CHAPTER XII And remembering how Julia had told him that he was killing himself with cigarettes. All right, he said now, as he bitterly lighted his fifth at the spark of the fourth. I hope I will!" A lot of difference it would make, he said, as he lighted the eighth of a series that must, all told, have contained nearly as much tobacco as a cigar. And, leaning back against the trunk of one of the big old walnut trees in the yard, he gazed toward the house, where the open window nearest him splashed with color like a bright and crowded aquarium. To her, anyway, he added, with a slight remorse, remembering that his mother had frequently shown him evidences of affection. Yes, his mother would care, and his father and sisters would be upset, but Julia, when the friends of the family were asked to walk by for a last look, would she be one? What optimism remained to him, presented a sketch of Julia. In black, born from the room in the arms of girlfriends who tried in vain to hush her, but he was unable to give this more hopeful fragment an air of great reality, much more probably when word came to her that he had smoked himself to death, she would be a bride dancing at Niagara Falls with her bald old husband, and she would only laugh and pause to toss a faded rose out of the window, and then go right on dancing. But perhaps, some day, when tears had taught her the real meaning of life with such a man, you wow! Noble jumped. From the darkness of the yard beside the house, there came a gravest howl, distressful to the spinal marrow, a sound of animal pain. It was repeated, even more passionately, and another voice was also heard, one both hoarsely bass and falsetto in the articulation of a single syllable. There were sounds of violence scuffing, and the bass falsetto voice cried, What that you stuck me with! Drag her, drag her back by her feet. These alarms came from the almost impenetrable shadows of the small orchard beside the house, and from the same quarter was heard the repeated contact of a heavy body, seemingly wooden or metallic, with the ground, but high over this rose a shrieking, Help! Help! Oh, Help! This voice was girlish, Help! Noble dashed into the orchard, and at once fell prostrate upon what seemed a log, but proved to be a large and solidly packed ice-cream freezer lying on its side. Dark forms scrambled over the fence and vanished, but as Noble got to his feet he was joined by a dim and smallish figure in white, though more light would have disclosed a pink sash girdling its middle. It was the figure of Miss Florence Atwater, seething with furious agitations. File thieves! she panted. Who? Noble asked, brushing at his knees, while Florence made some really necessary adjustments of her own attire. Who were they?  Herbert thinks he has to act perfectly horrible all the time, now his voice is changing, said Florence, her emotion not abated.  I stuck a pretty long pin in Herbert, and two more of them, every bit as far as it would go, and in the extremity of her indignation she added, the dirty robbers. Did they hurt you?  I guess I gave him enough old that. Then, tugging the prostrate freezer into an upright position, she exclaimed darkly. I expect I gave old Mr. Herbert and some of the others of them just a few kicks they won't be in such a hurry to forget.  They seemed to have been at a disadvantage. I suppose I'd better carry the freezer back to the kitchen porch, he said. Somebody may want it. Somebody, Florence exclaimed, why, there's only two of these big freezers, and if I hadn't happened to suspect something and be laying for those vile thieves, half the party wouldn't get any. And as an afterthought, when Noble had pantingly restored the heavy freezer to its place by the kitchen door, she said, or else they'd had to have such little saucers of it nobody would have been any way black-satisfied, and probably all the family that's here assisting would have had to go without any at all. That had been the worst of it. She opened the kitchen door, and to those within explained loudly what dangers had been averted, directing that both freezers be placed indoors under guard. Then she rejoined Noble, who was walking slowly back to the front yard. I guess it's pretty lucky you happened to be hanging round out here, she said. I guess that's about the luckiest thing ever happened to me.  If you hadn't chased him away, I wouldn't have been a bit surprised that that gang would have killed me. Oh, no, said Noble. They wouldn't. You don't know him like I do. The romantic child assured him. I know that gang pretty well, and I wouldn't have been a bit surprised. I wouldn't have been. But she tossed her head, signifying recklessness. Guests wouldn't make much difference to anybody particular, whether they did or not, said this strange Florence. Noble regarded her with astonishment. They had reached the front yard, and paused under the trees, where the darkness was mitigated by the light from the shining windows. Well, you oughtn't to talk that way, Florence, he said. Think of your mama and papa, and your aunt Julia. She tossed her head again. Poo! They'd all of them just say, good ribbons to bad rubbish, I guess. However, she seemed far from despondent about this. In fact, she was naturally pleased with her position as a young girl saved from the power of Ruffians by a rescuer who was her very ideal. I bet if I died they wouldn't even have a funeral, she said cheerfully. They'd probably just leave me lay. The curiosities of the human mind are found not in high adventure. They are everywhere in the commonplace. Never for a moment did it strike Noble Dill that Florence's turn to the morbid bore any resemblance to his recent visions of his own funeral. He failed to perceive that the two phenomena were produced out of the same laboratory jar and were probably largely chemical at that. Why, Florence, he exclaimed. That's a dreadful way to feel. I'm sure your aunt Julia loves you. Oh, well, Florence returned lightly. Maybe she does. I don't care whether she does or not. And now she made a deduction, the profundity of which his condition made him unable to perceive. It makes less difference to anybody whether their aunts love him or not than whether pretty near anybody else at all does. But not your aunt Julia, he urged. Your aunt Julia. I don't care whether she does than any other aunt I've got, said Florence. All of them just aunts, and that's all there is to it. But Florence, your aunt Julia. She's nothing in the world but my aunt, Florence insisted, and her emphasis showed that she was trying hard to make him understand. She's just the same as all of them. I don't get anything more from her than I do from any of the rest of them. Her auditor was dumbfounded, but not by Florence's morals. The cold-blooded calculation upon which her family-affection seemed to be founded, this aboriginal