion. Van Vechten A. 29.

BURKE, THOMAS. (1887- .) (See 1920.) *Affair at the Warehouse. Burke. 155. *Big Boy Blue. Burke. 171. **Bluebell. Burke. 95. *Cane. Burke. 259. **Dumb Wife. Burke. 77. *Family Affair. Burke. 117. *Game of Poker. Burke. 33. Good Samaritans. Burke. 221. *Heart of a Child. Burke. 65. *Katie the Kid. Burke. 49. **Little Flowers of Frances. Burke. 133. *Mazurka. Burke. 185. ***Miss Plum-Blossom. Burke. 245. *Perfect Girl. Burke. 143. ***Scarlet Shoes. Burke. 197. *Song of Ho Sing. Burke. 271. **Twelve Golden Curls. Burke. 231. **Yellow Scarf. Burke. 11.

CHOLMONDELEY, MARY. **Dark Cottage. Cholmondeley. 55. **End of the Dream. Cholmondeley. 216. ***Ghost of a Chance. Cholmondeley. 83. **Goldfish. Cholmondeley. 109. **Her Murderer. Cholmondeley. 173. **Romance of His Life. Cholmondeley. 25. *Stars In Their Courses. Cholmondeley. 146. **Votes for Men. Cholmondeley. 200.

COLLINS, WILLIAM WILKIE. (1824-1889.) *Biter Bit. French F. 64. **Dream Woman. McSpadden B. 33. **Terribly Strange Bed. French E. 122. Oxford. 148.

COPPARD, ALFRED EDGAR. (1878- .) ***Adam and Eve and Pinch Me. Coppard. 67. ***Angel and the Sweep. Coppard. 123. ***Arabesque: The Mouse. Coppard. 133. ***Communion. Coppard. 89. ***Dusky Ruth. Coppard. 25. ***King of the World. Coppard. 57. ***Marching to Zion. Coppard. 9. ***Piffincap. Coppard. 43. ***Princess of Kingdom Gone. Coppard. 81. ***Quiet Woman. Coppard. 97. ***Trumpeters. Coppard. 115. ***Weep Not My Wanton. Coppard. 37.

CORNISH, GERALD WARRE. (1875-1916.) *Stowaway. Oxford. 462.

DICKENS, CHARLES. (1812-1870.) (See 1918.) ***Holly Tree. Oxford. 108.

DOYLE, SIR ARTHUR CONAN. (1859- .) (See 1918.) *Scandal in Bohemia. French F. 164. McSpadden C. 57. *Secret of Goresthorpe Grange. French D. 203.

GARNETT, RICHARD. (1835-1906.) ***Ananda the Miracle Worker. Oxford. 177. ***Demon Pope. Rudwin. 228. **Madam Lucifer. Rudwin. 242.

GILCHRIST, R. MURRAY. (1867-1917.) *Gap in the Wall. Oxford. 452. *Witch in the Peak. Oxford. 457.

GISSING, GEORGE. (1857-1903.) **Poor Gentleman. Oxford. 380.

GRANT, CHARLES. (1841-1889.) **Peppiniello. Oxford. 220.

HARVEY, WILLIAM F. (See 1920.) **Beast With Five Fingers French C. 123. McSpadden B. 193. **Toal. New Dec. B. 54.

HORNUNG, ERNEST WILLIAM. (1866- .) *Gentlemen and Players. McSpadden C. 139.

HUDSON, W.H. ( - .) (See 1920.) ***Dead Man's Plack. Hudson. 3. *Friendly Rat. Van Vechten A. 198. ***Old Thorn. Hudson. 135.

JAMES, MONTAGUE RHODES. (1862- .) (See 1918 and 1920.) ***Number 13. French C. 45. ***Stalls of Barchester Cathedral. McSpadden B. 121.

JAMESON, M. STORM. See STORM-JAMESON, M.

KINGSLEY, CHARLES. (1819-1875.) ***Spanish Bloodhounds and English Mastiffs. French G. 1.

LAMB, CHARLES. (1775-1834.) **First Going to Church. Oxford. 12.

LAMB, MARY ANN. (1764-1847.) **Sailor Uncle. Oxford. 1.

MACHEN, ARTHUR. ***Inmost Light. French D. 158.

MANN, FRANCIS OSCAR. **Devil in a Nunnery. Rudwin. 1.

MANSFIELD, KATHERINE. (MRS. J. MIDDLETON MURRY.) ***Bliss. Mansfield. 116. ***Dill Pickle. Mansfield. 228. ***Escape. Mansfield. 272. ***Feuille d'Album. Mansfield. 218. ***Je Ne Parle Pas Français. Mansfield. 71. ***Little Governess. Mansfield. 239. ***Man Without a Temperament. Mansfield. 172. ***Mr. Reginald Peacock's Day. Mansfield. 194. ***Pictures. Mansfield. 157. ***Prelude. Mansfield. 1. ***Psychology. Mansfield. 145. ***Revelations. Mansfield. 262. ***Sun and Moon. Mansfield. 208. ***Wind Blows. Mansfield. 137.

MARRYAT, FLORENCE. Box With the Iron Clamps. French E. 157.

MARRYAT, FREDERICK. (1792-1848.) *Club-Hauling of the Diomede. French G. 26.

MASEFIELD, JOHN. ***Devil and the Old Man. Rudwin. 263. ***El Dorado. French G. 324.

MAUGHAM, W. SOMERSET. *Fall of Edward Barnard. Maugham. 66. *Honolulu. Maugham. 205. *Mackintosh. Maugham. 15. *Pool. Maugham. 148. *Rain. Maugham. 241. *Red. Maugham. 115.

MERRICK, LEONARD. (1864- .) (See 1920.) **Cafe of the Broken Heart. Merrick C. 83. **Conspiracy for Claudine. Merrick C. 140. *Danger of Being a Twin. Merrick C. 299. **Doll in the Pink Silk Dress. Merrick C. 161. **Dress Clothes of Monsieur Pomponnet. Merrick C. 101. **Fairy Poodle. Merrick C. 240. **Fatal Florozonde. Merrick C. 41. *Hercules and Aphrodite. Merrick C. 318. **How Tricotrin Saw London. Merrick C. 355. **Infidelity of Monsieur Noulens. Merrick C. 373. **Invitation to Dinner. Merrick C. 207. **Judgment of Paris. Merrick C. 225. ***Last Effect. Merrick C. 187. ***Little-Flower-of-the-Wood. Merrick C. 261. **Miracle in Montmartre. Merrick C. 279. **Opportunity of Petitpas. Merrick C. 63. **"Pardon, You Are Mademoiselle Girard!" Merrick C. 384. **Suicides in the Rue Sombre. Merrick C. 121. ***Tragedy of a Comic Song. Merrick C. 1. ***Tricotrin Entertains. Merrick C. 19.

NEVINSON, HENRY WOODD. (1852- .) (See 1920.) *"Act of Fear." Nevinson B. 157. ***In Diocletian's Day. Nevinson B. 173. ***Life on the Ocean Wave. Nevinson B. 55. *Pongo's Illusion. Nevinson B. 78. **"Qualis Artifex." Nevinson B. 1. **"Sitting at a Play." Nevinson B. 103. **Sly's Awakening. Nevinson B. 27. **Transformation Scene. Nevinson B. 131.

NIGHTINGALE, M.T. (See 1920.) Affair of the Mulhaven Baby. New Dec. B. 82.

"NOBBS, BILL." "Once Upon a Time." New Dec. B. 152.

OLIPHANT, MARGARET. (1828-1897.) (See 1918.) **Open Door. McSpadden B. 65.

POWELL, G.H. ***Blue Dryad. Van Vechten A. 131.

"ROHMER, SAX." (ARTHUR SARSFIELD WARD.) (1883- .) Adventure of the Toadstools. McSpadden C. 121.

READE, CHARLES. (1814-1884.) **Merchantman and the Pirate. French G. 75.

RUSSELL, WILLIAM CLARK. (1844-1911.) **Storm and a Rescue. French G. 226.

SADLIER, MICHAEL. (See 1920, under SADLER.) Bread Upon the Waters. New Dec. B. 20.

SCOTT, MICHAEL. (1789-1835.) **Cruise of the Torch. French G. 36.

STACPOOLE, HENRY DE VERE. (1865- .) *Salving of the Yan-Shan. French G. 263.

STEPHENS, JAMES. ***Becuma of the White Skin. Stephens. 219. ***Birth of Bran. Stephens. 91. ***Boyhood of Fionn. Stephens. 35. ***Carl of the Drab Coat. Stephens. 173. ***Enchanted Cave of Cesh Corran. Stephens. 201. ***Little Brawl at Allen. Stephens. 157. ***Morgan's Frenzy. Stephens. 257. ***Oisin's Mother. Stephens. 109. ***Story of Tuan MacCaivill. Stephens. 4. ***Wooing of Becfola. Stephens. 133.

STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS. (1850-1894.) (See 1918 and 1920.) ***Adventure of the Hansom Cabs. McSpadden C. 93. ***Sire de Malétroit's Door. Oxford. 334. ***Thrawn Janet. French C. 191.

STORM-JAMESON, M. (See 1920.) *Player Perforce. New Dec. B. 158.

STRACHEY, MARJORIE. *Bamboo-Cutter's Story. Strachey. 123. *Building of Skadar. Strachey. 143. *Courtship of Etain. Strachey. 155. *Janet and Tamlin. Strachey. 73. *Jonkahainen's Sister. Strachey. 101. *Lay of the Ash Tree. Strachey. 23. *Libussa the Prophetess. Strachey. 85. *Saint Iria. Strachey. 49. *Savitri. Strachey. 3. *Vassilissa the Wise. Strachey. 57. *Yanka and Her Brothers. Strachey. 39.

THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE. (1811-1863.) *Devil's Wager. Rudwin. 79. **Painter's Bargain. Rudwin. 93.

VINES, SHERARD. (See 1920.) **Salvator Street. New Dec. B. 176.

WALPOLE, HUGH SEYMOUR. (1884- .) (See 1920.) ***Absalom Jay. Walpole. 13. ***Bombastes Furioso. Walpole. 252. ***Fanny Close. Walpole. 34. ***Hon. Clive Torby. Walpole. 51. ***Lizzie Rand. Walpole. 200. ***Lois Drake. Walpole. 151. ***Lucy Moon. Walpole. 107. ***Miss Morganhurst. Walpole. 69. ***Mrs. Porter and Miss Allen. Walpole. 132. ***Mr. Nix. Walpole. 175. ***Nobody. Walpole. 221. ***Peter Westcott. Walpole. 86.

WHITE, WILLIAM HALE. ("Mark Rutherford.") (1831-1913) *"Sweetness of a Man's Friend." Oxford. 169.

WILDE, OSCAR. (FINGALL O'FLAHERTIE WILLS.) (1856-1900.) (See 1920.) ***Birthday of the Infanta. Oxford. 358.

III. TRANSLATIONS

BALZAC, HONORE DE. (1799-1850.) (French.) ***Afflictions of an English Cat. Van Vechten A. 103.

BAUDELAIRE, CHARLES PIERRE. (1821-1867.) (French.) ***Generous Gambler. Rudwin. 162.

BEZA, M. (Roumanian.) ***Dead Pool. Roumania. 109. ***Gardana. Roumania. 93. **Zidra. Roumania. 85.

BRATESCU-VOINESHTI, AL. (Roumanian.) ***Bird of Ill Omen. Roumania. 261 ***Fledgling. Roumania. 167.

"CABALLERO, FERMAN." (MRS. CECELIA BOHL VON FABER.) (Spanish.) *Devil's Mother-in-Law. Rudwin. 149.

CARAGIALE, I.L. (Roumanian.) (See 1920.) **At Manjoala's Inn. Roumania. 35. ***Easter Torch. Roumania. 11.

CARGO, FRANCIS. (French.) (See 1920.) Jim of Molock's Bar. New Dec. B. 9.

CHEKHOV, ANTON PAVLOVICH. (1861-1904.) (Russian.) (See 1918 and 1920.) **Actor's End. Chekhov. G. 303. ***After the Theatre. Chekhov. F. 79. **Avenger. Chekhov G. 245. ***Beauties. Chekhov F. 277. **Beggar. Chekhov G. 179. ***Bet. Chekhov F. 253. ***Cattle-Dealers. Chekhov F. 113. ***Champagne. Chekhov F. 67. **Darkness. Chekhov G. 171. ***Dead Body. Chekhov G. 131. ***Defenceless Creature. Chekhov G. 265. *Enigmatic Nature. Chekhov G. 275. ***First-Class Passenger. Chekhov F. 179. ***Frost. Chekhov G. 209. *Gone Astray. Chekhov G. 237. *Happy Ending. Chekhov G. 141. **Happy Man. Chekhov G. 281. ***Head Gardener's Story. Chekhov F. 267. ***Horse-Stealers. Chekhov G. 3. ***In Exile. Chekhov F. 97. **In the Coach-House. Chekhov F. 229. **In Trouble. Chekhov G. 197. **Jenne Premier. Chekhov G. 255. ***Lady's Story. Chekhov F. 87. **Looking-Glass. Chekhov G. 151. *Minds in Ferment. Chekhov G. 229. ***Misery. Chekhov F. 55. ***Nervous Breakdown. Chekhov F. 17. ***Old Age. Chekhov G. 161. ***On Official Duty. Chekhov F. 153. ***Panic Fears. Chekhov F. 241. **Petchenyeg. Chekhov G. 113. ***Requiem. Chekhov F. 219. ***Safety Match. French F. 229. ***Schoolmistress. Chekhov F. 1. ***Shoemaker and the Devil. Chekhov F. 293. *Slander. Chekhov G. 221. ***Small Fry. Chekhov F. 213. ***Sorrow. Chekhov F. 141. *Story Without a Title. Chekhov G. 189. ***Tragic Actor. Chekhov F. 193. ***Transgression. Chekhov F. 201. ***Troublesome Visitor. Chekhov G. 291. ***Ward No. 6. Chekhov G. 29.

COROVICH, SVETOZAR. (1875-1918.) (Jugo-Slav.) ***Hodja Saleek. Jugo-Slav. 205

CREANGA, I. (Roumanian.) ***Old Nichifor, the Impostor. Roumania. 115.

DAUDET, ALPHONSE. (1840-1897.) (French.) (See 1918.) **Three Low Masses. Rudwin. 167.

DELAVRANCEA, B. (Roumanian.) ***Irinel. Roumania. 267.

DEULIN, CHARLES. (French.) *Devil's Round. Rudwin. 203.

DOMBROVSKY, IGNATIUS. (Polish.) *Legend on the Saturday Sunbeam. Ragozin. 3:165.

DOSTOEVSKY, FYODOR MIKHARLOVICH. (1821-1881.) (Russian.) (_See 1918 and 1920._) ***Beggar Boy at Christ's Christmas Tree. Ragozin. 3:173.

"FRANCE, ANATOLE." (JACQUES-ANATOLE THIBAULT.) (1844- .) (French.) (See 1918.) ***Lucifer. Rudwin. 250. ***Miracle of the Great St. Nicolas. France. 43. ***Seven Wives of Bluebeard. France. 3. ***Shirt. France. 119. ***Story of the Duchess of Cicogne and of Monsieur de Boulingrin. France. 93.

GABORIAU, EMILE. (1835-1873.) (French.) *Interview with M. Lecoq. McSpadden C. 29.

GAUTIER, THEOPHILE. (1811-1872.) (French.) (See 1918.) ***Mummy's Foot. French D. 77.

GLISICH, MILOVAN. (1827-1908.) (Jugo-Slav.) ***First Furrow. Jugo-Slav. 109.

GOGOL, NIKOLAI VASILIEVICH. (1809-1852.) (Russian.) (_See 1918 and 1920._) ***St. John's Eve. Rudwin. 56.

"GORKI MAXIM." (ALEXEI MAXIMOVICH PYESHKER.) (1868 or 1869- .) (Russian.) (See 1918 and 1920.) ***Devil. Rudwin. 257.

HAMP, PIERRE. (French.) ***Mademoiselle Sowrire. Hamp. 61. ***Man With a Soft Job. Hamp. 44. ***"Miller, You're Asleep." Hamp. 133. ***Monsieur Becqueriaux. Hamp. 187. ***Monsieur Robled's Throat. Hamp. 29. ***Nonnon. Hamp. 11. ***Screen. Hamp. 199. **Seine Rises. Hamp. 71. ***Sweet Smeller. Hamp. 21. ***Tight-Wads. Hamp. 37. ***At the Chevalier Restaurant. Hamp. 94. *At the Express Window. Hamp. 89. ***Boxers. Hamp. 146. ***Bourbon's Pleasures. Hamp. 157. ***Fat-Mouth. Hamp. 104. **Fly-Catcher. Hamp. 111. ***Fried-Potato Sisters. Hamp. 3. ***Gracieuse. Hamp. 54. **Joy Boys. Hamp. 170. *King's C's. Hamp. 193.

HAUFF, WILHELM. (1802-1827.) (German.) **From the Memoirs of Satan. Rudwin. 46.

HUGO, VICTOR. (1802-1885.) **Corvette Claymore. French G. 181.

JOVANOVICH, ZMAJ-JOVAN. (1833-1904.) (Jugo-Slav.) ***Vidosava Brankovich. Jugo-Slav. 79.

KOROLENKO, VLADIMIR GALAKTIONOVICH. (1853- .) (Russian.) (See 1920.) ***"Slayer." Ragozin. 4:109. ***Winter. Ragozin. 4:174.

LAZAROVICH, LAZAR. (1851-1890.) (Jugo-Slav.) ***By the Well. Jugo-Slav. 123. ***First Matins with My Father. Jugo-Slav. 19.