straightforwardness of hers, passed over him. What shocked him was her appearing to see Julia as all of a piece with a general lot of ordinary aunts. Helplessly he muttered again. What's your aunt Julia? There she is now, said Florence, pointing to the window nearest them. They've stopped dancing for a while, so as that old Mr. Claridice could get a chance to sing something. Mama told me he was going to. Dashing chords sounded from a piano invisible to Noble and his companion. The windows exhibited groups of deferentially expectant young people, and then a powerful berry tone began a love-song. From the yard the singer could not be seen, but Julia could be. She stood in the demurrest attitude, and no one needed to behold the vocalist to know that the scoundrel was looking pointedly and romantically at her. Dear a face that holds so sweet a smile for me, Where are you not to mind how dark the world would be? To Noble, suffering at every poor, this was less a song than a bellowing, and in truth the confident Mr. Claridice did let his voice out, for he was seldom more exhilarated than when he shook the ceiling. The volume of the sound he released upon his climaxes was impressive, and the way he slid up to them had a great effect, not indoors alone, but upon Florence, enraptured out under the trees. Oh, isn't it beautiful? she murmured. Her humid eyes were fixed upon Noble, who was unconscious of the honour. Florence was susceptible to anything purporting to be music, and this song moved her.  On he sang, while Noble, staring glassily at the demure lady, made a picture of himself leaping unexpectedly through the window, striding to the noisy baritone, striking him down, and after stamping on him several times explaining, there, that's for your insolence to our hostess. But he did not actually permit himself these solaces. He only clenched and unclenched his fingers several times, and continued to listen. Give me your rust smile, the love alight and you rise. Life could not hold a fair paradise. Give me the right to love you all the while. My world for a whore, the sunshine move, your rust smile. The conclusion was thunderous, and as a great noise, under such circumstances as an automatic stimulant of enthusiasm, the applause was thunderous, too. Several girls were unable to subdue their outcries of charming and wonderful, not even after Mr. Claridice had begun to sing the same song as an encore. When this was concluded, a sigh, long and deep, was heard under the trees. It came from Florence. Her eyes, wanly gleaming, like young oysters in the faint light, were still fixed on Noble, and there can be little doubt that just now there was at least one person in the world, besides his mother, who saw him in a glamour as something rare, obs, exquisite, and elegant. I think that was the most beautiful thing I ever heard, she said, and then noting a stir within the house, she became practical. They're starting refreshments, she said. We better hurry in, Mr. Dill, so as to get good places. Thanks to me, there's plenty to go round. She moved toward the house, but observing that he did not accompany her, paused, and looked back. Aren't you going to come in, Mr. Dill? I guess not. Don't tell anyone I'm out here. I won't, but aren't you going to come in for—he shook his head. No, I'm going to wait out here a while longer. But, she said, it's refreshments. I don't want any. I'm going to smoke some more, instead. She looked at him wistfully, then even more wistfully toward the house. Evidently she was of a divided mind. Her feeling for Noble fought with her feeling for refreshments. Such a struggle could not endure for long.  Well, she said, I guess I ought to have some nourishment, and betook herself hurriedly into the house. Noble lit another Orduma. He would follow the line of conduct he had marked out for himself. He would not take his place by Julia for the supper interval. Perhaps that breach of etiquette would show her. He could see her no longer. She had moved out of range, but he imagined her, asking everywhere, Has any one seen Mr. Dill? And he thought of her as biting her lip nervously, perhaps, and replying absently to Sally's and Quip's. Perhaps even having to run upstairs to her own room to dash something sparkling from her eyes, and maybe to look angrily in her glass for an instant and exclaim, Fool! For Julia was proud and not used to be treated in this way. He felt the least bit soothed, and lightly flicking the ash from his Orduma with his little finger, and act indicating some measure of restored composure. He strolled to the other side of the house, and brought other fields of vision into view, through other windows. Abruptly his stroll came to an end. There sat Julia, flushed, and joyous, finishing her supper in company with old baldy claridice, Nuland Sanders, George Plum, seven or eight other young gentlemen, and some inconsidered, adhering girls. The horrible berry-tone sitting closest of all to Julia. Moreover, upon that very moment the orchestra in the hall beyond thought fit to pay the recent vocalist a sickening compliment, and began to play the sunshine of your smile. Thereupon, with Julia herself first taking up the air in a dulcet soprano, all of the party, including the people in the other rooms, sang the dreadful song in chorus, the beaming claridice exerting such demoniac power as to be heard tremendously over all other voices.  The lone listener had a bitter thought, though it was a longing rather than a thought. For the first time in his life he wished that he had adopted the profession of dentistry. Give a me the right to love a you all the while. My world's forever the sunshine of your smile. The musicians swung into dance music. Old Baldi closed the exhibition with an operatic gesture, for which alone, if for nothing else, at least one watcher thought the showy gentleman deserved hanging. And this odious gesture concluded with the seizure of Julia's hand. She sprang up eagerly. He whirled her away, and the whole place fluctuated in the dance once more. Well now, said Noble, between his teeth, now I am going to do something. He turned his back upon that painful house, walked out to the front gate, opened it, passed through, and looked southward. Not quite two blocks away there shone the lights of a corner drug store, still open to custom, though the hour was nearing midnight. He walked straight to the door of this place, which stood a jar, but paused before entering, and looked long and nervously at the middle-aged proprietor, who was unconscious of his regard, and lunged in a chair, drowsily stroking a cat upon his lap. Noble walked in. Good evening, said the proprietor, rising and brushing himself languidly. Cat-hairs, he said, apologetically. Shedden, I reckon. Then, as he went behind the counter, he inquired, how's the party going off? It's—it's—Noble