LE BLANC, MAURICE. (1864- .) (French.) Sign of the Shadow. McSpadden C. 261.

LERMONTOF, MICHAIL YURIEVICH. (1814-1841.) (Russian.) ***Travelling Episode. Ragozin. 1:171.

LESSKOF, NICOLAS STEPANOVICH. (1831-1895.) (Russian.) **Friends. Ragozin. 3:52. ***From an Old Chronicle. Ragozin. 3:99. **Pearl Necklace. Ragozin. 3:20. ***Simpleton. Ragozin. 3:3.

LJUBISA. STJEPAN MITROR. (1821-1878.) (Jugo-Slav.) ***Kanjosh Macedonovich. Jugo-slav. 51.

"LOTI, PIERRE." (LOUIS-MARIE-JULIEN VIAUD.) (1850- .) (French.) ***Sailor's Wife. French G. 250.

MACHIAVELLI, NICCOLO. (1469-1527.) (Italian.) **Belphagor, or the Marriage of the Devil. Rudwin. 14.

MAMIN-SIBIRIÀK, D.W. (Russian.) ***Father Elect. Ragozin 2:147. ***Misgir. Ragozin 2:103.

MATAVULYA, SIMO. (1852-1908.) (Jugo-Slav.) ***Povareta. Jugo-Slav. 187.

MAUPASSANT, HENRI RENE ALBERT GUY DE. (1850-1893.) (French.) (_See 1918._) ***Horla. French C. 84. **Legend of Mont St. Michel. Rudwin. 222. ***Man with the Pale Eyes. French D. 230.

NEGRUZZI, C. (Roumanian.) **Alexandru Lapushneanu. Roumania. 51.

*NIEDZWIECKI, ZYGMUNT. (Polish.) *In May. Ragozin 2:201.

POPOVICI-BANATZEANU, ION. (Roumanian.) ***Out in the World. Roumania. 207.

PUSHKIN, ALEXANDER SERGEYEVICH. (1799-1837.) (Russian.) (See 1920.) ***Good Shot. Ragozin 1:51. ***Masquerading. Ragozin 1:5. ***Queen of Spades. Ragozin 1:107. ***Snowstorm. Ragozin 1:79.

SADOVEANU, M. (Roumanian.) ***Cozma Racoare. Roumania. 141. **Fairy of the Lake. Roumania. 1. ***Wanderers. Roumania. 157.

SALTYKOF, M.Y. "N. SCHEDRIN." (1826-1889.) (Russian.) ***Christmas Sermon. Ragozin 2:5. ***Eagle, Patron of Learning. Ragozin 2:77. ***Lost Conscience. Ragozin 2:49. **Peasant and the Two Excellencies. Ragozin 2:31.

SLAVICI, I. (Roumanian.) ***Popa Tanda. Roumania. 175.

SLUCHEVSKY, K.Y. (Russian.) **Can the End Justify the Means? Ragozin 2:169. **Coward or Hero? Ragozin 2:185.

STANINOKOVICH, CONSTANTINE MIKHAILOVICH. (1844-1903.) (Russian.) *Bobtail. Ragozin 4:6. *Convict. Ragozin 4:56.

TOLSTOI, LYOF NIKOLAIEVICH, COUNT. (1828-1910.) (Russian.) (_See 1918 and 1920._) ***Three Deaths. Ragozin 3:187.

TURGENEV, IVAN SERGIEVICH. (1818-1883.) (Russian.) (See 1920.) ***Father Alexey's Story. Turgenev. 125. ***Quiet Backwater. Turgenev. 217. ***Three Meetings. Turgenev. 155. ***Two Friends. Turgenev. 1.

USPENSKY, GLIEB IVANOVICH. (1840-1905.) (Russian.) *Inspecting the Bride. Ragozin 2:212.

VESELINOVICH, JANKO. (1862-1905.) (Jugo-Slav.) ***Eternity. Jugo-Slav. 227. ***Kum's Curse. Jugo-Slav. 151.

VILLIERS DE L'ISLE-ADAM. PHILIPPE AUGUSTE MATHIAS, COMTE DE. (1840-1889.) (French.) ***Torture By Hope. French E. 149.

ZEISINGER, HELEN. (Polish.) *Christmas Eve in the Forest. Ragozin 2:235.

MAGAZINE AVERAGES

OCTOBER, 1920, TO SEPTEMBER, 1921

The following table includes the averages of American periodicals published from October, 1920, to September, 1921, inclusive. One two, three asterisks are employed to indicate relative distinction. "Three-asterisk stories" are of somewhat permanent literary value. The list excludes reprints.

_______________________________________________________________________ | | | | | No. of | Percentage | No. of | Distinctive | of Distinctive Periodicals | Stories | Stories | Stories (Oct.-Sept.) | Published | Published | Published | |_________________|_________________ | | | | | | | | | * | ** | *** | * | ** | *** _______________________|___________|_____|_____|_____|_____|_____|_____ | | | | | | | All's Well | 14 | 6 | 3 | 2 | 43 | 21 | 14 Asia | 11 | 10 | 1 | 0 | 90 | 9 | 0 Atlantic Monthly | 20 | 13 | 7 | 3 | 65 | 35 | 15 Century | 50 | 35 | 15 | 5 | 70 | 30 | 10 Chicago Tribune | 52 | 11 | 2 | 1 | 22 | 4 | 2 Collier's Weekly | 106 | 12 | 1 | 0 | 12 | 1 | 0 Cosmopolitan | 83 | 15 | 6 | 2 | 18 | 7 | 2 Dial | 16 | 16 | 14 | 11 | 100 | 88 | 69 Everybody's Magazine | 91 | 16 | 7 | 1 | 18 | 8 | 1 Good Housekeeping | 46 | 13 | 4 | 1 | 28 | 9 | 2 Harper's Bazar | 32 | 12 | 1 | 0 | 38 | 3 | 0 Harper's Magazine | 53 | 39 | 24 | 10 | 74 | 45 | 19 Hearst's International | 79 | 18 | 3 | 0 | 23 | 4 | 0 Ladies' Home Journal | 52 | 8 | 0 | 0 | 15 | 0 | 0 McCall's Magazine | 48 | 9 | 3 | 0 | 19 | 6 | 0 McClure's Magazine | 46 | 8 | 2 | 1 | 17 | 4 | 2 Metropolitan | 74 | 18 | 9 | 3 | 24 | 12 | 4 Midland | 15 | 14 | 8 | 3 | 93 | 53 | 20 New York Tribune | | | | | | | Pictorial Review | 65 | 46 | 31 | 21 | 71 | 48 | 32 Red Book Magazine | 116 | 23 | 0 | 0 | 20 | 0 | 0 Saturday Evening Post | 221 | 32 | 7 | 3 | 15 | 3 | 1 Scribner's Magazine | 46 | 24 | 8 | 4 | 52 | 17 | 9 Smart Set | 115 | 29 | 8 | 4 | 25 | 7 | 4 _______________________|___________|_____|_____|_____|_____|_____|_____

The following tables indicate the rank, during the period between October, 1920, and September, 1921, inclusive, by number and percentage of distinctive stories published, of the twenty-three periodicals coming within the scope of my examination which have published an average of 15 per cent in stories of distinction. The lists exclude reprints but not translations.

BY PERCENTAGE OF DISTINCTIVE STORIES

1. Dial 100% 2. Midland 93% 3. Asia 90% 4. Harper's Magazine 74% 5. Pictorial Review 71% 6. Century 70% 7. Atlantic Monthly 65% 8. Scribner's Magazine 52% 9. All's Well 43% 10. Harper's Bazar 38% 11. Good Housekeeping 28% 12. Smart Set 25% 13. Metropolitan 24% 14. Hearst's International 23% 15. Chicago Tribune 22% 16. Red Book Magazine 20% 17. McCall's Magazine 19% 18. Everybody's Magazine 18% 19. Cosmopolitan 18% 20. McClure's Magazine 17% 21. Saturday Evening Post 15% 22. Ladies' Home Journal 15% 23. Collier's Weekly 12%

BY NUMBER OF DISTINCTIVE STORIES

1. Pictorial Review 46 2. Harper's Magazine 39 3. Century 35 4. Saturday Evening Post 32 5. Smart Set 29 6. Scribner's Magazine 24 7. Red Book Magazine 23 8. Metropolitan 18 9. Hearst's International 18 10. Dial 16 11. Everybody's Magazine 16 12. Cosmopolitan 15 13. Midland 14 14. Atlantic Monthly 13 15. Good Housekeeping 13 16. Harper's Bazar 12 17. Collier's Weekly 12 18. Chicago Tribune 11 19. Asia 10 20. McCall's Magazine 9 21. McClure's Magazine 8 22. Ladies' Home Journal 8 23. All's Well 6

The following periodicals have published during the same period ten or more "two-asterisk stories." The list excludes reprints, but not translations. Periodicals represented in this list during 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, and 1920 are represented by the prefixed letters a, b, c, d, e, and f respectively.

1. bcdef Pictorial Review 31 2. abcdef Harper's Magazine 24 3. abcdef Century 15 4. f Dial 14

The following periodicals have published during the same period five or more "three-asterisk stories." The list excludes reprints, but not translations. The same signs are used as prefixes as in the previous list.

1. bcdef Pictorial Review 21 2. f Dial 11 3. abcdef Harper's Magazine 10 4. abcdef Century 5

Ties in the above lists have been decided by taking relative rank in other lists into account.

INDEX OF SHORT STORIES PUBLISHED IN AMERICAN MAGAZINES

OCTOBER, 1920, TO SEPTEMBER, 1921

All short stories published in the following magazines and newspapers, October, 1920, to September, 1921 inclusive, are indexed:

All's Well American Magazine Asia Atlantic Monthly Bookman Catholic World Century Chicago Tribune (Syndicate Service) Collier's Weekly Cosmopolitan Delineator Dial Everybody's Magazine Freeman Good Housekeeping Harper's Bazar Harper's Magazine Hearst's International Magazine Ladies' Home Journal Liberator Little Review McCall's Magazine McClure's Magazine Metropolitan Midland New York Tribune Pagan Pictorial Review Red Book Magazine Saturday Evening Post Scribner's Magazine Smart Set Sunset Magazine Touchstone Woman's Home Companion

Short stories of distinction only, published in the following magazines during the same period, are indexed:

Adventure Ainslee's Magazine Argosy All-Story Weekly Follies Holland's Magazine Little Story Magazine Live Stories Magnificat Munsey's Magazine New Parisienne Popular Magazine Romance Snappy Stories Telling Tales To-day's Housewife Top-Notch Magazine

Certain stories of distinction published in the following magazines during this period are indexed, because they have been specially called to my attention:

Apropos Current Opinion Midwest Bookman New York Call Magazine Northwestern Miller Western Story Magazine

I have considered several other magazines without finding any stories of distinction. The present list includes a small number of distinctive stories published between October, 1919 and September, 1920, which I was unable to read last year owing to labor and transportation difficulties.

One, two, or three asterisks are prefixed to the titles of stories to indicate distinction. Three asterisks prefixed to a title indicate the more or less permanent literary value of the story, and entitle it to a place on the annual "Rolls of Honor." Cross references after an author's name refer to previous volumes of this series. (H.) after the name of an author indicates that other stories by this author, published in American magazines between 1900 and 1914, are to be found indexed in "The Standard Index of Short Stories," by Francis J. Hannigan, published by Small, Maynard & Company, 1918. The figures in parentheses after the title of a story refer to the volume and page number of the magazine. In cases where successive numbers of a magazine are not paged consecutively, the page number only is given in this index.

The following abbreviations are used in the index:

Adv. Adventure Ain. Ainslee's Magazine Am. American Magazine Am. B. American Boy Apropos. Apropos Arg. Argosy All-Story Weekly Asia. Asia Atl. Atlantic Monthly A.W. All's Well Book. Bookman (N.Y.) Call. New York Call Magazine Cath. W. Catholic World Cen. Century Chic. Trib. Chicago Tribune (Syndicate Service) Col. Collier's Weekly Cos. Cosmopolitan Cur. O. Current Opinion Del. Delineator Dial. Dial Ev. Everybody's Magazine Fol. Follies Free. Freeman G.H. Good Housekeeping Harp. B. Harper's Bazar Harp. M. Harper's Magazine Hear. Hearst's International Magazine Hol. Holland's Magazine L.H.J. Ladies' Home Journal Lib. Liberator Lit. R. Little Review Lit. S. Little Story Magazine L. St. Live Stories Mag. Magnificat McC. McClure's Magazine McCall. McCall's Magazine Met. Metropolitan Mid. Midland Mid. Book. Midwest Bookman Mun. Munsey's Magazine N.Y. Trib. New York Tribune N.M. Northwestern Miller Pag. Pagan Par. New Parisienne Pict. R. Pictorial Review Pop. Popular Magazine (R.) Reprint Red Bk. Red Book Magazine Rom. Romance Scr. Scribner's Magazine S.E.P. Saturday Evening Post Sn. St. Snappy Stories S.S. Smart Set Sun. Sunset Magazine Tod. To-day's Housewife Top. Top-Notch Magazine Touch. Touchstone T.T. Telling Tales W.H.C. Woman's Home Companion W. St. Western Story Magazine (161) Page 161 (2:161) Volume 2, page 161 (See 1915) See "Best Short Stories of 1915"

I. AMERICAN AUTHORS

A

ABBOTT, ELEANOR HALLOWELL. MRS. FORDYCE COBURN. (1872- .) (_See 1915, 1918, 1920._) (H.) Blinded Lady. Pict. R. Sept. (12.) Book of the Funny Smells--and Everything. L.H.J. Sept. (8.) Fairy Prince. Pict. R. Dec., '20. (6.) Game of the Bewitchments. G.H. (39.)

ABBOTT, HARRIET. He Couldn't Stand Prosperity. Am. June. (14.)

ABBOTT, KEENE. (See 1915, 1916.) (H.) *Anchored. L.H.J. Mar., '20. (9.)

ABBOTT, VERNA. *Unbalanced. Arg. Oct. 23, '20. (126:522.)

ABDULLAH, ACHMED. (ACHMED ABDULLAH NADIR KHAN EL-DURANI EL-IDRISSYEH. "A.A. Nadir.") (1881- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) *Broadway of It. Mun. Oct., '20 (71:99.) ***Dutiful Grief. Pict. R. Aug. (10.) ***Lute of Jade. Pict. R. Oct., '20. (8.) *Perfect Way. T.T. Sept. (126.) *"There's Corn in Egypt." Ain. Jan. (64.) *Triumph. T.T. Aug. (36.)

ADAMS, FRANK R. (1883- .) (See 1915, 1916.) Good Little Bathing Girl. Cos. Aug. (59.) Man-Handling Ethel. Cos. Jan. (29.) Miles Brewster and the Super-Sex. Cos. Jul. (35.) Miss Wife o' Mine. Cos. Feb. (53.) Near-Lady. Cos. Mar. (33.) Rival to the Prince. Cos. Dec., '20. (53.) Tarnished Chevrons. Cos. Nov., '20. (43.) This Eileen Person. Cos. Oct., '20. (29.) What's It All About? Cos. May. (53.) You Have to Choose. Cos. June. (44.)

ADAMS, SAMUEL HOPKINS. (1871- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) Amateurs and Others. Red Bk. June. (66.) Andy Dunne and the Barker. S.E.P. May 7. (5.) *Barbran. Col. Dec. 25, '20. (8.) Doom River Bed. Red Bk. Oct., '20. (32.) *For Mayme, Read Mary. Col. Mar. 19. (5.) Salvage. Del. June. (8.) Shoal Waters. S.E.P. Aug. 27. (14.) Silverwing. L.H.J. Aug. (10.)

ADDISON, THOMAS. (See 1915, 1916, 1918, 1919, 1920.) Sealed Proposals. Ev. Oct., '20. (54.)

AGEE, MRS. H.P. See LEA, FANNY HEASLIP.

AKINS, ZOE. (1886- .) (See 1919, 1920.) Rings and Chains. Cos. Dec., '20. (25.)

ALDRICH, BESS STREETER. ("MARGARET DEAN STEVENS.") (1881- .) (_See 1919, 1920._) (See 1916 under STEVENS, MARGARET DEAN.) Father Mason Retires. Am. Oct., '20. (26.)

ALEXANDER, ELIZABETH. Fifty-Two Weeks for Florette, S.E.P. Aug. 13. (10.)

ALEXANDER, IDA. First Client. W.H.C. Jul. (31.) Immovable Kelly. Met. Aug. (34.) Robe for Rodney. W.H.C. Apr. (16.)

"ALEXANDER, MARY." See KILBOURNE, FANNIE.

ALEXANDER, MILDRED SCOTT. Be Sociable! G.H. (60.)

ALEXANDER, SANDRA. (See 1919, 1920.) *His Absolute Safety. Cen. Dec., '20. (101:181.)

ALLEN, JAMES LANE. (1849- .) (See 1915.) (H.) ***Ash-Can. Cen. Sept. (102:657.)

ALLEN, MARYLAND. (MRS. EDWARD TYSON ALLEN.) (See 1915, 1916.) (H.) Urge. Ev. Sept. (135.)

ANDERSON, FREDERICK IRVING. (1877- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) Assassins. Pict. R. Feb. (12.) Dolores Cay. Chic. Trib. Jan. 23. **Phantom Alibi. McC. Nov., '20 (27.) Signed Masterpiece. McC. June-Jul. (21.)

ANDERSON. SHERWOOD. (1876- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) ***Brothers. Book. Apr. (53:110.) ***New Englander. Dial. Feb. (70:143.) ***Unlighted Lamps. S.S. Jul. (45.)

ANDREWS, A.C. House That Stood Back. Chic. Trib. Aug. 28.

ANDREWS, MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN. (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919.) (H.) *Reluctantly Diana. Scr. Oct., '20. (68:463.)

ANTHONY, JOSEPH. **Cask of Ale for Columban. Cen. Mar. (101:583.)

APOTHEKER, NAN. John Miles' Stenographer. S.S. Jan. (77.)

APPLE, E. ALBERT. (See 1915.) (H.) Twenty Miles from Nowhere. Am. June. (46.)

ARBUCKLE, MARY. (See 1917.) Big Rich. McCall. Oct., '20. (14.) Wasted. Mid. May. (7:177.)

ARMS, LOUIS LEE. Heart-Crusher. Ev. Oct., '20. (74.)

ARMSTRONG, WILLIMINA L. See "Dost, Zamin Ki."

ASHBY, W.S. Tied Down by His Wife. Am. Apr. (47.)

ASPINWALL, MARGUERITE. (See 1918, 1920.) House on the Island. Sun. Dec., '20. (32.) Jan. (30.)

AUSTIN, MARY (HUNTER). (1868- .) (See 1918.) (H.) Kiss of Nino Dios. Del. Dec., '20. (7.) *Souls of Stitt. Harp. M. Dec., '20. (142:71.)

AVERY, STEPHEN MOREHOUSE. (See 1920.) All About Men. Harp. B. Oct., '20. (78.) "Chameleon." Pict. R. June. (10.) Mademoiselle Papillon. Pict. R. Mar. (14.) "Patchwork." Cen. June. (102:202.)

B

BABCOCK, EDWINA STANTON. (See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) *Lion. Harp. M. Apr. (142:569.) **Nourishment, Harp. M. Feb. (142:283.)

BACHELLER, IRVING. (1859- .) (See 1915, 1918.) (H.) Forks. Am. Jan. (28.) Riddles. Ev. May. (28.), June. (44.)

BACHMANN, ROBERT A. (See 1919.) (H.) Art is Art and Business Business. Met. Dec., '20. (25.)

BACON, JOSEPHINE DASKAM. (1876- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919._) (H.) Blind Cupid. Col. Oct. 2, '20. (5.) Oct. 9. (14.) *Crossed Wires. L.H.J. Feb. (6.) In September. L.H.J. Oct., '20 (7.)

BAILEY, (IRENE) TEMPLE. (See 1915, 1917, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Burned Toast. S.E.P. Dec. 4, '20. (17.) **Hidden Land. Harp. M. Oct., '20. (141:553.) Nov., '20. (141:795.) Wait--For Prince Charming. L.H.J. Dec., '20. (8.) White Birches. S.E.P. June 18. (8.)

BAKER, KARLE WILSON. ("CHARLOTTE WILSON.") (1878- .) *Porch-Swing. Cen. Apr. (101:679.)

BALL, MRS. T. AUSTIN. See STEELE, ALICE GARLAND.

BALL, WILLIAM DAVID. (See 1917.) Brute. McCall. Apr. (10.)

BALMER, EDWIN. (1883- .) (See 1915, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Against the World. Del. Nov., '20. (12.) Beyond the Alps. Hear. Jul. (10.) Daughter of Violence. Cos. Jan. (75.) Lost In Mid-Air. Am. May. (29.) Queer Reunion of Three Friends. Am. Dec., '20. (28.) Settled Down. Ev. Feb. (48.) Something Big. Met. Aug. (27.) That Man Called Gentleman. Met. Dec., '20. (22.) Wide House of the World. Met. Sept. (26.)

BARKER, CHARLES H. Revival. A.W. Aug. (1:184.)

BARNARD, FLOY TOLBERT. (1879- .) (See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919.) In the Fields of Boaz. McCall. Feb. (8.)

BARNES, DJUNA. (1892- .) (See 1918, 1919, 1920.) **Katrina Silverstaff. Lit. R. Jan. Mar. (27.) ***Oscar. Lit. R. Apr., '20. (7.) **Robin's House. Lit. R. Sept.-Dec. (31.)

BARRETT, RICHMOND BROOKS. (See 1920.) "Darling." S.S. Dec., '20. (53.) Fool's Paradise. S.S. Sept. (95.) Not Without Dust and Heat. S.S. June. (119.)

BARTLETT, FREDERICK ORIN. (1876- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) Intangibles. Ev. Nov., '20. (40.) Managers. Chic. Trib. Feb. (20.) Queer Noises. Ev. Apr. (9.) Reserved. Del. Aug. (9.) Secret History. S.E.P. Jan. 8. (14.) Strangle-Hold. Ev. May. (60.)

BARTLEY, NALBRO. (1888- .) (See 1917, 1918, 1919.) After-Wit. Ev. Jan. (21.) Merely Married. Ev. Nov., '20. (23.) Poor Men's Orchids. Ev. May. (13.) Wise or Otherwise. Ev. June. (23.)

BARTON, BRUCE. (1886- .) "It Happened In Orchard Street." W.H.C. May. (29.) Steve Carter, Who Won the War. W.H.C. Jul. (21.)

BEACH, REX. (ELLINGWOOD.) (1877- .) (See 1919.) Flowing Gold. Hear. May. (6.)

BEARD, WOLCOTT LE CLEAR. (1867- .) (See 1915, 1919, 1920.) (H.) In Honey's House. Scr. June. (69:741.)

BEAUMONT, GERALD. Called On Account of Darkness. Red Bk. Sept. (56.) Crab. Red Bk. Aug. (70.) His Honor the Umps. S.E.P. Jul. 16. (12.) John McArdle, Referee. Red Bk. Jul. (50.) Kerrigan's Kid. Red Bk. Apr. (86.) Leaves of Friendship. Red Bk. June. (37.) Lil' ol' Red Stockings. Ev. Feb. (12.) 133 at 3. Red Bk. Mar. (61.) Rainbow. Red Bk. May. (86.) United States Smith. Red Bk. Jan. (30.)

BECHDOLT, ADELE FORTIER. Problem of Mother. Sun. Dec., '20. (40.)

BEER, THOMAS. (1889- .) (See 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) *Josh and the Lofty Mountain. S.E.P. Jan. 29. (8.) *Lily Pond. S.E.P. Apr. 16. (28.) *Little Eva Ascends. S.E.P. Apr. 9. (16.) *Mighty Man. S.E.P. Mar. 13, '20. (8.) *Mummery. S.E.P. Jul. 30. (14.) Yawl. S.E.P. Aug. 6. (16.)

BEHRMAN, S.N. (See 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) *Wraith. S.S. Nov., '20. (91.)

BELKNAP, G.Y. Without Surrender. S.S. Feb. (57.)

BELL, R.S. WARREN. Lesson. Chic. Trib. Dec. 26, '20.

BENDA, LILITH. Prosaic Conclusion. S.S. Aug. (101.)

BENNETT-THOMPSON, LILLIAN. See THOMPSON, LILLIAN BENNET and HUBBARD, GEORGE.

BENSON, E.M. Starfish and Sea Lavender. Hear. Jan. (21.)

BENSON, RAMSEY. (1866- .) (See 1917.) *Whom the Lord Loveth. Rom. Oct., '20. (8.)

BENTON, MARGARET. What Gitton Learned in 1920. Am. Nov., '20. (61.)

BERCOVICI, KONRAD. (1882- .) (See 1920.) **Bear-Tamer's Daughter. Adv. Jul. 3. (49.) *Broken Dreams. Rom. Oct., '20. (155.) ***Fanutza. Dial. May. (70: 545.) *Miracle Machine. McC. Mar. (25.) **To Shed Blood. Adv. Aug. 18. (89.) **Vlad's Son. Adv. Mar. 18. (147.)

BERTHOUD, FERDINAND. *Unholy One. Adv. Nov. 3, '20. (67.)

BETTS, THOMAS JEFFRIES. (See 1916, 1917, 1918.) *Recall. Scr. Mar. (69: 289.)

BIGGERS, EARL DERR. (1884- .) (See 1916, 1917.) Girl Who Paid Dividends. S.E.P. Apr. 23. (12.) Idle Hands. S.E.P. June 11. (5.) John Henry and the Restless Sex. S.E.P. Mar 5. (10.) Prisoners in Paradise. Am. Jul. (23.) Selling Miss Minerva. S.E.P. Feb. 5. (10.) Shining Garments of Success. Pict. R. Oct, '20. (30.)

BLANCHARD, EDWIN H. *Grandpa Drum. S.S. Mar. (87.) *Hired Girl. S.S. Sept. (86.) His Book. S.S. Jul. (29.)

BLOCK, RUDOLPH. See "LESSING, BRUNO."

BLUDGETT, MRS. SIDNEY. See DEJEANS, ELIZABETH.

BOAS, GEORGE. (See 1920.) Better Recipe. Atl. Mar. (127: 379.)

BOOTH, ALICE. Little Lady. G.H. Apr. (24)

BOULTON, AGNES. (MRS. EUGENE G. O'NEILL.) (1893- .) (See 1920.) *Snob. S.S. June. (83.)

BOUVE, WINSTON. Dollars. Met. Mar. (20.)

BOWEN, HELENE H. Women. Pag. May. (24.)

BOYD, JAMES. (1866- .) *Old Pines. Cen. Mar. (101: 609) **Sound of a Voice. Scr. Aug. (70: 214.)

BOYER, WILBUR S. (See 1917, 1919, 1920.) (H.) *Lallapaloosa. Ev. Oct., '20. (61.) Simps. Col. June 25. (7.)

BOYLE, JACK. Boomerang Bill. Cos. Dec., '20 (65.) Child of the Famine. Red Bk. Sept. (52.) Claws of the Tong. Red Bk. Apr. (47.) Heart of the Lily. Red Bk. Feb. (25.) Little Lord of All the Earth. Red Bk. Mar. (33.) Mother of the Middle Kingdom Red Bk. June. (71.) Painted Child. Cos. Oct., '20 (65.)

BRACE, BLANCHE. (See 1920.) Adventure of a Ready Letter Writer. S.E.P. Nov. 13, '20 (18.) Jane Goes In. S.E.P. Jul. 16. (14.)

BRACKETT. CHARLES. Money Matters. S.E.P. Feb. 19. (8.)

BRADLEY, MARY HASTINGS, (See 1919, 1920.) (H.) Children of the Street. Met. Mar. (9.)

BRADY, FRANK. Check, Please. McCall. Jan. (13.)

BRALEY, BERTON. (1882- .) (See 1915, 1917, 1918.) (H.) High Cost of Hot Cakes. W.H.C. Nov., '20. (18.) Nemesis Has a Busy Day. Ev. Oct., '20. (37.)

BRANDT, WILLIAM E. *Liberator. Lit. S. Dec., '20. (28.)

BRINIG, MYRON. Blissful Interlude. S.S. Aug. (53.)

BRODY, CATHARINE. American Luck. S.S. Aug. (63.) Saturday Night Blues. S.S. Oct., '20. (85.)

BROOKS, ALDEN..(See 1916, 1917, 1918.) (H.) *Barren Soil. S.E.P. Mar. 20, '20, (30.)

BROOKS. JONATHAN. (See 1920.) Galloping Ghosts. Col. Sept. 3. (3.) Indiana Pajamas. Col. Jul. 16. (3.) Monkey Crouch. Col. May 14. (5.) Roll, Jordan, Roll. Col. Oct. 23, '20. (5.) Step Lively, Please. Col. Apr. 9. (14.) Wedding Bells, C.O.D. Col. Sept. 17. (3.)

BROOKS, PAUL. (See 1920.) Poor Winnie! Poor Towny! S.S. Dec '20. (99.)

BROWN, ALICE. (1857- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) *Judgment from Above. Harp. M. June. (143:86.) *Little Elm. L.H.J. Aug. (8.) *Shooting-Stars. W.H.C. Nov., '20. (7.)

BROWN, BERNICE. (See 1917, 1918.) Being a Nobody. Col. Sept. 17. (7.) Double Barriers. McCall. Mar. (11.) Emperor Hadrian. Col. Apr. 23. (3.) Fortune Huntress. McCall. Sept. (13.) Her Thousand Dollars. Col. June 18. (7.) Stranger--My Dog. Col. Feb. 5. (7.) Women Are Like That. Col. Jul. 2 (3.)

BROWN, CAMBRAY. Time Clock in the Taj Mahal. Harp. M. Feb. (142:401.)

BROWN, DEMETRA KENNETH. (See "VAKA, DEMETRA.")

BROWN, KATHARINE HOLLAND. (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) *Argive Helen and the Little Maid of Tyre. Scr. Aug. (70:172.) Neighbor. W.H.C. Dec., '20. (26.)

BROWN, ROYAL. (See 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) As Grandpop said to Grant. Cos. Nov., '20. (27.) Dynamite. Cos. Jul. (75.) From Four to Eleven--Three! McC. Oct., '20. (19.) Kelly of Charles Street. Cos. Aug. (42.) Long, Long Shot. McC. Jan. (12.) Lyons and Miss Mouse. McC. June-Jul. (18.) Mother Takes a Hand in the Game. Am. Dec., '20. (13.) Priscilla Bags a Big One. Cos. Apr. (43.) This Suspense is Terrible. Cos. Mar. (53.) Two Hours to Train Time. Red Bk. Oct., '20. (63.) Unfair Sex. Cos. May. (37.)

BROWNE, PORTER EMERSON. (1879- .) (See 1916, 1918.) (H.) Wild Horses. Col. Jan. 1. (14.)

BROWNELL, AGNES MARY. (---- -1921.) (See 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) *Doc Greer's Practice. Mid. Jan. (7:26.)

BRUBAKER, HOWARD. (1892- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Ruby Common. Col. Mar. 26. (14.) Tight Rope. S.E.P. Aug. 20. (14.) *When Knighthood Was In Bud. Harp. M. Apr. (142:642.) Writing on the Wall Paper. Col. May 21. (7.) *Young-Man-Afraid-of-His-Future. Harp. M. May. (142:761.)

BRYSON, LYMAN LLOYD. (1888- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918.) *Shadow. Scr. Jan. (69:99.)

BUCHANAN, JOHN PRESTON. *Trial of Jonathan Goode. Scr. Dec., '20. (68:711.)

BULGER, BOZEMAN. (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1919, 1920.) Class Double A. S.E.P. May 28. (12.)

BULLOCK, WILLIAM. (See 1915.) Hereditary Punch. Ev. Aug. (79.) Mama's Boy. Ev. Sept. (39.)

BURANELLI, PROSPER. *Lost Lip. Harp. M. Jan. (142:242.)

BURNETT, FRANCES HODGSON. (See 1915, 1917.) (H.) *House in the Dismal Swamp. G.H. Apr., '20. (16.)

BURT, MAXWELL STRUTHERS. (1882- .) (See 1915, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) **Buchanan Hears the Wind. Harp. M. Aug. (143:274.) ***Experiment. Pict. R. June. (5.) *Full Moon. Chic. Trib. Feb. 13. Making of a Patriot. S.E.P. Aug. 13. (14.) Sweet Syllables. S.E.P. June 11. (3.)

BUTLER, ELLIS PARKER. (1869- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1817, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) *Man Who Murdered a Fairy. Pict. R. Apr. (12.) Once a Penguin Always a Penguin. Harp. M. June. (143:129.)

BUZZELL, FRANCIS. (1882- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917.) (H.) *Troubleman. Pict. R. May. (14.)

"BYRNE, DONN." (BRYAN OSWALD DONN-BYRNE.) (1888- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) Daughter of the Medici. Hear. Sept. (6.) *Great Gift. Hear. Jul. (13.) *Keeper of the Bridge. McC. Apr. (6.) Marriage Has Been Arranged. Hear. May. (10.) Reynardine. McC. May. (15.) What Became of M. Gilholme? Hear. Jan. (11.)

C

CABELL, JAMES BRANCH. (1879- .) (See 1915, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) ***Image of Sesphra. Rom. Oct., '20. (87.)

CAMP, (CHARLES) WADSWORTH. (1879- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1920._) (H.) Haunted House. Col. Jan. 8. (5.) Real People. Col. Jul. 9. (5.)

CAMPBELL, MARJORIE PRENTISS. (See 1919, 1920.) After Midnight. Hear. May. (41.)

CANFIELD, DOROTHY. (DOROTHEA FRANCES CANFIELD FISHER.) (1879- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1918, 1919._) (H.) **Pamela's Shawl. Cen. Aug. (102:504.)

CAREW, HELEN. Tears that Angels Shed. Sun. Nov., '20. (96.)

CARLISLE, H. GRACE. Marie. Met. Aug. (26.)

CARMAN, MIRIAM CRITTENDEN. (See 1916.) Her Own Game. Del. May. (13.)

CARRUTH, (FRED) HAYDEN. (1862- .) Benefactor of Upper Haddock. Harp. M. Mar. (142:537.)

CARY, HAROLD. (See 1920.) Brown Boots. Del. Jul. (15.)

CARY, LUCIAN. (1886- .) (See 1918, 1919.) Art Movement in Real Estate. S.E.P. Oct. 30, '20. (14.) Bringing Home the Errant Husband. Red Bk. Mar. (57.) Conquering Male. McCall. Jul. (10.) Dark Secret. Ev. Feb. (23.) Daughter of the Rich. Red Bk. Dec., '20. (67.) Just Like Any Married Man. Chic. Trib. June 19. Milly of Langmore Street. McCall. Feb. (5.) Pirate of Park Avenue. Ev. Dec., '20. (53.) Voice of the Old Home Town. Red Bk. Oct., '20. (68.) Way Wives Are, L.H.J. Apr. (14.) What if the Girl Wouldn't Go Back? Red Bk. Jan. (64.)