hesitated. I stepped into—to. The drugist opened a glass case. All right, he said, blinking, and tossed upon the counter a package of arduma cigarettes. Old Adderwater'd have convulsions, I reckon. He remarked, if he had to lay awake and listen to all that noise, price ain't changed, he added, referring humorously to the purchase he mistakenly supposed Noble wished to make—fifteen cents, same as yesterday and the day before. Noble placed the sum upon the counter. I—I was thinking, he gulped. Huh! said the drugist, placidly, for he was too sleepy to perceive the strangeness of his customer's manner. Noble lighted an arduma with an unsteady hand leaned upon the counter and inquired in a voice that he strove to make casual. Is—is the soda fountain still running this late? Sure. I didn't know, said Noble. I suppose you have more calls for soda water than you do for—for—for real liquor. The drugist laughed. Funny thing, I reckon we don't have more and half the calls for real liquor than what we used to before we went dry. Noble breathed deeply. I suppose you probably saw quite a good deal of it, though, at that. By the glass, I mean, such as a glass of something kind of strong, like—like whiskey. That is, I sort of suppose so. I mean, I thought I'd ask you about this. No. said the drugist, yawning. It never did pay well, not on this corner, anyhow, once there used to be a little money in it, but not much. He roused himself somewhat. Well, it's about twelve. Anything you wanted to sip from Orduma's before it closed up? Noble gulped again. He had grown pale. I want—he said abruptly. Then his heart seemed to fail him. I want a glass of—once more—he stopped and swallowed. His shoulders drooped, and he walked across to the soda fountain. Well, he said, I'll take a chocolate sundae. The thought of going back to Julia's party was unendurable. Yet a return was necessary on account of his new hat, the abandonment of which he did not for a moment consider. But about half-way, as he walked slowly along, he noticed an old horse-block at the curb-stone, and sat down there. He could hear the music at Julia's, loud and close at hand, sometimes seeming to be almost a mile away. All right, he said, so bitter had he grown. Dance! Go on, and dance! When finally he re-entered Julia's gate, he shuffled up the walk, his head drooping, and ascended the steps and crossed the veranda and the threshold of the front tour in the same manner. Julia stood before him. Noble dill, she exclaimed. As for Noble, his dry throat refused its office. He felt that he might never be able to speak to Julia again, even if he tried. Where in the world have you been all evening, she cried? Why, Julia, he quavered, did you notice that I was gone? Did I notice, she said, you never came near me all evening after the first dance, not even at supper? You wouldn't—you didn't, he faltered. You wouldn't do anything at all evening except dance with that old claridice and listen to him trying to sing. But Julia would let no one suffer if she could help it, and she could always help Noble. She made her eyes mysterious and used a voice of honey and roses. You don't think I'd rather have dance with him, do you, Noble? Immediately Sparks seemed to crackle about his head. He started. What? He said. The scent of heliotrope enveloped him. She laughed her silver harp strings laugh, and lifted her arms toward the dazzled young man. It's the last dance, she said. Don't you want to dance it with me? Into the spectators it seemed that Noble Dill went hopping upon a wax floor and upon Julia's little slippers. He was bumped and bumping everywhere, but in reality he floated in Elysian ether, immeasurably distant from earth, his hand just touching the bodice of an angelic doll. Then on his way home, a little later, with his new hat on the back of his head, his stick swinging from his hand, and a semi-fragment or duma between his lips, his condition was precisely as sweet as the condition in which he had walked to the party. No echoes of the sunshine of your smile cursed his memory, that lover's little memory fresh washed in heliotrope, and when his mother came to his door after he got home and asked him if he'd had a nice time at the party, he said, just glorious and believed it. CHAPTER XIII It was a pretty morning, two weeks after Julia's dance, and blue and lavender shadows frayed with midsummer sunshine, waggled gaily across the grass beneath the trees of the tiny orchard, but trembled with timidity as they hurried over the abnormal surfaces of Mrs. Silver as she sat upon the steps of the back porch. Her right hand held in security one end of a leather leash, the other end of the leash was fastened to a new collar about the neck of an odd and fascinating dog. Seated upon the brick walk at her feet, he was regarding her with a gravity that seemed to discomfort her. She was unable to meet his gaze, and constantly averted her own whenever it furtively descended to his. In fact, her expression and manner were singular, denoting embarrassment, personal hatred, and a subtle bedazzlement. She could not look at him, yet could not keep herself from looking at him. There was something here that arose out of the depths of natural character. It was intrinsic in the two personalities, that is to say, and was in addition to the bitterness consequent upon a public experience just past, which had been brought upon Mrs. Silver partly by the dog's appearance, in particular the style and color of his hair, and partly by his unprecedented actions in her company upon the highway. She addressed him angrily, yet with a profound uneasiness. Dog, she said, you ain't feeling as skittish as what you did little while ago, is you? My glory, I guess, would like to lay my hand to you high at once, mister. I'd taken to lay'em you this living minute if I right show you wouldn't take and bite me. She jerked the leash vindictively, upon which the dog at once sat up on his haunches, put his forepaws together above his nose in an attitude of prayer, and looked at her inscrutably from under the great bang of hair that fell like a black chrysanthemum over his forehead. Beneath this woolly lambrican his eyes were visible as two garnet sparks of which the colored woman was only too nervously aware. She gasped. Look at here, dog, who's went and asked you to take and pray for him? He remained motionless and devout. My goodness, she said to him, if you go and keep on this away, what you is being, I'm going to go up and go away from here, right now. Then she said a remarkable thing. Listen here, mister, I ain't never lose no grandchild, and I ain't going dot no stranger for one neither. The explanation rests upon the looks and manners of him whom she addressed. This dog was of a kind at the top of dog kingdoms. His size was neither insignificant nor great. Probably his weight would have been between a fourth and a third of a St. Bernard's. He had the finest head for adroit thinking that is known among dogs, and he had an athletic body. The four part muffled and lost in a mass of corded black fleece, but the rest of him sharply clipped from the chest oft. And his trim, slim legs were clipped, though tuffs were left at his ankles and at the tip of his short tail, with two upon his hips like fensible buttons of an imaginary jacket. For thus have such dogs been clipped to a fashion proper and comfortable for them ever since, and no doubt long before, an imperial Roman sculptor so chiseled one in Bob Relief. In brief, this dog, who caused Kitty Silver so much disquietude as she sat upon the back steps at Mr. Atwater's, belonged to that species of which no Frenchman ever sees a specimen without smiling and murmuring, canish. He was that golden-hearted little clown of all the world, a French poodle. To arrive at what underlay Mrs. Silver's declaration that she had never lost a grandchild and had no intention of adopting a stranger in the place of one, it should be first understood that in many respects she was a civilized person. The quality of savagery, barbarism, or civilization in a tribe may be tested by the relations it characteristically maintains with domestic animals, and tribes that eat dogs are often inferior to those inclined to ceremonial cannibalism. Likewise, the civilization, barbarism, or savagery of an individual may be estimated by the same test, which sometimes gives us evidence of sporadic reversions to mud. Such reversions are the stomach priests. Whatever does not minister to their own bodily inwards is a parasite. Dogs are parasites.    Even under no great stress, these stern economists who have not noticed how wasteful the creator is proved to be if he made themselves. They take the strictly intestinal view of life. It is not intelligent. Parasite bacilli will get them in the end. Mrs. Silver was not of these. True, she sometimes professed herself averse to all animals, but this meant nothing more than her unwillingness to have her work increased by their introduction into the Atwater household. No, the appearance of the dog had stirred something queer and fundamental within her. All colored people look startled the first time they see a French poodle, but there is a difference. Most colored men do not really worry much about being colored, but many colored women do. In the expression of a colored man, when he looks at a black and woolly French poodle, there is something fonder and more indulgent than there is in the expression of a colored woman when she looks at one. In fact, when some colored women see a French poodle, they have the air of being insulted. Now, when Kitty Silver had first set eyes on this poodle, an hour earlier, she looked and plainly was dumbfounded. Never in her life had she seen a creature so black, so incredibly black, or with hair so kinky, so incredibly kinky. Julia had not observed Mrs. Silver closely, nor paused to wonder what thoughts were rousing in her mind, but bade her to take the poodle forth for exercise outdoors, and keep him strictly upon the leash. Without protest, though wearing a unique expression, Kitty obeyed, she walked round the block with this mystifying dog, and during the promenade had taken place the epitode that so upset her nerves. She had given a little jerk to the leash, speaking sharply to the poodle, and reproached for some lingering near a wonderful sidewalk smell, imperceptible to anyone except himself. Instantly the creature rose and walked beside her on his hind legs. He continued to parade in this manner rapidly, but nevertheless as casually, without any apparent inconvenience, and Mrs. Silver never having seen a dog do such a thing before, for more than a yard or so, and then only under the pressure of many inducements was unfavorably impressed. In fact, she had definitely a symptom of Mr. Metterling's odd feeling when he found himself alone with the talking horses. With whom was she? Look ahead, dog, she said breathlessly. Who are you trying to scare?  And then a blow fell. It came from an elderly but ever undignified woman of her own race, who paused across the street and stood teetering from side to side in joyful agitation, as she watched the approach of Mrs. Silver, with her woolly little companion beside her. When the smaller silhouette and ink suddenly walked upright, the observer's mouth fell open, and there was reason to hope that it might remain so. In silence, especially as several other pedestrians had stopped to watch the poodle's uncalled for exhibition, but all at once the elderly rowdies saw fit to become uproarious. Whoopsie! she shouted. Ooh, Grandma! And so when the poodle sat up, unbid to pray, while Kitty Silver rested upon the back steps, on her return from the excursion, she fiercely informed him that she had never lost a grandchild, and that she would not adopt a stranger in place of one, her implication being that he, a stranger, had been suggested for the position, and considered himself eligible for it. He continued to pray, not relaxing a hair. Listen to me, dog, said Kitty Silver. Is you a dog, or isn't you a dog? What is you, anyway? But immediately she withdrew the question. I ain't asked in you, she exclaimed superstitiously. If you isn't no dog, don't you take and tell me what you is. You take and keep it to yourself, because I don't want to listen to it.  Instead, however, he appeared to be content with his little exhibition, allowed his forepaws to return to the ground, and looked at her, with his head wistfully tilted to one side. This reassured her, and even somewhat won her. There stirred within her that curious sense of relationship evoked from the first by his suggestive appearance. Funness was being born, and an admiration that was in a way a form of narcissism. She addressed him in a mollified voice. What you want now?  What you stick you old black-faced crossways at me for, honey? But just then the dog rose to look pointedly toward the corner of the house. He's coming, he meant. What you expect in little dog, Mrs. Silver inquired. Florence and Herbert came round the house, Herbert trifling with a tennis ball and carrying a racket under his arm. Florence was peeling an orange. For Heaven's sake, Florence cried, Keddie Silver, where on earth did this dog come from? Belong to your Aunt Julia? When did she get him? Desk to date. Who gave him to her? She ain't saying. You mean she won't tell. She ain't saying, Keddie Silver repeated. I asked her. I say, Miss Julia, ma'am.  I say, all she say when I asked her. Never mind, she say. Desk that away. Never mind, she say.  