CASEY, PATRICK and CASEY, TERENCE. (See 1915, 1917, 1920.) (_See "H." under_ CASEY, PATRICK.) *Road Kid. Lib. Jul. (10.)

CAVENDISH, JOHN C. (See 1919, 1920.) Common-Sense Romance. S.S. June. (45.) Faut Pas. S.S. Oct., '20. (117.) Mother and Daughter. S.S. May. (39.)

CHADWICK, CHARLES. (See 1920.) Man With the Diamond In His Head. Ev. Mar. (43.) Once In His Life. Del. Nov., '20 (13.)

CHAMBERLAIN, GEORGE AGNEW. (1879- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917.) Thieves' Market. Chic. Trib. May 15.

CHAMBERLAIN, LUCIA. (See 1917, 1920.) (H.) Corcoran. S.E.P. Mar. 12. (5.) *Dreamers. S.E.P. Jul. 23. (15.) Telephone Time. S.E.P. Jul. 2. (16.)

CHAMBERS, ELWYN M. Find the Thief. Am. May. (38.)

CHAMBERS, ROBERT HUSTED. Matter of Medicine. McC. June-Jul. (28.) *Throw-Back. McC. Dec., '20 (25.)

CHAMBERS, ROBERT W(ILLIAM). (1865- .) (See 1915, 1917, 1919.) Flaming Jewel. McCall. Aug. (5.) Master Passion. McCall. Sept. (6.)

CHAPMAN, EDITH. (See 1920.) *Immune. S.S. Jul. (97.)

CHAPMAN, FRANCES NORVILLE. (See 1916.) *Annie Kearney. S.S. May. (103) **Gossip. S.S. Oct., '20. (93.)

CHASE, MARY ELLEN. (1887- .) (See 1919, 1920.) *Waste of the Ointment. Pict. R. Jul. (6.)

CHILD, RICHARD WASHBURN. (1881- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) Eye of Cleopatra. Chic. Trib. Apr. 24. *Fanny. Pict. R. Sept. (26.) *From Dark to Day. Pict. R. Apr. (10.) *Idols. Hear. Aug. (6.) *Lure. S.E.P. Oct. 9, '20. (12.) *Man and Gentleman. Hear. Nov., '20. (8.) Other Volabia. S.E.P. Jul. 2. (12.) ***Screen. Pict. R. Mar. (8.) V for Viper. S.E.P. Oct. 23, '20. (12.)

CHITTENDEN, GERALD. (See 1915, 1916.) Victim of His Vision. Scr. May. (69:611.)

CHRISTIE, MORRIS. Middle-Age. S.S. Jul. (121.)

CHURCHILL. DAVID. (See 1919, 1920.) Solvent. Cen. Mar. (101:638.) Trencher. Ev. Dec., '20. (23.)

CHURCHILL, ROY P. (See 1919.) Love Sets the Alarm Clock. Am. Jan. (20.)

CISCO, RUPERT F. Twins--Three of Them. Met. Mar. (33.)

CLAPP, LUCRETIA D. (See H.) Gift. McCall. Apr. (12.)

CLARK, (CHARLES) BADGER. (See 1920.) Deal in Mules. Sun. Dec., '20. (36.) Don't Spoil His Aim. Sun. June. (29.) Price of Liberty. Sun. Sept. (44.) Tuck's Quiet Wedding. Sun. Jul. (34.) Wind to Heaven. Sun. May. (38.) Young Hero. Sun. Aug. (43.)

CLARK, VALMA. (See 1920.) Silhouettes and Starlight. Hear. Mar. (33.) Sneaking Upon Pa. Am. Apr. (21.) Uncle Cy--Talented, or Crazy? Am. Sept. (27.)

CLAUSEN, CARL. (See 1920.) Might-Have-Been. Ev. Sept. (23.) Sea Love. Ev. Jul. (47.)

COBB, IRWIN S(HREWSBURY). (1876- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) **Cater-Cornered Sex. S.E.P. Sept. 24. (8.) ***Darkness. S.E.P. Aug. 20. (3.) Greatest Thrill I Ever Had. Am. Dec., '20. (54.) **Ravelin' Wolf. S.E.P. Feb. 21, '20. (12.) ***Short Natural History. S.E.P. Oct. 9, '20. (3.)

COBURN, MRS. FORDYCE. See ABBOTT, ELEANOR HALLOWELL.

COCKS, DOROTHY. Americanization Stuff. Sun. Feb. (34.)

COHEN, BELLA. (See 1920.) **Passing of the Stranger. L. St. Mar. (45.)

COHEN, LESTER. Fraudway. Pag. Aug.-Sept. (9.)

COHEN, OCTAVUS ROY. (1891- .) (See 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) Bird of Pray. S.E.P. Nov. 13, '20. (10.) End of the Rainbow. Am. Mar. (23.) Evil Lie. S.E.P. Sept. 10. (14.) H2O Boy! S.E.P. June 4. (14.) Less Miserable. Chic. Trib. Sept. 25. Midsummer Knight's Dream. Hear. Sept. (45.) Oft In the Silly Night. S.E.P. Mar. 12. (10.)

COLCORD, LINCOLN (ROSS). (1883- .) (See 1915.) (H.) ***Instrument of the Gods. Am. Apr. (10.) May. (47.) *Moments of Destiny. Pop. Aug. 20. (126.)

COLEMAN, SARA LINDSEY. (See H.) Honeymoon House. Del. June. (15.)

COMFORT, WILL LEVINGTON. (1878- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (See also in 1920, COMFORT, WILL LEVINGTON and DOST, ZAMIN KI.) Plucked One. Red Bk. Jul. (94.) *Red Handed. S.E.P. Jan. 1. (8.) *Deadly Karait. Asia. Aug. (21:663.)

CONDON, FRANK. (See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) By Ten Feet. Col. Jan. 29. (10.) Followed by Laughter. Ev. Nov. '20. (47.) Punch and Julie. Col. Aug. 6. (6.) Red Monahan. Col. May 21. (3.)

CONNELL, RICHARD. Cage Man. S.E.P. Nov. 6, '20 (18.) Gretna Greenhorns. McCall. Aug. (11.) Man In the Cape. Met. May. (31.) Sin of Monsieur Pettipon. S.E.P. Sept. 24. (12.) Suzi Goes Back to the Land. McCall. Apr. (8.) Tiger Syrup. Ev. Dec., '20. (71.) $25,000 Jaw. S.E.P. Aug. 27. (22.)

CONNOLLY, JAMES BRENDON. (1868- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) *Bill Jackson's Adeline. Col. Nov. 20, '20. (5.) *Captain Joe Gurley. Col. Feb. 26. (5.) *His Three Fair Wishes. Red Bk. Jul. (35.) Not Down in the Log. Col. Jan. 22. (7.)

COOKE, GRACE MACGOWAN. See MACGOWAN, ALICE AND GRACE MACGOWAN COOKE.

COOPER COURTNEY RYLEY (1886- .) (See 1917, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Christmas Eve at Pilot Butte. Red Bk. Jan. (39.) Envy. Red Bk. Apr. (42.) Fear. Red Bk. Mar. (38.) Fiend. Cos. Mar. (59.) Love. Red Bk. June. (56.) Mother. Chic. Trib. Apr. 10. Old Scarface. Pict. R. Apr. (24.) Pin-Point Pupil. Red Bk. Nov., '20. (64.) *Simp. Pict. R. Nov., '20. (22.) To Oblige a Lady. McC. Sept. (27.)

COOPER, COURTNEY RYLEY and CREAGAN, -- LEO S. Martin Garrity Finally Pulls a Bone -- Am. Apr. (29.) Martin Garrity Gets Even. Am. Jul. (20.)

COPELAND, FRED. Dude-Puncher Steve. Scr. Mar (69:343)

COWAN, HOY PASCAL. *Accompanist. S.S. Oct., '20. (103.)

COWDERY, ALICE. (See 1915, 1917, 1919.) (H.) **Tree. Harp. M. Nov., '20. (141:710.)

"CRABB, ARTHUR." (See 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) Jigger. Met. Mar. (27.) Jimmy Evans Comes Back. Ev. Dec., '20. (64.) Juror No. 5. Col. June 11. (14.) Miss Jeremiah. Ev. Nov., '20. (64.) Old Man Ladd. Sun. Sept. (28.)

CRABBE, BERTHA HELEN. (1887- .) (See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919.) ***On Riverside Drive. Touch. Dec., '20. (8:194.)

CRAM, MILDRED R. (1889- .) (See 1916, 1917, 1919, 1920.) *Anna. McCall. Mar. (5.) Bridge. Harp. B. Apr. (46.) Chestnuts in the Fire. Harp. B. June. (44.) *Gold Woman. Red Bk. Feb. (44.) Kitty Passes. Harp. B. May. (60.) Mirage. Red Bk. Sept. (85.) Oh, La-La. Harp. B. Aug. (44.) **Stranger Things. Met. Jan. (15.) **Sun. McCall. Aug. (7.)

CRANE, CLARKSON. (See 1916, 1920.) **American. S.S. Nov., '20. (107.) *Magnificent Major. S.S. Dec., '20. (89.) Morning Walk. S.S. June. (55.)

CREAGAN, LEO F. See COOPER, COURTNEY RYLEY and CREAGAN, LEO F.

CROWELL, ELINOR ROBINSON. "Hold 'em, Harvard!" Met. Jan. (14.)

CRUMP, IRVING R. (See 1919.) (H.) King-Dog. Red Bk. Jul. (69.)

CURTISS, PHILIP (EVERETT). (1885- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) Fancy Skater of Meloumerang. Harp. M. May. (142:737.) *"Gum-Shoe." Scr. Feb. (69:169.) Left-Handed Piccolo Player. Harp. M. Dec., '20. (142:87.) Pentelicus the Younger. Harp. B. Oct., '20. (68.) *Postmaster-General of Mindanao. Harp. M. Oct., '20. (141:644.) **Waving Palm and the Blue Lagoon. Harp. M. Jan. (142:154.)

CURWOOD, JAMES OLIVER. (1878- .) (See 1917, 1918, 1919.) (H.) Country Beyond. Cos. Jul. (29.) Honor and the Outlaw. Cos. Sept. (30.) Jolly Roger of the Forests. Cos. Aug. (35.)

CUTNER, JEAN. Surrender. S.S. May. (89.)

CUTTING, MARY STEWART (DOUBLEDAY.) (1851- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1918.) (H.) Fairy Godmother. W.H.C. June. (16.)

D

DALLETT, MORRIS. *Balances. Cen. Feb. (101:470.)

DALRYMPLE, C. LEONA. (1885- .) (See 1915, 1918, 1919.) (H.) His Secrets. Pict. R. Feb. (20.) Love's Derelict. Pict. R. Oct., '20. (10.)

DAMER, JOHN. "In Vino." Lib. Jan. (5.)

DAVIS, CHARLES BELMONT. (1866- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1919.) (H.) Small Part People. Met. Aug. (13.)

DAVIS, ELMER (HOLMES). (1890- .) Double Indemnity. Ev. Aug. (61.)

DAVIS, MAURICE. (See 1920.) Morning in Spring. S.S. May. (85.)

DAVIS, ROBERT (HOBART.). (1869- .) Conjugal Bolshevist. Cen. Apr. (101:725.)

DAY, JR., CLARENCE. (See 1915, 1916.) (H.) Grand Tour of Horlick. Harp. M. Feb. (142:376.) Tragedy of Gustatory Selection. Harp. M. Dec.,'20. (142:111.)

DAY, HOLMAN FRANCIS. (1865- .) (See 1915, 1918, 1919.) (H.) Contribution Neggle-ance. S.E.P. Aug. 20. (12.) Court Took a Recess. Col. Aug. 20. (7.) *That Vanished. Col. Jul. 23. (6.) While the Biscuits Baked. Col. June 4. (5.)

DEAN, WILLIAM HARPER. Second Youth of Zachary Howe. L.H.J. Oct., '20. (25.)

DECAMP, CHARLES B. (See H.) Glass of Fashion. Met. Jan. (25.) Mildred, the Head-Hunter. Met. Sept. (36.)

DEJEANS, ELIZABETH (MRS. SIDNEY BLUDGETT.) (See H.) *Twixt the Cup and Lip. Met. Nov., '20. (13.)

DELANO, EDITH BARNARD. (See 1915, 1917, 1918, 1920.) See "H." under BARNARD, EDITH, and DELANO, EDITH BARNARD. Heart That Understands. L.H.J. Feb. (14.) *Let the Anchor Hold. McCall. May. (6.)

DELANUX, EYRE. Man in the Wheel. Del. May. (19.)

DELEON, WALTER. Brooders. Ev. Jul. (59.) In Hell-Hole Swamp. Ev. Aug. (139.) Plague o' My Hearth. Ev. May. (54.)

DELL, STANLEY. Nickel's Worth of Greatness. S.S. May. (57.)

DERIEUX, SAMUEL A. (1881- .) (See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) Bolter. Am. Sept. (50.) Figgers Can't Lie. Del. Apr. (7.) Old Frank to the Rescue. Am. Mar. (41.) Pursuit. Am. Nov., '20. (29.)

DICKENSON, EDWIN C. (See 1918.) Altar Rock. Scr. Apr. (69:433.)

DICKSON, HARRIS. (1868- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Above Suspicion. Col. Dec. 4, '20. (5.) Buster, the Catspaw. Cos. May. (81.) Crook and the Crazy Man. Cos. June. (87.) Ghost and the Gallows Nail. Col. Apr. 2. (5.) Legs is Legs. Cos. Sept. (95.) Old Reliable on Guard. Cos. Mar. (75.) Squeeze In and Freeze Out. S.E.P. Mar. 26. (10.) Wedlocked in Bond. Cos. Apr. (79.)

DIVINE, CHARLES. (See 1917.) Silver Box. Ev. June. (5.)

DOBIE, CHARLES CALDWELL. (1881- .) (See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) **All or Nothing. Harp. M. Jul. (143:151.) *From a Balcony. Harp. B. Sept. (34.) **Paying the Piper. Pict. R. Nov. '20. (14.)

DODGE, HENRY IRVING. (1861- .) (See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Ladies and Joe O'Brien (Pt. 2.) McC. Oct., '20. (12.)

DODGE, LOUIS. (1870- .) (See 1917, 1918, 1920.) Love Strike. McC. Dec. '20. (16.) **Opal Flagon. Scr. Oct., '20. (68:446.)

"DOST, ZAMIN KI" (WILLIMINA L. ARMSTRONG.) See COMFORT, WILL LEVINGTON and DOST, ZAMIN KI.

DOUGLAS, FORD. (See 1920.) (H.) Heel of Achilles. S.S. Mar. (29.)

DOWST, HENRY PAYSON. (1876- .) (See 1915, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Runt. S.E.P. Oct. 9, '20. (30.) Sawmiller's Job. S.E.P. Feb. 19. (12.) Whip Hand. S.E.P. Dec. 18, '20. (12.)

DREISER, THEODORE. (1871- .) (See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) **Chains. L. St. Dec., '20. (3.) *Phantom Gold. L. St. Feb. (3.)

DU BOIS, THEODORA. Devils and Four Gold Cups. Cen. June. (102:252.) Sieve. Met. June. (16.)

DUFF, NELLIE BROWNE. Golden Gown. Am. May. (50.)

DUGAN, FRANCES DORWIN. *Outsider. Mid. Aug. (7:297.)

DUNN, JOSEPH ALLAN. (1872- .) (See 1915.) (H.) *Smuggler's House. Ev. Feb. (63.)

DURAND, MRS. ALBERT C. See SAWYER, RUTH.

DUTTON, LOUISE ELIZABETH. (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Breaking Up. S.E.P. Sept. 17. (14.) Dream Tree. S.E.P. Apr. 9. (10.) Three of a Kind. S.E.P. June 11. (14.)

DWYER, JAMES FRANCIS. (1874- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) Berries of the Bittersweet. W.H.C. June. (7.) "Cath." W.H.C. Mar. (7.) *Goliath Gamble and Fate. Ain. Jan. (41.) *Herb Woman. Hol. Nov., '20. (7.) Miss Thistledown and Mr. Tinker. W.H.C. May. (14.) *They Came to Ophir. Col. June 4. (9.)

DYER, WALTER ALDEN. (1878- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1920.) (H.) Elijah and the Widow. Del. Jul. (22.)

E

EARLS, S.J. MICHAEL. Shadow Before. Cath. W. June. (113:366.)

EASTMAN, REBECCA HOOPER. (See 1915, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Great American Husband. S.E.P. (Oct. 23, '20.) (16.) Man Trap. S.S. Dec., '20. (27.) Yellow Tree. G.H. Nov., '20. (30.)

EATON, WALTER PRICHARD. (1878- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919.) (H.) Auction Hounds. Del. Jan. (8.) Miss Agatha's Gardener. Del. Aug. (5.) Procrastinated Christmas. Chic. Trib. Dec. 19, '20. Two in the Town. Del. Feb. (4.) Uses of Adversity. Del. Sept. (10.)

EDENS, OLIVE. Her Secret and His. Met. Feb. (25.) In Place of God. McC. Mar. (32.)

EDGAR, RANDOLPH. (See 1916, 1917, 1919.) Simple Saga. N.M. Feb. 9. (125:635.)

EDMONDSON, K.T. Green Cord. S.S. Jan. (45.)

"ELDERLY SPINSTER." (MARGARET WILSON.) (1882- .) (See 1918, 1919.) *Speaking of Careers. Asia. Jul. (21:575.) *Waste. Atl. Feb. (127:180.)