He certainly amide a queer-looking dog, said Herbert. I've seen a few like that, but I can't remember where. What kind is he, Keddie Silver? Miss Julia tell me he a poogledog, a poodle, Florence corrected her, and then turned to Herbert in supercilious astonishment. A French poodle! My goodness! I should think you were old enough to know that much, anyway, going on fourteen years old. Well, I did know it, he declared. I kind of knew it anyhow, but I sort of forgot it for once. Do you know if he bites, Keddie Silver? She was non-committal. He ain't bid nobody yet. I don't believe he'll bite, said Florence. I bet he likes me. He looks like he was taking a fancy to me, Keddie Silver. What's his name? Gammao. What? Gammao. What a funny name! Are you sure, Keddie Silver? Gammao, what you ain't Julia told me, Mrs. Silver insisted. You can go on in the house and ask to her. She'll tell you the same. Well, anyway, I'm not afraid of him, said Florence, and she stepped closer to the poodle, extending her hand to caress him. Then she shouted, as the dog, at her gesture, rose to his hind legs, and, as far as the leash permitted, walked forward to meet her. She flung her arms about him rapturously. Oh, the lovely thing! she cried. He walks on his hind legs. Why, he's crazy about me. Let him go, said Herbert. I bet he don't like you any more than he does anybody else.  But when Florence released him, Gammao caressed them both impartially. He leaped upon one, then upon the other, and then upon Keddie Silver, with the cordiality that almost unceded her. Let him off the leash! Florence cried. He won't run away, because the gates are shut. Let him lose, and see what he'll do. Mrs. Silver snapped the catch of the leash, and Gammao departed in the likeness of a ragged black streak, with his large and eccentric ears flapping back in the wind, and his after-part hunched in.  Altogether a comedian, when he heard children shrieking with laughter, he circled them more wildly. Then all upon an unexpected instant came to a dead halt, facing his audience, his nose on the ground between his two forepaws, his hind-quarters high and unstooping. And seeing they laughed at this too, he gave them enough of it, then came back to Keddie Silver and sat by her feet, a spiral of pink tongue hanging from a wide open mouth, roofed with black. Florence resumed the peeling of her orange. Who do you think gave Gammao to Anjulia? she asked. I ain't steady on about it. Yes, but who do you guess? I ain't. Well, but if you had to be burned to death, or guessed somebody, who would you guess? I have to get burned up, said Keddie Silver. Every last call of what comes here is, give her some dog-on-animal already. Mr. Sam is his, he give her them two burgeoned cats, and old Mr. Ridgway is what lost his wife, he give your Anjulia them two canaries that tuck and hopped out the cage and then out the window last week, one day, when your grandpa was alone in the room with him. And Mr. George Plummers, he give her that Airedale dog, you grandpa tuck and give to the milkman. And Mr. Usher's, he give her them two pups, what your grandpa tuck and scare off the place, soon as he laid eyes on them.  And your grandpa tuck and give it to the greenhouse man. Ain't none of them, gentlemen, gon' try it and give her no more animals, I bet. So how anybody gon' guess, who sent her this here Gamma? Nobody left what ain't already sent her one and had the gift spied. Yes, there is, said Florence. Who? Noble Dill. That there little young Mr. Dills? Kitty Silver cried. Listen me, this here dog, expensive dog. I don't care. I bet Noble Dill gave him to her. Mrs. Silver hooded. Hoo! Go away! That there young little Mr. Dills? He ain't never did show no class. No way? No, no time. He be a hundred year old before you see him in an automobile, what belong to him. Look at away some them fine big rich men like Mr. Claridge and Mr. Ridgeways, take and throw their money around. New necktie every time you see him. New straw hat, right spang the first warm day. Bring the bell, I say. I say, walk right in, Mr. Ridgeways. Slip me a dollar bill, desk like that. Mr. Samus's and Mr. Plummer's and some them others. They all show class. Look, Mr. Samus's spectacles made turtle back. Fancy turtle, too. I asked Miss Julia. She tell me they fancy turtle. Gold rim spectacles ain't in it. No, ma'am. Mr. Samus's spectacles. Just them rims on his spectacles alone. I bet they cost moan on what this young little Mr. Dills got on him from his toes up and his skin out. I bet Mr. Plummer's, throw money around, best for getting his pants pressed than what Mr. Dills afford to spend to buy his in the first place. He lose his struggle, cause you aren't Julia. She out for the big class. This year Gamma, he dog, cause money. He show class same you ain't Julia. Ain't none of them got to waste their time on nobody what can't show no more class than this year little young dish kumbabere, Mr. Dills. I don't care, Florence said stubbornly. He could have saved up and saved up and if he saved up long enough he could have got enough money to buy a dog like Gamma because you can get money enough for anything if you're willing to save up long enough. Anyway, I bet he's the one gave him to her. Herbert joined Kitty Silver and laughed her. Florence is always talking about noble dill. He said she's sort of crazy anyway though. It runs in the family. Florence retorted automatically. I caught it for my cousins. Anyhow, I don't think there's a single one of any that wants to marry Aunt Julia that's got the slightest comparison to noble dill. I admire him because he's so uncouth. He's so who? Kitty Silver inquired. Uncouth. Yes, said Mr. Silver. It's in the dictionary, Florence explained. It means rare, elegant, exquisite, obbs, unknown, and a whole lot else. It does not, Herbert interposed. It means kind of contrived. You go look in the dictionary, his cousin said severely, then maybe you'll know what you're talking about just for once. Anyhow, I do like noble dill, and I bet so does Aunt Julia. Kitty Silver shook her head. He loses struggle, honey. Miss Julia, she out for the big class.  She treated him all mighty nice, because the mull comes shoving and pushing each other around. Class of no class. Why, the mull harder that big class got to work to get her, and the mull she got after her, the mull keeps her coming. But is he a young little Mr. Dills? I kind of got strong notion he liable not come no more tall. Her tone had become one of reminiscent amusement, which culminated in a burst of laughter. She concluded, After last night I reckon this young Mr. Dills better keep away from the place, yes, and Florence looked thoughtful, and for the time said nothing. It was Herbert who asked, Why'd noble dill better stay away from here? You grandpa, Mrs. Silver said, shaking her head, you grandpa. What about grandpa? said Herbert. What did he do last night? Do! O me! Then Mrs. Silver uttered sounds like the lowing of kind, whereby she meant to indicate her inability to describe Mr. Atwater's performance. Well, ma'am, she said, in the low and husky voice of simulated exhaustion, all I got to say, yo, grandpa, beat his sef. He beat his sef. How do you mean? How could he? He beat his self. He just out talked hissef. No, ma'am, I done hear him. Many, and many, and many is the time, but last night he beat hissef. What about? Nothing in the wide wall, but this young, little noble dill is what we're talking about, did live in minute. What started him? What start him? Mrs. Silver echoed with sudden loudness.   