ELKIN, MARCIA. Butterfly so Bright. Am. Jan. (38.) Order of the Garter. W.H.C. Jul. (22.)

ELLERBE, ALMA MARTIN ESTABROOK. (1871- .) and ELLERBE, PAUL LEE. (See 1915 under ESTABROOK, ALMA MARTIN; 1917 under ELLERBE, ALMA ESTABROOK; 1919 under ELLERBE, ALMA MARTIN, and ELLERBE, PAUL LEE; 1920.) (See "H." under ELLERBE, PAUL LEE.) Mrs. Franklin. Col. Jul. 2. (12.)

ELLERBE, ALMA and ELLERBE, PAUL. Pound Calico. Sun. Sept. (17.) When the Ice Went Out. Sun. May. (28.)

ELLERBE, ROSA L. (See 1917, 1920.) (H.) Cyclone. Chic. Trib. Aug. 21.

ENDERS, GORDON. *Danzy. Asia. Oct., '20. (20:871.)

ENGLAND, GEORGE ALLAN. (1877- .) (See 1916, 1919.) (H.) Fifty-Fifty. S.E.P. Mar. 19. (20.) Girl Across the Way. McCall. June. (10.)

ESTY, ANNETTE. Play-Acting. Scr. Apr. (69:491.)

EVANS, FRANK E. (1876- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1920.) (H.) Grandstand Player, Red Bk. Nov., '20. (69.) Hip! Hip! Red Bk. Oct., '20. (87.)

EVANS, IDA MAY. (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Her Place in the Sun. Cos. Jan. (53.) Loves Between. Cos. Jul. (93.) Valencia Comes a Cropper. G.H. Dec., '20. (26.)

EVARTS, HAL G. (See 1920.) Glutton. S.E.P. June 25. (10.) Last Move. Red Bk. Dec., '20. (86.) Savagery. Red Bk. Jan. (44.) Swamp Colony, S.E.P. May 14. (9.) Traveling Otter. S.E.P. Apr. 23 (8.) Vanishing Squadron. Red Bk. Aug. (55.)

F

FAHNESTOCK, MRS. WALLACE WEIR. see HUMPHREY, (HARRIET) ZEPHINE.

FARNHAM, MATEEL HOWE. (See 1920.) (H.) Fat of the Land. Del. Mar. (13) Little Matter of Business. W.H.C. Jul. (14.) Million-Dollar Invitation. W.H.C. Nov., '20. (9.)

FELLOM, JAMES. Celestial Chattel. Pict. R. May (12.)

FERBER, EDNA. (1887- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Not a Day Over Twenty-One. Col. Aug. 13. (3.)

FERGUSON, CHARLES A. Passing of the Chief. Cath. W. Apr. (113:83.)

FIELD, DOROTHY LLEWELLYN FIELD. It Can Be Done. Ev. Feb. (40)

FIELD, FLORA. (See 1918, 1920.) Mister Montague's Premises. Del. May. (15.)

FINGER, CHARLES J. (1871- .) (See 1919, 1920.) ***Derailment of Train No. 16. A.W. Sept. (1:196.) *Liar. A.W. Feb. (1:47.) ***Lizard God. A.W. Dec., '20. (10.) Cur. O. May. (623.) **Some Mischievous Thing. (R.) A.W. May. (1:118.) *Tale of the Far South. A.W. June. (1:145.)

FISHER, DOROTHEA FRANCES CANFIELD. See CANFIELD, DOROTHY.

FISHER, SALLY. Rose Dupré's Escape. Del. Jan. (15.)

FITZGERALD, FRANCIS SCOTT KEY. (See 1920.) His Russet Witch. Met. Feb. (11.) Jelly-Bean. Met. Oct., '20. (15.) *Lees of Happiness. Chic. Trib. Dec. 12, '20. Tarquin of Cheapside. S.S. Feb. (43.)

FITZGERALD, HENRY. (See 1915.) Tale of the Chase. S.S. Sept. (105.)

FITZHERBERT, N.V. A B C's of a Man. Pag. Aug. Sept. (49.)

FLANDRAN, GRACE HODGSON. (See 1918, 1920.) Rubies in Crystal. S.S. June. (65.) Terry Sees Red. Harp. M. Dec., '20. (142:18.)

FLANNER, JANET. In Transit and Return. Cen. Oct., '20. (100:801.)

FLEISCHMAN, LEON. Fly. Con. Apr. (101:768.)

FOLSOM, ELIZABETH IRONS. (1876- .) (See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) **Along the White Road. Hear. Jul. (49.) *Masterpiece. Met. Jan. (32.) *Mrs. Charles Grimes. Sun. Oct., '20. (33.) *Pitch. Met. Dec., '20. (17.) What Opened Jerry's Eyes to Bertha. Am. Oct., '20. (39.)

FOOTE, JOHN TAINTOR. (See 1915, 1916, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Fowl Disaster. Col. Mar. 19. (12.) Soft Craws. S.E.P. Jul. 23. (8.) Spirit Dope. Am. Oct., '20. (57.)

FORRESTER, IZOLA L. (See 1918 under FORRESTER, IZOLA L. and PAGE, MANN; see "H." under FORRESTER, IZOLA L.) Christmas Highwayman. Del. Dec., '20. (16.) Eyes of Angels. Del. Aug. (20.) His Own Vineyard. Del. Oct., '20. (20.) Leaven of Love. Del. Nov., '20. (14.)

FORSYTH, LOUISE. (See 1918.) *Initiation. Cen. Nov., '20. (101: 81.)

FORTUNE, MARGARET EMMANUEL. Yolanda Comes and Goes. Sun. Jul. (42.)

FOSTER, HARRY L. Bradley's Wife. Met. Aug. (30.)

FOSTER, MARY. (See 1919.) Maragh of the Silent Valley. Cath. W. Mar. (112: 771.)

FOX, PAUL HERVEY. (See 1917, 1918.) Grand Passion. S.S. Feb. (65.) Last Picture. S.S. Dec., '20. (63.)

FRANK, WALDO. (1890- .) (See 1916, 1917.) **Under the Dome. Dial. Oct., '20. (69:329.)

FRASER, W(ILLIAM) A(LEXANDER). (1859- .) (H.) Delilah. S.E.P. June 11. (10.) Static. S.E.P. Apr. 23. (5.) Who Laughs Last. S.E.P. Jul. 9. (16.)

FREDERICK, JUSTUS GEORGE. (1882- .) (See 1919.) (H.) "I Love You Exclamation Point." Ev. Mar. (53.)

FUESSLE, NEWTON A. (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918.) Cheaters. S.S. Mar. (61.)

FULLERTON, HUGH STEWART. (See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) "Pay to T. Hartley, Good Sport, $10,000." Am. Nov., '20. (40.) Triple Cross. Col. Nov. 27, '20. (5.)

G

GAITHER, RICE. Then Came Sue. W.H.C. Mar. (11.)

GALE, ZONA. (1874- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) "Patches." W.H.C. Mar. (9.)

GARRETT, GARET. (1878- .) (See 1917, 1920.) Luck Lepee's Tale. S.E.P. Mar. 26. (14.) Wall Street Baptism. S.E.P. Jan. 15. (23.)

GASCH, MARIE MANNING. See MANNING, MARIE.

GATLIN, DANA. (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919.) (H.) Altar Fires. Cos. Aug. (103.) Dark Man in Her Future. Cos. Feb. (27.) Martyr's Crown. G.H. Feb. (58.) Not a Marrying Man. Cos. Apr. (53.) Old Home Town. Cos. Sept. (36.) Out of the Forest. McCall. Nov., '20. (9.) Royal Unrepentant. Cos. Nov., '20. (61.)

GELZER, JAY. (See 1920.) *Flower of the Flock. Cos. Aug. (73.)

GEROULD, KATHARINE FULLERTON. (1879- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) ***French Eva. Scr. Nov., '20. (68:549.) **Keeper of the Gate. Ev. May. (74.)

GERRY, MARGARITA SPALDING. (1870- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1920.) (H.) ***"To Meet His Majesty." Harp. M. Jul. (143:233.)

GIBSON, STUART. Dainty Marie. McCall. Feb. (6.)

GIESY, JOHN ULRICH. (1877- .) (See 1917.) *Beyond the Violet. Arg. Nov. 27, '20. (128:118.)

GIFFORD, FANNIE STEARNS DAVIS. (MRS. AUGUSTUS MCKINSTRY GIFFORD.) (1884- .) (H.) **"New England." Atl. Apr. (127:505.)

GILBERT, GEORGE. (1874- .) (See 1916, 1918, 1919, 1920.) Devil of the Pool. Sun. Apr. (16.) Man Who Was Strangely Tempted. Am. Oct., '20. (21.) "Most Wise! Most Subtle!" Sun. Feb. (17.)

GILBERT, MORRIS. Bitter Moment. S.S. May. (19.)

GILKYSON, T. WALTER. **Illumined Moment. Atl. Apr. (127:458.)

GIRARDEAU, CLAUDE M. (See 1915.) Opal Amulet. Harp. B. Oct., '20. (62.)

GLASGOW, ELLEN (ANDERSON GHOLSON). (1874- .) (See 1916, 1917.) ***The Past. G.H. Oct., '20. (64.)

GLASPELL, SUSAN (KEATING). (MRS. GEORGE CRAM COOK.) (1882- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) ***His Smile. Pict. R. Jan. (15.)

GLASS, MONTAGUE MARSDEN. (1877- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1920.) (H.) *Keeping Expenses Down. Hear. Aug. (10.) Never Begin with Lions. Hear. June. (13.) Sixth McNally. Hear. May. (13.) Squaring Mr. Turkeltaub. Cos. Oct., '20. (17.)

GODFREY, WINONA. (1877- .) (See 1919, 1920.) (H.) Quintin and the Quince. Am. Feb. 29. Tarradiddle. Sun. Nov., '20. (50.) Webs. Sun. Oct., '20. (74.)

GOETCHIUS, MARIE LOUISE. See "RUTLEDGE MARYSE."

GOODFELLOW, DOROTHY. Camel-Driver. McCall. May. (13.)

GOODLOE, ABBIE CARTER. (1867- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) *Talisman. Scr. Sept. (70:337.)

GOODMAN, HENRY. *Faith and Jack London. Book. (N.Y.) Sept. (54:13.)

GOULD, F. Baby Vamp. S.S. Sept. (91.)

GRACE, JULIA H. "Doit" Case. A.W. Apr. (1:93.)

GRAEVE, OSCAR. (1884- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) *Change. S.E.P. Jul. 9. (10.) Stars. S.E.P. Jan. 22. (33.)

GRANT, MRS. ETHEL WATTS-MUMFORD. See MUMFORD, ETHEL WATTS.

GRAVES, LOUIS. (See 1915, 1920.) (H.) Menton Marvel. Met. Oct., '20. (28.)

GRAY, DAVID. (1870- .) (See 1915, 1917, 1919.) (H.) Self-Determination with the Lenoxes. S.E.P. May 14. (5.)

GREIG, ALGERNON. (See 1920.) Isn't it Funny?--But It's True! Met. Nov., '20. (21.) Scrambled Eggs. Met. Dec., '20. (20.)

GREY, ZANE. (1875- .) (H.) Great Slave. L.H.J. Dec., '20. (10.)

GRIGGS, VETA HURST. Call It What You Please. Ev. Apr. (70.)

GWYNNE, BERTHA LOWRY. Rose Mary Garland. W.H.C. Feb. (20.)

H

HAINES, DONAL HAMILTON. (1886- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) Three Swallows, Clear! S.S. Jan. (61.)

HALL, AMANDA BENJAMIN. Bubble of Bliss. S.S. Feb. (25.) Eye of the Beholder. S.S. Mar. (103.) Fortunes of Mr. Finn. S.S. Sept. (51.) Sunday. S.S. Aprl. (57.)

HALL, HERSCHEL S. (See 1919 under HALL, H.S., 1920.) Kick. S.E.P. Oct. 16, '20. (16.) Prospectors. S.E.P. Jan. 29. (5.)

"HALL, HOLWORTHY." (HAROLD EVERETT PORTER.) (1887- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) Fog of Orleans. McC. Feb. (16.) Freddie the Fifth. Harp. B. Feb. (44.) His Dear Cassandra. McC. Nov. '20. (13.) Ironies. Chic. Trib. Oct. 17, '20. Madam President. Cos. June. (29.) Man Who Wouldn't Be Told. Cos. Aug. (89.) Miss Nemesis. McC. Sept. (8.) Mopus. Pict. R. May. (24.) Runner-Up. Col. Mar. 5. (5.) Target. L.H.J. Feb. (10.) Turtle's Head. McCall. Aug. (8.)

HALL, WILBUR (JAY). (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) Americanization of Jonesy. Sun. Aug. (48.) Communism in Shadow Valley. Red Bk. Oct., '20. (78.) Stringer Blood. S.E.P. June 25. (12.)

HALLET, RICHARD MATTHEWS. (1887- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1919, 1920._) (H.) **Bluebeard Shadrach. S.E.P. Mar. 20, '20. (20.) ***Harbor Master. Harp. M. June. (143:36.) Jul. (143:198.) *Mountain and Mahomet. Harp. M. Nov., '20. (141:735.) **Whale of a Story. Pict. R. Nov., '20. (20.)

HAMBY, WILLIAM HENRY. (1875- .) (See 1916, 1918, 1919.) (H.) Dance of the Clog-Footed. Ev. Oct., '20. (45.)

HAMILTON, GERTRUDE BROOKE. (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) *Finette of the Streets. Par. Nov., '20. (43.) Thunderstorm. G.H. Sept. (24.)

HAMILTON, H.M. Devil à la Mode. Pag. Mar.-Apr. (23.)

HAMPTON, EDGAR LLOYD. (See 1916, 1920.) Rolling Stone. Sun. Nov., '20. (43.)

HANSON, NELL. *Jimsie of Kilmack. Rom. Oct., '20. (3.)

HARDY, ARTHUR SHERBURNE. (1847- .) (See 1916, 1920.) (H.) *Comedy at the Prefecture. Harp. M. Feb. (142:339.) **Tragedy on the Upper Snake River. Scr. Jul. (70:53.)

HARLOWE, B. Freud vs. William B. Thompkin. S.S. Feb. (109.)

HARRIS, KENNETT. (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Birds in Their Little Nests. S.E.P. Jul. 16. (5.) Junk. S.E.P. Dec. 25, '20. (16.) Peacock-Blue Album. S.E.P. Dec. 18, '20. (15.) Pest and the Pie-Dough Cake. S.E.P. Feb. 12. (8.) Roland Stoops to Conquer. S.E.P. Apr. 2. (3.)

HART, FRANCES NOYES. **Contact. Pict. R. Dec., '20. (16.) ***Green Gardens. Scr. Jul. (70:24.)

HATCH, LEONARD. (See 1915, 1920.) (H.) Something Desperate. W.H.C. Dec., '20. (15.) Sunny Side of Nineteen. Ev. Aug. (23.)

HAWLEY, J.B. (See 1920.) Friendship. S.S. June. (111.) Sacred Story. S.S. Jan. (113.)

HAWTHORNE, CHRISTOPHER. Disappearing Statues. S.S. Oct., '20. (27.)

HECHT, BEN. (1896- .) (See 1915, 1917, 1918, 1919.) ***Bomb Thrower. Little Review. Sept.-Dec. (18.)

HENDERSON, GERTRUDE. (H.) World Without End. Atl. Jul. (128:82.)

"HENRY, O." (WILLIAM SYDNEY PORTER.) (1867-1910.) (H.) *Shamrock and the Palm. (R.) Ain. Sept. (141.)

HERGESHEIMER, JOSEPH. (1880- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) **Beyond the Bridge. S.E.P. Dec. 11, '20. (5.) *Early Americans. S.E.P. Aug. 27. (8.) *Juju. S.E.P. Jul. 30. (5.) **Scarlet Ibis. S.E.P. Nov. 13, '20. (5.) *Sprig of Lemon Verbena. S.E.P. Sept. 17. (8.)

HICKS, JANE. Aspiring Becky Pye. Met. Sept. (56.)

HILL, FLORENCE BRUSH. Buds. Pag. Aug.-Sept. (31.)

HILLIS, RICHARD DWIGHT. (See 1918.) Reform of Leadpipe Neumann. Met. Sept. (31.) Stateroom on Deck "A." Met. May. (28.)

HILLYARD, ANNA BRANSON. Love Laughs. W.H.C. Feb. (15.)

HINTON, LEONARD. (See 1915.) Teacup. S.S. Apr. (73.)

HOLDING, ELIZABETH SANXAY. (See 1920.) *Marie's View of It. Cen. Dec., '20. (101:210.) Mollie, The Ideal Nurse. Cen. Jan. (101:326.)

HOLLINGSWORTH, CEYLON. (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Blood and Bacon. Col. Mar. 12. (9.) I Ain't a Coward, Maw. Col. May 14. (9.) Love and Sediment. Col. Feb. 12. (12.)

HOLLOWAY, WILLIAM. (See 1915, 1916.) Follow Through. Cen. Feb. (101:509.)

HOLT, HENRY. Mystic Swab. Met. Sept. (34.)

HOPPER, JAMES (MARIE). (1876- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) Flash Molloy. Cos. Aug. (69.) **Little Cave-Boy. Ev. Jan. (67.) *Sculptor and His Wife. Cos. June. (81.)

HORTON, CHARLES M. (H.) *Miguel Arrieta. Scr. Oct., '20. (68:491.)

HOSTETTER, VAN VECHTEN. (See 1920.) Escape. S.S. Oct., '20. (109.)