I mean, said Herbert, what started him last night? Them cigarettes, said Kitty Silver, them cigarettes, what this noble dill's smokes while he's sitting out on the front pouch calling on your aunt Julia, your grandpa might find a man about smelling.  Well, ma'am, if he can't stand violet, how in the name of misery is he going to stand the smell of them cigarettes? This is him dill's smoke. I can hardly stand him myself. Then he lie one on the front pouch. She sef all through the house, and comes sliding right the whole way out to my kitchen. And, Ben, she take me in the nose.  And she like Carla have nice time.  Yes, deed kind friend. She said, she say, she say, when they asked him, Miss Julia, ma'am, they say, I like please strike a match for to like my cigarette. If you please ma'am, she say, like as many as you please, kind friend. She say, she say, she say, smell of cigarette. That's the delightful little smell. She say, go ahead and smoke all you can stand.  She say, well, so this young little dill's sitting there puffing and blowing his chest out and in and feeling all nice, because it about the first time this living summer, he catch you and Julia alone to his self for a while. And all time the house does villain up and draft blowing straight at your grandpa, where he's sitting in his library. Ma'am, he send me out and tell her to come in. He got message mighty important for to speak to her. So she tells this dill's, wait a minute, and walk in the library. Old ladies. What did he say? Herbert asked eagerly. He didn't say nothing, Mrs. Silver replied eloquently. He hollered. What did he holler? He won. No, didn't he never tell her this year deals can smoke no more cigarettes on his property. And then he tell her he wasn't gonna allow him on the place if he did. He say she got to go back on the post and run this year little deals off home. He say he give her fair choice.   Because he only make about $18 a week and ain't worth it. He say she was confirmed in this report by an indignant interruption from Florence. That's just what he did say the old thing. I heard him myself. And if you care to ask me, I'll be glad to inform you that I think grandpa's conduct was simply insulting. Did it were, said Mrs. Silver. And that's what he claim, his self. He mean it for. But you tell me, please, how you hear what your grandpa say? He might have knows it, but you never could have hit him plump to where you live. I wasn't home, said Florence. I was over here.  Nobody saw me. I wasn't in the house, said Florence. I was out in front. What abouts in front? Well, I was sitting on the ground up against the latticework on the front porch. What fur? Well, it was dark, said Florence. I just kind of wanted to see what might be going on. And you hear all what your grandpa take on about and everything? I should say so. You could have hurt him lots farther than where I was. Let no misery, Kitty Silver cried out. If you don't hear him where you was, this little dills must have heard him mighty plain. He did. How could he help it? He heard every word. And pretty soon he came down off the porch and stood a minute. Then he went on out the gate. And I don't know whether he went home or not because it was too dark to see, but he didn't come back. You'll write he didn't, exclaimed Mrs. Silver.   Your grandpa's say he's going to be fixed for him, if he do. Yes, that was while he was standing there, said Florence realfully. He heard all that, too. Miss Julia, she's bishing. He done he has something, another, I guess, Kitty Silver went on.  And she slipped out on the porch and take a look round and then go on up to her own room. I was up there. Well, after that, turned down her bed and she enjoyed herself reading book. She feel kind of put out, I reckon. But she didn't stand about no young little deals. She want them all to have nice time in the lacquer. But she gonna lose this one. And she got plenty to spare. She show too much class for to fret about no deals. I don't care, said Florence. I think she ought to whether she does or not, because I bet he was feeling just awful. And I think grandpa behave like an old hoodlum. That'll do. Herbert admonished her sternly. You show some respect for your relations, if you please. But his loyalty to the outwater family had a bad effect on Florence. Oh, will I, she returned promptly. Well, then, if you care to inquire my opinion, I just politely think grandpa ought to be hanged. See here! But Florence and Kettysilver interrupted him simultaneously. Look at that! Florence cried, my name, exclaimed Kettysilver. It was the strange taste of Gammaire that so excited them. Florence had peeled her orange and divided it rather fairly into three parts. But the vehemence she exerted in speaking of her grandfather, had caused her to drop one of these upon the ground. Gammaire promptly ate it, sat up, and adjusted his pause in prayer for more. Now you listen to me, Kettysilver. I ain't seen no dog eat orange in all my days.  No, ma'am.  Herbert decided to be less impressed. Oh, I've heard of dogs that it eat apples, he said. Yes, and watermelon and nuts and things. As he spoke, he played with the tennis ball upon his racket, and concluded by striking the ball high into the air. Its course was not true. And it descended far over toward the orchard, where Herbert ran to catch it. But he was not quick enough. At the moment the ball left the racket, Gammaire abandoned his prayers. His eyes, like a careful fielder, calculating and estimating, followed the swerve of the ball in the breeze. And when it fell, he was on the correct spot. He caught it. Herbert shouted. He caught it on the fly. It must have been an accident. Here. And he struck the ball into the air again. It went high, twice as high as the house. And again, Gammaire judged it, continuously shifting his position. His careful eyes never leaving the little white globe until just before the last instant of its descent. He was motionless beneath it. He caught it again. And Herbert whooped. Gammaire brought the ball to him and invited him to proceed with the game. That that there might be no mistaking his desire. Gammaire sat up and prayed. Nor did he find Herbert anything loth. Out of nine chances, Gammaire muffed the ball only twice, both times excusably, and Florence once more flung her arms about the willing performer. Who do you suppose trained this wonderful darling doggy? She cried. Mrs. Silver shook her marveling head. He must have come that away. She said, I've been nobody tall and train him. He do what he want to himself. That gamma don't ask nobody to train him. Oh, goodness Florence said with sudden despondency. It's awful. What is to think of as lovely a dog is this having to face grandpa face him. Kitty Silver echoed forebodingly. I reckon you grandpa do my own desk face him. That's what I mean. Florence explained.  