HOUSTON, MARGARET BELLE. (See 1917, 1918, 1919.) (H.) *Atmosphere. L.H.J. Mar. (3.)

HOWARD, SIDNEY. **Stars in Their Courses. Col. Nov. 6, '20. (5.)

HOWLAND, HENRY C. Chimney. S.E.P. May 7. (21.)

HUBBARD, GEORGE, and THOMPSON, LILLIAN BENNET --. See THOMPSON, LILLIAN BENNET -- and HUBBARD, GEORGE.

HUGHES, RUPERT. (1872- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Love the Subliculous. Cos. Oct., '20. (71.) Wallflower. Col. Sept. 10. (3.) *When Crossroads Cross Again. Col. Jan. 29. (5.)

HULL, ALEXANDER. (See 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) **Gray Valley. Scr. Nov., '20. (68:607.) Letty, the Grabber. Am. Jan. (13.) Winner. Am. June. (39.) Youth and Mr. Forrest. L.H.J. May. (12.)

HULL, HELEN R. (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) **Men of Their Race. Touch. Oct., '20. (8:1.) *Waiting. Touch. Feb. (8:346.)

HUMPHREY, (HARRIETTE) ZEPHINE. (MRS. WALLACE WEIR FAHNESTOCK.) (1874- .) (See 1915, 1916.) Return. Del. Nov., '20. (15.)

HUNT, FRAZIER. (1885- .) (See 1916.) (H.) Lightning Flashes Around the World. Col. Apr. 2. (12.) Nice and White and Innocent. Col. May 7. (9.) Tea Stands for Tokyo. Col. Apr. 23 (7.) Tell It to the Marines. Col. May 21. (12.) Where Lightning Strikes. Col. July 2. (11.)

HUNTER, REX. Wild Eyes. A.W. Sept. (1:221.)

HURST, FANNIE. (1889- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) **"Guilty." Cos. Feb. (14.) **Roulette. Cos. May. (18.) ***She Walks in Beauty. Cos. Aug. (28.)

HUSSEY, L.M. (See 1919, 1920.) *Husband of Carmen Maria. Cen. Jan. (101:346.) **Lost Art. S.S. Oct., '20. (69.) Saint of Valera. S.S. Sept. (109.) Twilight of a God. S.S. May (63.) *Ugliest Woman on the Boardwalk. S.S. Nov., '20. (63.)

I

IMRIE, WALTER MCLAREN. (See 1919.) *Faith. S.S. Jan. (101.) ***Remembrance. Mid. Oct., '20. (6:182.)

IRWIN, WALLACE. (1875- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) *Hickory Dickory Dock. McC. May. (8.) Old School. Pict. R. Apr. (6.) Only One. McC. Oct., '20. (30.) Silver Heels. S.E.P. June 18. (5.) Sophie Semenoff. S.E.P. Nov. 27, '20. (10.) Who's Who. S.E.P. Apr. 9. (14.)

IRWIN, WILL(IAM HENRY). (1873- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Cassidy's Job. S.E.P. Sept. 17. (12.) Tom. S.E.P. Jan. 22. (12.) Round Turn. S.E.P. Aug. 13. (12.) Uses of Calamity. S.E.P. Sept. 3. (14.) Woman Inside. S.E.P. Dec., '20 (12.)

ISH-KISHOR, SULAMITH. Roofs of Dhoum. S.S. Apr. (95.)

J

JACKSON, SELBY. Chasm. Sun. Feb. (46.)

JENKINS, N.W. Seeing Hearts. W.H.C. Dec., '20. (16.)

JOHN, W.A.P. (See 1920.) Frisky Whisky. S.E.P. Sept. 24. (14.)

"JOHN O' GATHAM." Acknowledgment. Met. Nov., '20. (29.)

JOHNSON, ALVIN SAUNDERS. (1874- .) (See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919.) *Object Matrimony. S.S. July. (83.)

JOHNSON, OLIVE MCCLINTIC. (See 1920.) De Nation's Bu'ffday. Col. July 9. (9.) First Kind Word. Col. Sept. 3. (7.) Infatuation. Col. Jan. 22. (5.) Insane Truth. Col. Oct. 9, '20. (7.) Isn't Nature Wonderful! Col. Feb. 26. (7.)

JOHNSON, OWEN (MCMAHON). (1878- .) (See 1915, 1916.) Bathtub King. Hear. Apr. (17.) Girl They Loved. Hear. June. (22.) Mosquito-Proof Socks. Hear. Sept. (39.)

JOHNSTON, CALVIN. (See 1915, 1917, 1919.) (H.) *Mr. Bliven's Day of Fate. Sun. Nov., '20. (22.) *Temple Dusk. S.E.P. Oct. 16, '20. (3.)

JONES, ALICIA. **First Sorrowful Mystery. Mid. Jan. (7:1.)

JONES, HOWARD MUMFORD. (See 1919.) At the Pool of Bethesda. S.S. Mar. (49.) Concerto in A-Flat. S.S. Apr. (99.) **Drigsby's Universal Regulator. Mid. Nov., '20. (6:157.)

JONES, WALTER. (H.) Boob's Progress. McC. Dec., '20. (6.) Framed for Broadway. McC. Nov., '20. (10.) Nanny. Cos. Oct., '20. (37.) Vampires Ahoy! McC. May. (24.)

JORDAN, ELIZABETH (GARVER). (1867- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1919, 1920._) (H.) His Son's Wife. W.H.C. May. (7.) Miss Mary Smith. Chic. Trib. July 10. Rev. Archie Reconstructs. Chic. Trib. Nov. 28, '20. Tears of Dorothea. Chic. Trib. Sept. 4.

JORDAN, KATE (MRS. F.M. VERMILYE). (See 1915, 1920.) On Margin. S.E.P. Dec. 11, '20. (13.)

JULIUS, EMANUEL HALDEMAN --. (1888- .) and JULIUS, MRS. EMANUEL HALDEMAN --. (See 1919, 1920.) (See 1917, 1918 under JULIUS, EMANUEL HALDEMAN.) Unworthy Coopers. Atl. May. (127:614.)

K

KAHLER, HUGH MACNAIR. (See 1917, 1919, 1920.) Allie Rebsoll's Better Self. S.E.P. Mar. 19. (12.) Commune, Limited. S.E.P. Apr. 30. (16.) *Davy Corbutt's Brother. S.E.P. May 28. (14.) East Wind. S.E.P. Oct., 23, '20. (3.) Failure. L.H.J. Jan. (5.) Fool's First. S.E.P. Nov. 20, '20. (12.) Like a Tree. S.E.P. Jan. 22. (5.) Number One. S.E.P. Mar. 5. (5.) Once a Peddler. S.E.P. Sept. 3. (6.) Oppressor. S.E.P. June 25. (14.) Pink Sheep. S.E.P. Dec. 4, '20. (14.) Playboy. Ev. Mar. (5.) Unbowed. S.E.P. Dec. 25, '20. (5.)

KEIL, ESTHER W. Divorced. Cath. W. Nov., '20. (195.)

KELLAND, CLARENCE BUDINGTON. (1881- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) Conflict. Red Bk. Aug. (65.) Grandma Cutcheon--Detective. Am. Jan. (30.) Scattergood and the Missing Organ Fund. Am. Mar. (31.) Scattergood and the Tongue of Gossip. Am. Feb. (21.) Scattergood Baits a Hook. Am. Sept. (21.) Scattergood Buys a Church. Am. June. (21.) With the Help of the Duke. Chic. Trib. Nov. 7, '20.

KELLOGG, VERNON LYMAN. See "VERNON, MAX."

KENNON, HARRY B. (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) Amber Door. A.W. Jan. (1:10.) Dvorak Op. 101, No. 7. A.W. Mar. (1:63.) My Seat on the Aisle. A.W. July. (1:163.)

KENTY, GERTRUDE SNOW. Grandmother's Shoes. W.H.C. Apr. (15.)

KEON, GRACE. Partners. Cath. W. Oct. '20. (74.)

KERR, SOPHIE. (1880- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (See "H." under UNDERWOOD, SOPHIE KERR.) Beach Comber. L.H.J. Jan. (10.) Girl Who Hated Her Mother. Del. Sept. (12.) Home Brew. Met. June. (14.) Smashed-To-Bits Heart. W.H.C. June. (11.) Talker. McC. Aug. (21.) Wild Earth. S.E.P. Apr. 2. (10.)

KILBOURNE, FANNIE ("MARY ALEXANDER."). (_See 1915, 1917, 1918, 1920, under_ KILBOURNE, FANNIE, and 1917 under ALEXANDER, MARY.) Any Other Girl Can Tell. L.H.J. Mar. (8.) Cinderella Dyes Them Black. Am. June. (31.) Corner on William. L.H.J. Nov., '20. (18.) Cupid Takes Up Advertising. S.E.P. Jul. 2. (10.) Magic. Del. Nov., '20. (10.) May Magic. S.E.P. Jul. 30. (12.) Office Beauty. L.H.J. June. (8.) Oh, yes--Nora Understood Men! Am. Nov., '20. (54.) Phyllis Tills the Soil. L.H.J. Sept. (14.) Red-Haired Girl Can Always Get a Man. L.H.J. Oct., '20. (14.) Sunny Goes Home. S.E.P. May 7. (10.) William Learns All About Women. Am. Aug. (21.)

KILMAN, JULIAN. Bookman. Atl. Feb. (127:214.)

KING, ELIZABETH R. Hard-Hearted Wretch. S.E.P. Oct. 16, '20. (20.)

KIRK, R.G. (See 1917.) Malloy Campeador. S.E.P. Sept. 17. (3.)

"KIRKLAND, JEANNE." (See 1920.) Boomerang of Conscience. Pag. Aug.-Sept. (24.)

KITTREDGE, H.C. *Undiscovered Country. Atl. Nov., '20. (126:646.)

KLINE, BURTON. (1877- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919.) Another Football of Fate. Chic. Trib. Nov. 21. '20. *Forgotten Goddess. Red Bk. Aug.(45)

KLING, JOSEPH. Discretion. Pag. Jan.-Feb. (31.)

KOMROFF, MANUEL. (See 1919, 1920.) ***Little Master of the Sky. Dial. Apr. (70:386.)

KORNGOLD, RALPH. Father and Son. A.W. July, (1:166.)

KOVEN, JOSEPH. Hammid Hassan, Camel-Driver. Asia. Dec., '20. (20:1087.)

KRAMER, EDGAR D. *Hero. Pag. Nov.-Dec., '20. (29.)

KRYSTO, CHRISTINA. (1887- .) (See 1917, 1918.) *Star-Dust. Atl. Mar. (127:315.)

KUMMER, FREDERICK ARNOLD. (1873- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919._) (H.) Lantern of Diogenes. L.H.J. Nov., '20. (187.) Other Wife. Cos. June. (22.) Woman Outside. Cos. Apr. (65.) Woman Who Ate Up a Man. Cos. July. (58.)

KYNE, PETER BERNARD. (1880- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917.) Evil Genius. Cos. Oct., '20. (53.)

L

LAINE, A.T. Not "Seen." Met. June. (36.)

LARDNER, RING W. (1885- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) Battle of Long Island. S.E.P. Nov. 27. '20. (12.) Comic. S.E.P. May 14. (12.) Frame-Up. S.E.P. June 18. (14.) Only One. S.E.P. Feb. 12. (5.)

LASKER, LOUISE. Beatrice Henderson. Pict. R. July. (24.)

LAUFERTY, LILIAN. (See 1919.) Cherry Ripe. Cos. Feb. (59.) Some Men Are Like That. Cos. July. (99.)

LAUGHLIN, CLARA ELIZABETH. (1873- .) (See 1916.) (H.) Junior and Junior's Mate. Met. May. (14.)

LAWRENCE, EMMA. (MRS. JOHN S. LAWRENCE.) *At Thirty. Atl. Sept. (128:364.)

LAZAR, MAURICE. (See 1917, 1920.) Legal and Sufficient. S.S. Aug. (123.)

LEA, FANNIE HEASLIP. (MRS. H.P. AGEE.) (1884- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) Beach-Comber. G.H. Jul. (20.) Friendship at Least. S.E.P. Apr. 30. (5.) Gleam. Del. Dec., '20. (15) In Every Port. G.H. May. (53.) Just the Right People. McC. Oct., '20. (16.) Mary Is Here. Chic. Trib. Jan. 30. Old Flame. G.H. Oct., '20 (8.) One Flesh. Del. Aug. (12.) One or Two Women. McC. Feb. (30.) Something Afar. G.H. Feb. (15.) Unstable. Harp. B. Dec., '20. (54.) Wild Ginger. McCall. Sept. (9.)

LEACH, PAUL R. (See 1920.) Taps. Col. May 28. (3.)

LEE, JENNETTE (BARBOUR PERRY). (1860- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) **Uncle 'Bijah's Ghost. Pict. R. July. (10.)

LEE, MUNA. (See 1915, 1920.) Quarrel. S.S. June. (63.)

LENGEL, WILLIAM C. Stopover Privileges. Hear. Aug. (45.)

LEONARD, ORVILLE H. *Alone at Tiger Gulch. W. St. June 18. (69.) *Chef for the Yellow Bar. W. St. July 9. (76.) *Drybones. W. St. Feb. 26. (34.) *For Ridin' Like a Fool W. St. May 7. (76.) *Hot Grit. W. St. June 4. (28.) *In Spite of Himself. W. St. July 30. (77.) *Lebaudy Starts for Lonesome Gulch. W. St. Apr. 23. (64.) *Old-Timer's Hunch. W. St. Apr. 9. (127.) *Rebranded. W. St. Mar. 5. (124.) *Schooled in the West. W. St. Mar. 12. (130.) *Soaked and Dried. W. St. Feb. 5. (120.) *Water Boy. W. St. Apr. 30. (39.)

"LESSING, BRUNO" (RUDOLPH BLOCK). (1870- .) (_See 1916, 1919, 1920._) (H.) Baron's Bridge. Hear. Apr. (50.) Business Is Business. McC. Apr. (25.) Cave Man Stuff. Hear. Oct.,'20. (48.) Echo from Bohemia. Hear. Mar. (50.) From Him That Hath Not. McC. Nov. '20. (29.) Greatest Man In Kenashee. Hear. May (52.) Honor of Poli. Hear. July. (54.) Aug. (56.) Lure of Love and Lucre. Hear. Jan. (52.) Nine and One. Hear. Sept. (50.) One That Lost. Hear. Feb. (52.) Peach by Any Other Name. Hear. Dec., '20. (52.) Thoroughbred. Chic. Trib. May 8. Truth or Nothing. Hear. Nov., '20. (52.)

LEVICK, MILES. (See 1919, 1920.) *Calla Lillies. S.S. Feb. (121.) *Gold Dragon. S.S. Dec., '20. (117.)

LEVISON, ERIC. (See 1917, 1918, 1920.) *Coat for Jacob. T.T. Oct., '20. (85.)

LEWARS, ELSIE SINGMASTER. See SINGMASTER, ELSIE.

LEWIS, ORLANDO FAULKLAND. (1873- .) (See 1918, 1919, 1920.) Get-Away. Red Bk. Feb. (78.) In the Midst of Life. Red Bk. Dec., '20. (58.) It's a Long Lane. Red Bk. Nov., '20. (87.) Sparks That Flash in the Night. Red Bk. Oct., '20. (53.)

LEWIS, OSCAR. (See 1916, 1920.) Paula. S.S. Mar. (121.) *Yesterday's Leaves. S.S. Aug. (69.)

LEWIS, SINCLAIR. (1885- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) *Citizen of the Mirage. Red Bk. May. (47.) Good Sport. S.E.P. Dec. 11, '20. (9.) Matter of Business. Harp. M. Mar. (142:419.) Number Seven to Sagapoose. Am. May. (20.) *Post-Mortem Murder. Cen. May. (102:1.)

LIEBE, HAPSBURG. (See 1915, 1918, 1919.) (H.) Pal to Jim Lane. Col. July 23. (11.) Trimmed and Burning. Col. Sept. 10. (12.)

LINCOLN, JOSEPH C(ROSBY). (1870- .) (See 1915, 1919.) (H.) "Injun" Control. Cos. Nov., '20. (57.)

LISTER, WALTER B. Courage. S.S. Aug. (87.)

LIVINGSTONE, FLORENCE BINGHAM. (See 1920.) Christmas Dimes, Limited. McCall. Dec., '20. (14.) Keep Your Ego, Jeremiah! McCall. June. (16.) Lettie Clears the Decks. McCall. Nov., '20. (16.) Lettie on the Firing Line. McCall. Feb. (18.) Silk Hangings. McCall. Mar. (16.)

LOCKWOOD, MARION WARD. Unbuilt Houses. McCall. Mar. (8.)

LOCKWOOD, SCAMMON. (See 1916, 1920.) **One Kiss in Paradise. Ain. Nov. '20. (48.)

LONG, E. WALDO. Old Sam and the Dollar Mule. Am. Aug. (46.)

LORING, EMILIE. Box from Nixon's. W.H.C. May. (9.)

LOWE, CORINNE. (See 1917, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Psycho-Anne. S.E.P. May 21. (10.)

LUDWIG, FRANCES A. (See 1917, 1918.) (H.) Doing Without Mother. Am. Oct., '20. (50.) Girl Who Changed Her Mind. Am. Nov., '20. (21.)

LUEHRMANN, ADELE. Lurania Mystery. McCall. Nov., '20. (6.)

LUTHER, MARK LEE. (1872- .) (H.) Something Different. Red Bk. Jan. (73.)