Yes, and said Miss Silver. He didn't matter every time somebody sent her new pet.  He hasn't seen Gammaire has he don't look like it do it said Kitty Silver dog. Yeah, yeah. Well, then I Florence paused glancing at Herbert for she had just been visited by a pleasant idea and had no wish to share it with him is and Julia in the house. She were little while ago. I want to see her about something I ought to see her about said Florence. I'll be out in a minute. End of chapter 13. Chapter 14 of Gentle Julia by Booth Tarkington. This Libber Box recording is in the public domain. Reading by Bologna Times. She ran into the house and found Julia seated at a slim leg desk, writing a note. At Julia, it's about Gammaire. Gammon. What? His name is Gammon. Kitty Silver says his name's Gammaire. Yes, said Julia, she would. His name is Gammon, though. He is a little Parisian rascal. And his name is Gammon. Well, Aunt Julia, I'd rather call him Gammaire. How much did he cost? I don't know. He was brought to me only this morning. I haven't asked yet. But I thought somebody gave him to you. Yes, somebody did. Well, I mean, said Florence, how much did the person that gave him to you pay for him? Julia sighed. I just explained I haven't had a chance to ask. Florence looked hurt. I don't mean you would ask him right out. I just meant, wouldn't you be liable to kind of hint around and give him a chance to tell you how much it was? You know perfectly well. It's the way most the family do when they give each other something pretty expensive, Christmas or birthdays. And I thought properly, you know, I shouldn't be surprised, Florence, if nobody ever got to know how much Gammon cost? Well, Florence said, and decided to approach her purpose on a new tack. Who was it, trained him? I understand that the person who gave him to me has played with him at times during the few days he's been keeping him, but hasn't trained him particularly. French poodles almost learn their own tricks if you give them a chance. It's natural to them.  But who was this person that gave him to you? Julia laughed. It's a secret, Florence, like Gammon's price. At this Florence look peaked. Well, I guess I got some manners, she exclaimed. I know as well as you do, Aunt Julia, there's no etiquette in coming right square out and asking how much it was when somebody goes and makes you a present. I'm certainly enough of a lady to keep my mouth shut when it's more polite to, but I don't see what harm there is in telling who it is that gives anybody a present. No harm at all, Julia murmured as she sealed the note she had written. Then she turned, smilingly, to face her niece. Only I'm not going to. Well then, Aunt Julia, and now Florence came to her point. What I wanted to know is just simply the plain and simple question. Will you give this dog, Gamar, to me? Julia leaned forward, laughing, and suddenly clapped her hands together, close to Florence's face. No, I won't, she cried, there. The niece frowned and lines of anxiety appearing upon her forehead. Well, why won't you? I won't do it. But Aunt Julia, I think you ought to. Why ought I to? Because, said Florence, well, it's necessary. Why? Because you know as well as I do what's bound to happen to him. What is? Grandpa'll chase him off, said Florence. He'll take after him the minute he lays eyes on him and scare him to death, and then he'll get lost and he won't be anybody's dog. I should think you'd just as leaf he'd be my dog as have him chased all over town till a streetcar hits him or something. But Julia shook her head. That hasn't happened yet. It did happen with every other one you ever had, Florence urged, plaintively. He chased him every last one off the place, and they never came back. You know perfectly well, Aunt Julia, Grandpa's just bound to hate this dog, and you know just exactly how he'll act about him. No I don't, said Julia, not just exactly. Well, anyway, you know he'll behave awful. It's probable, the Aunt admitted. He always does, Florence continued. He behaves awful about everything I ever heard about. He— I'll go pretty far with you, Florence, Julia and her pose, but we'd better leave him a loophole. You know he's a constant attendant at church and contributes liberally to many good causes. Oh, you know what I mean. I mean he always acts horrible about anything pleasant. Of course, I know he's a good man and everything. I just mean the way he behaves is perfectly disgusting. So what's the use you're not giving me this dog? You won't have him yourself as soon as Grandpa comes home to lunch in an hour or so. Oh, yes I will. Grandpa hasn't already seen him, has he? No. Then what makes you say he isn't coming home to lunch? He won't be home till five o'clock this afternoon. Well, then, about six you won't have any dog, and poor little gamire will get run over by an automobile sometime this very evening. Florence's voice became anguished in the stress of her appeal.  Julia shook her head. Won't you please? No, dear. Aunt Julia, if it was Noble Dill who gave you this dog. Florence, her aunt exclaimed, what in the world makes you imagine such absurd things? Poor Mr. Dill. Well, if it was, I think you ought to give Gammer to me because I like Noble Dill and I but here her aunt left again and looked at her with some curiosity. You still do, she asked. What for? Well, said Florence, swallowing, he may be rather smallish for a man, but he's very uncouth and distinguished looking, and I think he doesn't get to enjoy himself much. Grandpa talks about him so horribly, and here such was the unexpected depth of her feeling that she choked, whereupon her aunt overcome with laughter, but nevertheless somewhat touched, sprang up and threw two pretty arms about her charmingly. You funny Florence, she cried. Then will you give me Gammer? Florence asked instantly. No, we'll bring him in the house now, and you can stay for lunch. Florence was imperfectly consoled, but she had a thought that brightened her a little. Well, there'll be an awful time when Grandpa comes home this afternoon, but it certainly will be interesting. She proved a true prophet, at least to the extent that when Mr. Atwater opened his front gate that afternoon he was already in the presence of a deeply interested audience, whose observation was unknown to him. Through the interstices of the lace