M

MABIE, LOUISE KENNEDY. (See 1915, 1917, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Bird of Paradise. L.H.J. Apr. (8.) Does Mr. Broderick Fail? L.H.J. Oct., '20. (22.)

MCCASLIN, DAVIDA. *To Remove Mountains. Mid. Feb. (7:67.)

MCCREA, MARION. (See 1918, 1920.) Advertise For Him! Met. May. (33.) Use Crystalsweet. Cos. Dec., '20. (79.)

MCCUTCHEON, GEORGE BARR. (1866- .) (See 1918, 1919.) (H.) Sporting Chance. Chic. Trib. Sept. 18.

MCELLIOTT, MABEL. Ennui. S.S. June. (107.) Unlucky at Cards. Chic. Trib. Mar. 13.

MACFARLANE, PETER CLARK. (1871- .) (See 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Bulls and Buckers. Red Bk. July (84.) Crossing Up Augustus. Red Bk. Apr. (76.) Puss or Bear Cat. Red Bk. Nov., '20. (37.) Taste of Revenge. Red Bk. Mar. (66.)

MACGOWAN, ALICE (1858- .) and GRACE MACGOWAN COOKE. (1863- .) See 1915 under COOKE, GRACE MACGOWAN; 1916, 1917 under MACGOWAN, ALICE; "H" under both heads. *Runt. Pict. R. Aug. (24.)

MACHAR, AENGUS. Grandmamma. Cath. W. July (113:524.)

MACHARG, WILLIAM BRIGGS. (1872- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1918.) (H.) Mr. Cord. Red Bk. Oct., '20. (83.) Price of a Party. Cos. Feb. (75.) Rockhound. Cos. Jan. (58.) Wildcatter. Cos. Dec., '20. (30.)

MACKARNESS, KAY. Happy the Bride. Hear. Dec., '20. (21.)

MCKAIG, ALEXANDER. "Picture-Picture." W.H.C. Mar. (19.)

MACMANUS, SEUMAS. (1870- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1919, 1920.) (H.) *Donal o' the Moor. Mag. Nov., '20. (44.)

MCNUTT, WILLIAM SLAVENS. (H.) Kind Deeds. Met. Sept. (29.)

MACY, J. EDWARD. (See 1920.) *Out of the Hurricane. Scr. Aug. (70:232.)

MAHONEY, JAMES. (See 1920.) Hairs of the Occasion. Cen. May. (102:89.) Wilfred Reginald and the Dark Horse. Cen. Aug. (102:553.)

MANNERS, GUY. Man to Man. Red Bk. May. (81.)

MANNING, MARIE (MRS. HERMAN E. GASCH). (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1920._) (H.) Love the Detective. L.H.J. Aug. (6.)

MARKEY, GENE. (See 1920.) Cynthia of the Sonnets. Harp. B. Apr. (54.) Toujours, Priscilla. Harp. B. Aug. (66.)

MARQUAND, J.P. Right That Failed. S.E.P. July 23. (12.)

MARQUIS, DON (ROBERT PERRY). (1878- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1920._) (H.) Healer and the Pentient. Pict. R. Feb. (23.) *Looney the Mutt. Ev. Jan. 62. Saddest Man. Red Bk. Aug. (79.)

MARRIOTT, CRITTENDEN. (1867- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1920.) (H.) Those Most Concerned. G.H. Oct., '20. (58.)

MARSDEN, GRIFFIS. (See 1919, 1920.) Two Chairs. S.S. Feb. (85.)

MARSH, GEORGE T. (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1919.) (H.) *High Brotherhood. Red Bk. Jan. (78.) Mistake of Mr. Bruette. Red Bk. Mar. (23.) *Once at Drowning River, Red Bk. Sept. (70.)

MARSHALL, EDISON. (1894- .) (See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1920.) *Heart of Little Shikara. Ev. Jan. (40.) Never Kill a Porcupine. Am. Dec., '20. (23.)

MARTYN, WYNDHAM. (See 1915, 1916, 1918.) Samuel Perkins, Unable Mariner. Ev. Apr. (54.)

MARZONI, PETTERSEN. Kick at the End. Met. June. (34.)

MASON, GRACE SARTWELL. (1877- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) Call It a Day! S.E.P. June 18. (12.) Connecting Wire. L.H.J. Sept. (12.) **Glory. Harp. M. Apr. (142:545.) Peachy Walks the Weary. S.E.P. Apr. 16. (14.)

MASON, LAURA KENT. Engaged. S.S. Jan. (123.)

MAXON, HARRIET. (MRS. GILBERT THAYER.) ***Kindred. Mid. Jul. (7:260.)

MAYER, EDWARD B. Revolt. Pag. June-Jul. (17.)

MAYNARD, RICHARD FIELD. P.D.Q. Scr. Apr. (69:450.)

MEANS, E(LDRED) K(URTZ). (1878- .) (See 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) *Head for Business. Mun. Nov., '20. (71:266.) *Poisoned Pugilism. Mun. June. (73:181.) *Who's Who and Why. Mun. Feb. (72:66.)

MELLETT, BERTHE KNATVOLD. (See 1915, 1916, 1917.) Hi! Hippity! Col. Nov. 13, '20. (5.) It is a Wise Daughter. Col. Feb. 19. (8.) One Large Picture of Him. Col. Dec. 11, '20. (10.) Red Mike. Col. Jan. 8. (8.) Secret Sorrow. Col. Apr. 30. (7.) Will o' the Wisp. Col. June 4. (14.)

MERWIN, SAMUEL. (1874- .) (See 1915, 1920.) (H.) Eva on the Ice. S.E.P. Nov. 6, '20. (10.) Garage of Enchantment. Red Bk. Apr. (27.) Little Matter of Living. S.E.P. Aug. 13. (5.) New Platitude. Chic. Trib. Mar. 6. Old Lost Stars. L.H.J. May. (14.) Saving Sister. S.E.P. Nov., '20. (8.) There Are Smiles. McC. Apr. (14.) Time Out for Granberry. McC. Feb. (18.)

MILHAM, C.G. After Twenty Years. Ev. Sept. (147.)

MILLER, ALICE DUER. (1874- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Give Matrimony a Chance. Red Bk. Jul. (64.) Protecting Instinct. Red Bk. Dec., '20. (48.) Woman Who Hated Politics. Red Bk. Jan. (25.)

MILLER, EVELYN DEWEY. Highroad to Freedom. Ev. Mar. (71.)

MILLER, HELEN TOPPING. (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1919, 1920.) Fireflies. S.E.P. Feb. 12. (32.) Marsh Light. S.E.P. Oct. 9, '20. (16.) Signed--"T.F." W.H.C. Oct., '20. (23.) *"Two Women ... at a Mill." G.H. May. (18.)

MILLER, HUGH S. (See 1916.) Spice of Danger. Scr. Feb. (69:222.)

MILLER, WARREN H. (1876- .) (See 1919.) Ruler the Persistent. Red Bk. Feb. (64.)

MILLEY, ELEANOR. Janet's Face. S.S. Apr. (49.)

MILLS, DOROTHY CULVER. (See 1918, 1919.) James to Anita With Love. Del. Dec., '20. (19.)

MINNIGERODE, MEADE. (See 1916, 1917, 1919, 1920.) Hush Stuff. Col. Feb. 26. (10.) "Saddest Tale." Col. May 28. (12.)

MINOR, MARY HEATON VORSE O'BRIEN. See VORSE, MARY (MARVIN) HEATON.

MITCHELL, RUTH COMFORT. (MRS. SANBORN YOUNG.) (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) Nebber No Mo'. Del. Oct., '20. (15.) Ringmaster. W.H.C. Feb. (17.) Slip'ry Flies Out, L.H.J. Dec., '20. (20.) Trap. Met. Mar. (16.)

MONTAGUE, MARGARET PRESCOTT. (1878- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1919, 1920.) (H.) 'To Will to Go.' Atl. May. (127:650.)

MOONEY, RALPH E. (See 1919, 1920.) Look Like a Million! Am. Jul. (44.)

MOORE, ANNE. *Their Expiation. Touch. Oct., '20. (8:28.)

MORGAN, BYRON. (1889- .) (See 1918, 1919.) Hell Diggers. S.E.P. Oct. 2, '20. (8.) Too Much Speed. S.E.P. May 28. (5.)

MORLEY, CHRISTOPHER (DARLINGTON). (1890- .) (See 1917, 1918, 1919.) Curious Case of Kenelm Digby. Book. Mar. (53:10.) Apr. (53:157.) Disappearance of Dunraven Bleak. Book. June. (53:312.)

MOROSO, JOHN ANTONIO. (1874- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) McCann's Danny. Ev. Aug. (53.) Mary Two-Sides. Red Bk. Aug. (94.) Old Detective Who Had Retired. Am. Dec., '20. (46.) Storm-Cloud. Del. Feb. (8.)

MORRIS, GOUVERNEUR. (1876- .) (See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919.) (H.) *End of the Road. Harp. B. Oct., '19. (54.) **Open Door. Cos. Apr. (25.) *Silver Screen. McC. Aug. (28.)

MORTON, JOHNSON. (See 1917.) (H.) *Second Day of Spring. Harp. M. Feb. (142:350.)

MOSELLE, ROSE. Little Girl Named Jennie. Touch. Jan. (8:263.)

MOTT, FRANK LUTHER. (See 1918.) ***Man with the Good Face. Mid. Dec., '20. (6:202.)

MOUAT, HELEN. **Aftermath. G.H. Sept. (38.)

MOUNT, RICHARD. Honour of an Artiste. S.S. May. (33.)

MUILENBURG, WALTER J. (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918.) **Peace. Mid. Apr. (7:159.)

MULLETT, MARY B. (See 1918.) (H.) Rivals. Am. Dec., '20. (39.)

MUMFORD, ETHEL WATTS (MRS. ETHEL WATTS-MUMFORD GRANT.) (1878- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1919, 1920.) (H.) "Aurore." Pict. R. Feb. (18.) *Pupil of Raphael. Ain. Apr. (144.) *Red Gulls. Pict. R. Oct., '20. (12.)

MURRAY, ROY IRVING. (1882- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1919, 1920.) Fixed Idea. Scr. Apr. (69:481.)

MYGATT, GERALD. (See 1920.) (H.) Alibi Absolute. Red Bk. May. (32.) Strictly Legitimate. S.E.P. Dec. 11, '20. (18.)

MYGATT, GERALD and SMITH, GARRET. Q.E.D. S.E.P. Mar. 19. (14.)

N

NEIDIG, WILLIAM JONATHAN. (1870- .) (See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Firebug. Ev. Apr. (39.) Wire Cutter. S.E.P. Apr. 2. (14.)

NICHOLSON, MEREDITH. (1866- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Campbells Are Coming. McC. Aug. (13.) Poor Dear Papa. Red Bk. Apr. (62.) What Would You Do? McC. Jan. (16.)

NILES, BLAIR. (See 1920.) *Candles of Faith. Scr. Dec., '20. (68:725.) Cheating the Jungle. Scr. Mar. (69:360.)

NORRIS, KATHLEEN. (1880- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Bluebeard's Closet. G.H. Jan. (43.) Dam. G.H. Sept. (30.) *Heart of a Mouse. G.H. June, '20. (36.) Miss Mack of the Sixth. G.H. June. (20.) Pioneers. G.H. Mar. (14.) Truthful James. Cos. Sept. (75.)

NOYES, FRANCES NEWBOLD. See HART, FRANCES NOYES.

NUGENT, ELLIOTT. Larry Pyramids. S.S. Apr. (111.)

O

O'HIGGINS, HARVEY JERROLD. (1876- .) (See 1915, 1917, 1918, 1920.) (H.) *Dr. Adrian Hale Hellmuth. Cen. June. (102:179.) ***Peter Quayle. McC. Oct.,'20. (25.) Nov., '20. (25.)

OLIVER, OWEN. (See 1915, 1920.) Red Fisher. Chic. Trib. July 17. Turning. Del. Jan. (13.)

O'MAHONEY, JAMES. Blind Alleys. Met. Oct., '20. (32.)

O'MALLEY, ELEANOR. Moral Woman. S.S. Sept. (33.)

O'MALLEY, FRANK WARD. (1875- .) Thence by Seagoing Hack. S.E.P. Nov. 27, '20. (8.)

O'NEIL, LYDIA M.D. Hearts and Clubs. Sun. Nov., '20. (30.)

O'NEILL, AGNES BOULTON. See BOULTON, AGNES.

ONSLEY, CLARE. Delinquents All. Touch. Jan. (8:280.)

O'REILLY, EDWARD SINNOTT. (1880- .) (See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919.) His Fortunate Face. Pict. R. Apr. (9.)

ORFINGER, ESTHER. Used Up. Pag. Mar.-Apr. (39.)

ORMSBEE, HELEN. (H.) Long Shadow. W.H.C. Mar. (14.)

OSBORNE, WILLIAM HAMILTON. (1873- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) Swift Work. S.E.P. Nov. 13, '20 (36.) Very Narrow Squeak. S.E.P. May 28. (10.)

OSBOURNE, LLOYD. (1868- .) (See 1915, 1917, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Man Who. S.E.P. Jan. 1. (3.)

O'SULLIVAN, VINCENT. (1872- .) (See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1920.) ***Master of Fallen Years. S.S. Aug. (91.)

OVERTON, JACQUELINE M. Sahib. Scr. July. (70:102.)

OWEN, PHILIP. In Pleasant Places. S.S. Mar. (115.)

"OXFORD, JOHN BARTON." See SHELTON, (RICHARD) BARKER.

P

PAINE, ALBERT BIGELOW. (1861- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) Ordeal of Art. Harp. M. Oct., '20. (141:681.) Reforming Julius. Harp. M. Dec., '20. (142:129.)

PAINE, RALPH DELAHAYE. (1871- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1918, 1920.) (H.) Bound to the Westward. Ev. Oct., '20. (30.)

PANGBORN, GEORGIA WOOD. (1872- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1920.) (H.) Grasshoppers' Harvest. L.H.J. Nov., '20. (30.) Orris Island. W.H.C. Dec., '20. (18.)

PARADISE, VIOLA. (See 1919.) *Matches. Atl. Nov., '20. (126:608.)

PARK, JAMES. Preponderance of the Evidence. Atl. Dec., '20. (126:800.)

PARMENTER, CHRISTINE WHITING. (1877- .) (See 1918, 1919, 1920.) "For Better--For Worse--" Del. July. (12.) Lynette--the Plain One. W.H.C. July. (25.) Magic Wreath. Del. Dec., '20. (11.) Mr. Piper of Hamlin. Am. Oct., '20. (45.) "Old Enough to be Her Father." W.H.C. Oct., '20. (24.) Things Worth While. Sun. Oct., '20. (43.)

PATERSON, ISABEL. What It Was Like. Del. Aug. (16.)

PATRICK, JOHN. (See 1916.) Message to Santa. L.H.J. Dec., '20. (181.)

PATTERSON, MARY. (See 1916.) Dropped Torch. Harp. B. Mar. (42.)

PATTULLO, GEORGE. (1879- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Catfish Kid. S.E.P. July 30. (10.) Gasoline Gus. S.E.P. Dec. 4, '20. (10.) Hard to Beat. S.E.P. Feb. 26. (6.) Her Man. S.E.P. July 2. (8.) K. I. K. S.E.P. May 21. (8.) Kincaid's Angel Child. Red Bk. Mar. (76.)

PAYNE, WILL. (1855- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Acquitted. Cos. July. (53.) Judge's Fall. Chic. Trib. June 5. Magic of Jewels. Cos. Sept. (69.)

PELLEY, WILLIAM DUDLEY. (See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) *Dream Beautiful. Red Bk. Dec., '20. (81.) "Hold It--Stradivarius!" Pict. R. Mar. (10.) Last Dollar. Cos. June. (65.) Plaid Moth. Cos. Mar. (81.) Third-Speed Tarring. Ev. Dec., '20. (59.)

PELTIER, FLORENCE. (See 1920.) *Left-Handed Jingors and the Builders of the Yomei Gate. Asia. Jan. (21:41.)

PERRY, LAWRENCE. (1875- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Big Idea. S.E.P. June 4. (12.) Girl Who Took the Bumps. Red Bk. Feb. (30.) Holdout. S.E.P. May 21. (14.) Man to Man. S.E.P. Nov. 20, '20. (26.) Rocks of Avalon. Red Bk. Dec., '20. (71.) Son of His Mother. Chic. Trib. Oct. 31, '20.

PERRY, MONTANYE. (See 1920.) "Dear Neighbors." W.H.C. Feb. (26.)

PHILLIPS, DOROTHY S. "Practically Engaged." Am. Sept. (45.)

PHILLIPS, MICHAEL JAMES. (See 1919, 1920.) Salome--Where She Danced. Red Bk. Nov., '20. (32.)

PICKTHALL, MARJORIE L(OWRY) (CHRISTIE). (_See 1915, 1916, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) Green Loco. Del. July. (9.)

PITT, CHART. (See 1917, 1918.) Debt of the Snows. Sun. Apr. (30.)

PLUMLEY, LADD. (H.) Doc Jenny. Scr. Sept. (70:362.)

POPE, LAURA SPENCER PORTOR. See PORTOR, LAURA SPENCER.

PORTER, AGNES. Who Was Robinson? Scr. Dec., '20. (68:748.)

PORTER, HAROLD EVERETT. See "HALL, HOLWORTHY."

PORTER, REBECCA N. (H.) Wives of Xerxes. Scr. Jan. (69:49.)

PORTERFIELD, ALEXANDER. Bacchanale of the Boulevards. Harp. M. Aug. (143:316.)

PORTOR, LAURA SPENCER. (LAURA SPENCER PORTOR POPE). (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919._) (H.) ***Sightseers. Harp. M. Aug. (143:359.)

POST, CHARLES JOHNSON. (1873- .) (See 1915.) (H.) Eve Incorporated. G.H. Sept. (23.) Middals an' Houses. G.H. Dec., '20. (33.) Pent an' Powdher. G.H. Jan. (52.)

POST, MELVILLE DAVISSON. (1871- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) **Expert Detective. Ev. Oct., '20. (15.) *Girl in the Picture. Pict. R. Jan. (26.) *Last Adventure. Hear. Sept. (9.) *Man Who Threatened the World. Hear. Dec., '20. (8.) *Man With Steel Fingers. Red Bk. Sept. (34.) *Mottled Butterfly. Red Bk. Aug. (60.) *"Mysterious Stranger." Defense. Ev. June. (32.) ***Unknown Disciple. Pict. R. Dec., '20. (14.)

POTTER, GRACE. (See 1919.) **Beginning. Lib. Aug. (11.)

POTTLE, JULIET WILBOR TOMPKINS. See TOMPKINS, JULIET WILBOR.

POWYS, LLEWELYN. *In Africa the Dark. Met. May. (17.) *Not Guilty. S.S. Jul. (118.) **"Stunner." Free. Nov. 10, '20. (2:200.)

PRATT, LUCY. (1874- .) (See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919.) (H.) Real Father. McCall. May. (8.)

PULVER, MARY BRECHT. (1883- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) Annie Carey. S.E.P. Oct. 9, '20. (8.) *Bitter Valley. G.H. Apr. (68.) *Gus. G.H. Aug. (59.) **Secret. G.H. Nov., '20. (16.) Silent House. S.E.P. June 4. (16.)

PUTNAM, NINA WILCOX. (1888- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Fattening Calf. S.E.P. Nov. 13, '20. (12.) Hooch Owl. S.E.P. Feb. 26. (12.) Little Drops of Water. S.E.P. Oct. 2, '20. (20.) Men, the Brutes! S.E.P. Sept. 10. (10.) Tall Money. S.E.P. Nov. 6, '20. (14.) Two Weeks With Pay. S.E.P. Oct. 9. '20. (20.) Vox Potpourri. S.E.P. Oct. 30, '20. (12.)

Q

QUEEN, HELEN DUNCAN. (H.) High Hurdles. Sun. June. (24.)

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RABELL, DU VERNET. (See 1920.) Returning Prophet. Ev. Nov., '20. (29.)

RALEY, HELEN. *Posadas. Mag. Dec., '20. (73.)

RANCK, REITA LAMBERT. (See 1918, 1919.) Withered Petals. Harp. M. June. (143:57.)

RAPHAELSON, SAMPSON. (See 1920.) Romantic Realism of Rosalie. Hear. Oct., '20. (17.) Rosalie and the Emotional Appeal. Hear. Feb. (21.)

RASCOE, BURTON. Caste. S.S. May. (117.)

RAVENEL, BEATRICE WITTE. (1870- .) (See 1919, 1920.) *Maison Cadwallader. Harp. M. Sept. (143:429.)

RAY, MARIE BEYNON. (See 1920.) Hostess of Tragedy. S.S. Apr. (119.) Understanding Heart. Harp. B. Sept. (64.)

RAYMOND, CLIFFORD. (H.) Oak from the Acorn. Chic. Trib. Jul 31.

READ, MARION PUGH. (See 1915, 1916.) (H.) **Everlasting Grace. Atl. Mar. (127:343.)

REAMER, LAWRENCE. (H.) "C in Alt." Cen. Jul. (102:377.) Second Breakfast. S.S. Mar. (69.)

REDINGTON, HELEN. Winning Sister. Ev. Jul. (173.)

REDINGTON, SARAH. (See 1919, 1920.) "Au Bonheur des Co-Eds." Scr. Nov., '20, (68:590.) Matherson and the Spirit World. Scr. Aug. (70:200.)

REELY, MARY KATHARINE. (See 1917, 1918.) (H.) *Late Spring. Touch. Nov., '20. (93.)

REESE, LOWELL OTUS. (1866- .) (See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) Feminine Touch. Col. May 28. (7.) Killer. S.E.P. Sept. 10. (8.) Monkey Wrench. S.E.P. May 7. (24.) When Weasel-Face Came Back. Col. Feb. 12. (10.) Yellow Dog's Bone. Col. Mar. 12 (12.)

REYHER, FERDINAND M. (1891- .) (See 1916, 1917.) Enchanted Mountain. McC. Aug. (18.)

REYNOLDS, HARRY WAIT. Man Who Fought But Once. Ev. June. (66.)

RHODES, HARRISON (GARFIELD). (1871- .) (See 1915, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) ***Miss Sunshine. Chic. Trib. May 29. Night Life and Thomas Robinson. S.E.P. June 4. (8.) Thomas Robinson--Man of the World. S.E.P. Apr. 23. (14.)

RICHARDSON, NORVAL. (See 1917.) (H.) *Man-Made Lady. Harp. B. Oct., '19. (84.)

RICHMOND, GRACE (LOUISE) S(MITH). (1866- .) (See 1917, 1918, 1919.) (H.) Bells of St. Johns. G.H. Dec., '20. (10.)

RICHTER, CONRAD (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) "You're Too Contwisted Satisfied--Jim Ted!" Am. Feb. (39.)

RIGGS, KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN. See WIGGIN, KATE DOUGLAS.

RITCHIE, ROBERT WELLES. (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) Birdie, the Heaven Hen. Sun. Mar. (28.)

RITTENHOUSE, MARIAN F. What Was "Too-Pay?" W.H.C. Dec., '20. (25.)

ROBBINS, LEONARD H. (1877- .) (See 1920.) Betty's Painter. Ev. Mar. (29.) Mr. Downey Sits Down. Ev. June. (61.)

ROBBINS, TOD. (See 1918.) ***Toys of Fate. Mun. Jan. (71:597.)

ROBERTS, CHARLES GEORGE DOUGLAS. (1860- .) (See 1915, 1917, 1918.) (H.) *Cave of the Bear. Met. Mar. (22.) Fishers of the Air. McC. Sept. (24.) Mustela of the Lone Hand. McC. Apr. (22.) Quills the Indifferent. McC. Feb. (19.) Winged Scourge of the Dark. McC. Mar. (27.)

ROBERTS, HELEN C. Poise. S.S. Dec., '20. (123.)

ROBERTSON, CLYDE. On Nebo's Lonely Mountain. Pag. Nov.-Dec., '20. (13.)

ROBIN, MAX. Freedom. S.S. Nov., '20. (123.) **Young School Teacher. Pag. May. (5.)

ROCHE, ARTHUR SOMERS. (1883- .) (See 1915, 1917, 1918, 1920.) (H.) Limit of the Christmas Kid. Cos. Apr. (75.)

ROE, VINGIE E. (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Eighteenth Leap. Ev. Mar. (23.) Fuzzyface. Sun. Mar. (19.) Jimmy Lee--A Colfax. G.H. Dec., '20. (32.) Old Square Horns. Col. Sept. 24. (7.) Princiep'--and True Love. Chic. Trib. Apr. 3. Stuff o' Heroes. Sun. Jan. (26.)

ROOF, KATHERINE METCALF. (See 1915, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) *Vengeance of Arjan Dai. Hol. Mar. (20.)

ROSENBLATT, BENJAMIN. (1880- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1919, 1920.) (H.) *Thinker. Lit. S. Apr. (8.)

ROULET, MARIE ANTOINETTE DE. Little Wooden Bowl. Cath. W. May. (113:228.)

ROWLAND, HENRY C(OTTRELL). (1874- .) (See 1918, 1919.) (H.) April Fool Candy. Red Bk. Apr. (81.) Fury of the Sheep. Red Bk. Jul. (74.) Playing Safe. Chic. Trib. Jul. 24.

RUSSELL, JOHN. (1885- .) (See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) Shots. Cos. June. (53.)

"RUTLEDGE, MARYSE," (MARYSE RUTLEDGE HALE). ("MARICE RUTLEDGE.") (MARIE LOUISE GOETCHIUS.) (MARIE LOUISE VAN SAANEN.) (1884- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918 under VAN SAANEN, MARIE LOUISE; 1920 under "RUTLEDGE, MARYSE.") (See "H." under GOETCHIUS, MARIE LOUISE.) Sad Adventurers. S.E.P. Apr. 30. (8.)

RYERSON, FLORENCE. (See 1915, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) Anna the Absolute. Am. Feb. 11. Bargain Day for Babies. Am. Apr. (38.)

S

SACHS, EMANIE N. *Damned Nigger. S.S. Oct., '20. (21.)

SANGSTER, MARGARET ELIZABETH, JR., (1894- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1918, 1919, 1920._) *Across the Years. G.H. June. (34.)

SAPINSKY, RUTH and SAPINSKY, JOSEPH. (See 1915, 1916 under SAPINSKY, ROSE; 1920 under SAPINSKY, JOSEPH.) Exit Yourself. McCall. Oct., '20. (20.)

SATUREN, PAUL. *Witch-Face. Pag. Jan.-Feb. (10.)

SAWHILL, MYRA. (See 1917, 1919, 1920.) Curing a Bully With His Own Medicine. Am. Feb. (50.) Shirley Langdon Takes a Flyer. Am. Nov., '20. (48.) *Wagon and the Star. Scr. Dec., '20. (68:735.)

SAWYER, RUTH (MRS. ALBERT C. DURAND). (1880- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) Christopher Titmouse, B.B. G.H. May. (63.) Heart of a Boy. Ev. Dec., '20. (13.) *Mother. G.H. Nov., '20. (54.) Pebbles of Pettingale's Point. Col. Apr. 16. (9.)

SAXBY, CHARLES. (See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1920.) (H.) Beach of Jewels. Met. Nov., '20. (15.) *Hole in the Film. Cen. Aug. (102:530.) Proud Piece. Ev. Oct., '20. (23.) Road of Hate. Chic. Trib. Sept. 11. Singer of the Night. Ev. Feb. (5.); Mar. (16.) *Walking Ann Fools the Sheriff. Am. Aug. (29.)

SCHAUFFLER, MARGARET WIDDEMER. See WIDDEMER, MARGARET.

SCOBEE, BARRY. ***The Wind. Adv. Jan. 3. (54.)

SCOVILLE, JR., SAMUEL. (1872- .) (See 1920.) (H.) Devil. L.H.J. Jan. (171.) Sea Otter. L.H.J. Sept. (34.)

SEABROOK, W.B. *Won. S.S. Jan. (41.)

SEDGWICK, JOHN HUNTER. Miss Melby's Change of Heart. S.S. Dec., '20. (81.) Pepperell Square. S.S. Jan. (81.)

SEIFERT, SHIRLEY L. (See 1919, 1920.) Bittersweet. L.H.J. Jan. 22. Blue Morning-Glories. L.H.J. Aug. (3.) Sept. (22.) For the Sake of Phyllis. L.H.J. Nov., '20. (14.)

SEIFFERT, MARJORIE ALLEN. (1885- .) (See 1918, 1919, 1920.) *Woman From Over the Sky-Line. S.S. Mar. (97.)

SERGEL, R.L. **Glare of Circumstance. Mid. June. (7:223.)

SEXTON, BERNARD. (See 1920.) *Parrots and the Lady. Asia. Nov., '20. (20:989.)

SHANNON, JAMES. Terrible Meek. S.S. Mar. (113.)

SHELTON (RICHARD) BARKER. (See 1916, 1917 under "OXFORD, JOHN BARTON.") (See 1916, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Inspiration. S.E.P. Sept. 10. (22.) Splendid Faith. Col. Apr. 9. (9.)

SHERMAN, EDITH BISHOP. *Seconds. Met. June. (60.)

SHOLES, HELEN. Still-Life. S.S. Feb. (117.)

SHOLL, ANNA MCCLURE. (See 1916, 1918.) (H.) Girdle. W.H.C. July. (26.)

SHORE, VIOLA BROTHERS. (See 1919, 1920.) Heritage. S.E.P. Feb. 5. (16.) O Tempora! O Mawruss! S.E.P. Oct. 30, '20. (16.) They Always Do. L.H.J. July. (6.)

SHOWERMAN, GRANT. (1870- .) (See 1916, 1917.) (H.) **Country Benedict. Cen. Sept. (102:692.)

SINGER, MARY. He Who Gets--Has! Am. Dec., '20. (52.) Lie That Waked Tom Up. Am. Aug. (40.)

SINGMASTER, ELSIE (ELSIE SINGMASTER LENAR). (1879- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) *Apple Country. W.H.C. July. (11.) *Face in the Mirror. McCall. May. (16.) *Noah's Ark. L.H.J. Dec., '20. (24.)

SISK, HERMAN. One Woman in a Million. Sun. Mar. (50.)

SLADE, CHRISTINE JOPE. Amateur Vamp. Met. Nov., '20. (7.) Caretakers Within. S.E.P. Feb. 5. (12.) Catchpenny Ann. Met. Apr. (28.) Golden Idol. S.E.P. Apr. 16. (10.) Grubstaking Cinderella. S.E.P. June 11. (12.) Wild Lad from Wigan. Sun. July. (18.)

SMITH, GARRET. (See 1920.) See also MYGATT, GERALD, and SMITH, GARRET. Buccaneer Blood. S.E.P. Nov. 13, '20. (26.)

SMITH, GORDON ARTHUR. (1886- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1920.) (H.) *Aristocrat. Harp. M. Nov., '20 (141:759.) Dreamlight. S.E.P. Aug. 20. (8.) *Love Thy Neighbor. Dial. Jan. (70:29.)

SMITH, MAXWELL. (See 1919, 1920.) Chigger. Ev. May. (45.) Sheared Ears. Red Bk. Oct., '20 (48.)

SMITH, W. EDSON. (See 1915.) (H.) Big Top o' the World. Scr. Feb. (69:185.)

SNEDDON, ROBERT W. (1880- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920.) (H.) *Grease-paint and Tears. L. St. Dec., '20. (27.)

SÖDERBERG, HJALMAR. *Blue Anchor. Hear. July. (44.)

SOLANO, SOLITA. (See 1920.) Vespers. S.S. Feb. (47.) Virgin. S.S. Aug. (114.)

SOLOMANS, THEODORE SEIXAS. (See 1915, 1920.) Little "Dame" on the Second Floor. Am. Oct., '20. (13.)

SPEARS, RAYMOND SMILEY. (1876- .) (See 1917, 1918, 1920.) (H.) Revenge. Col. Dec. 18, '20. (10.) Ten Thousand Dollars a Wag. Col. Mar. 5. (9.) Trainer. Col. Oct. 30, '20. (10.)

SPEYER, LEONORA. (See 1919.) Red Roses. S.S. Oct., '20. (77.)

SPRINGER, FLETA CAMPBELL. (1886- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1918; see 1917 under_ CAMPBELL, FLETA.) (H.) **Mountain of Jehovah. Harp. M. Mar. (142:470.) ***Role of Madame Ravelles. Harp, M. Sept. (143:466.)

SQUIER, EMMA LINDSEY. Alfred the Seal. G.H. Aug. (46.) Fairy Night. G.H. Mar. (8.) Hector, the Hawk. G.H. Sept. (64.) Henry, the Heron. G.H. May. (30.) Leonard. G.H. Apr. (32.) O'Henry, the Quail Baby. G H. July. (26.) Skygak. G.H. Mar. (11.) Timothy, the Dirty Bear. G.H. June. (29.) U-Chu-Ka. G.H. Apr. (31.)

STARKEY, MAY CHAPMAN. His Second Wife. Del. June. (7.)

STARRETT, VINCENT. (See 1918, 1920.) *Last Veteran. A.W. June. (1:136.) Thirty Pieces of Silver. A.W. Feb. (1:53.)

STEELE, ALICE GARLAND (MRS. T. AUSTIN-BALL). (1880- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) "Ah! Moon of My Delight." W.H.C. Apr. (13.)

STEELE, WILBUR DANIEL. (1886- .) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920._) (H.) ***At Two-in-the-Bush. Harp. M. Oct., '20. (141:574.) ***Footfalls. Pict. R. Oct., '20. (20.) **Fouled Anchor. Harp. M. Apr. (142:591.) ***Life. Pict. R. Aug. (5.) ***Shame Dance. Harp. M. Dec., '20. (142:39.) ***'Toinette of Maisonnoir. Pict. R. July. (13.)

STEFFENS, (JOSEPH) LINCOLN. (1866- .) (See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918.) (H.) *White Streak. Col. Jan. 15. (5.)

STERNE, ELAINE. (1894- .) (See 1919.) Fluff. Met. Apr. (31.)

STERRETT, FRANCES ROBERTA. (1869- .) (H.) Cozy Little Word. Met. Jan. (27.)

STETSON, CUSHING. (H.) Spud's Secret. Met. Mar. (31.)

"STEVENS, MARGARET DEAN." See Aldrich, Bess Streeter.

STEWART, WILLIAM R. When the Rising Sun Went Down. Hear. Feb. (33.)

STOCKVIS, GERALDINE. **Christmas Eve at Brenner's Falls. Pict. R. Dec., '20. (28.)

STOCKARD, WILLETT. (See 1916.) As Handsome Does. Ev. Feb. (72.)

STORRS, MARGUERITE LUSK. *Daughter of Romley. Harp. M. Jan. (142:216.)

STRAHAN, KAY CLEAVER. (1888- .) (See 1915, 1919, 1920.) (H.) Exception. Ev. July. (121.) Jack and Jill, Revised. Del. Oct., '20. (12.) With the Odds to the Gods. Del. Jan. (5.)