curtains at an open window, the gaze of Julia and Florence was concentrated upon him in a manner that might have disquieted, even so opinionated and peculiar a man as Mr. Atwater had he been aware of it, and Herbert likewise watched him fixedly from an unseen outpost. Herbert had shown some recklessness, declaring loudly that he intended to lounge in full view, but when the well-known form of the ancestor was actually identified, coming up the street out of the distance, the descendant changed his mind. The good green earth ceased to seem secure, and Herbert climbed a tree. He surrounded himself with the deepest foliage, and beneath him some outlying foothills of kitty-silver were visible, where she endeavored to lurk in the concealment of a lilac bush. Gamar was the only person in view. He sat just in the middle of the top step of the veranda, and his air was that of an endowed and settled institution. What passing traffic there was interested him, but vaguely, not affecting the world to which he belonged, that world being this house and yard, of which he felt himself now, beyond all question, the official dog. It had been a rather hardworking afternoon, for he had done everything suggested to him, as well as a great many other things that he thought of himself. He had also made it clear that he had taken a fancy to everybody, but recognized Julia to be the head of the house and of his own universe, and though he was at the disposal of all her family and friends, he was at her disposal first. Whether so ever she went, there would he go also, unless she otherwise commanded. Just now she had withdrawn, closing the door, but he understood that she intended no permanent exclusion. Who was this newcomer at the gate? The newcomer came to a halt, staring intolerantly. Then he advanced, slamming the gate behind him. Get out of here, he said. You get off the place. Gamire regarded him seriously, not moving. While Mr. Outwater cast an eye about the lawn, seeming to search for something, and his gaze, thus roving, was arrested by a slight movement of great areas behind a lilac bush. It appeared that the dome of some public building had covered itself with antique textiles and was endeavoring to hide there of failure. Getty Silver, he said, what are you doing? Suh. Debouching sidewise, she came into fuller view, but retired a few steps. What I'd do and were, Mr. Outwater. How'd that dog get in my front steps? Her face became noncommittal entirely. This year dog, he just sat in there, Suh. How'd he get in the yard? Must somebody up and brung him in? Who did it? You mean, who up and brung him in, Suh? I mean, who does he belong to? Must be Miss Julia's, I reckon he is, so fuh. What? She knows I don't allow dogs on the place. Yes, Suh. Mr. Outwater's expression became more outraged and determined. You mean to say that somebody's trying to give her another dog after all I've been through with. It looked that way, Suh. Who did it? Miss Julia ain't saying, and me. I don't know who done it. No more in the lilies of the valley, what toil, not neither do they spines. In response, Mr. Outwater was guilty of exclamations lacking in courtesy, and turning again toward Gamar, he waved his arm. Didn't you hear me tell you to get out of here? Gamar observed the gesture, and at once sat up, placing his forepaws over his nose in prayer, but Mr. Outwater was the more incensed.  Mrs. Silver uttered a cry of inquiry before she perceived that she had mistaken her employer's intention. Gamar also appeared to mistake it, for he came down upon the lawn, rose to his full height on his hind legs, and in that human-like posture walked in a wide circle. He did this with an affectation of conscientiousness, thoroughly hypocritical, for he really meant to be humorous. My heavens, Mr. Outwater cried, lamenting, somebody's given her one of those things at last. I don't like any kind of dog, but if there's one damn thing on earth I won't stand, it's a trick poodle. And while the tactless Gamar went on walking a circle round him, Mr. Outwater's eye furiously searched the borders of the path, the lawn, and other wares for anything that might serve as missile.  He had a theory that it was always better to throw something.  But Gamar's tricks were not idiocy in the eyes of Mr. Outwater's daughter, as you watch them. They had brought to her mind the tricks of the jungler of Notre Dame, who had nothing to offer heaven itself, to mollify heaven's rulers except his entertainment of juggling and nonsense, so that he sang his thin jocosities and played his poor tricks before the sacred figure of the Madonna. But when the pious would have struck him down for it, she miraculously came to life just long enough to smile on him and show that he was right to offer his absurd best. And thus, as Julia watched the little jungler upon the lawn, she saw this was what he was doing, offering all he knew, hoping that someone might laugh at him and like him. And not curiously, after all, if everything were known, she found herself thinking of another foolish creature who had nothing in the world to offer anybody except what came out of the wistfulness of a foolish, loving heart. Then, though her lips smiled faintly as she thought of noble dill, all at once a brightness trembled along the eyelids of the prettiest girl in town and glimmered over a moment later to shine upon her cheek. You get out, Mr. Atwater shot it.  He found the missile, a stone of fair diameter. He hurled it violently. There, darn you! The stone mist and gammar fled desperately after it. You get over that fence, Mr. Atwater cried. You wait till I find another rock, and I'll— He began to search for another stone, but before he could find one, Gammaier returned with the first. He deposited it upon the ground at Mr. Atwater's feet. There's your rock, he said. Mr. Atwater looked down at him fiercely and through the black chrysanthemum, two garnet sparks glinted wagishly.  Gammaier sat up, placed his forepaws together over his nose and prayed. There's your rock, he said, and he added as clearly as if he used a spoken language. Let's get on with the game. Mr. Atwater turned to Kitty Silver. Does he know how to speak or shake hands or anything like that? He asked. The next morning, as the peculiar old man sat at breakfast, he said to the lady across the table, Look here, who did give Gammaier to us? Julia bit her lip.  Well, who was it? Her demureness still increased. It was noble dill. Mr. Atwater was silent. He looked down and caught a clonish garnet gleam out of a blackness, neighboring his knee. Well, see here, he said, Why can't you? Why can't you? Why can't I what? Why can't you sit out in the yard the next time he calls here instead of on the porch where it blows all through the house? It's just as pleasant to sit under the trees, isn't it? Pleasenter, said Julia. End of Chapter 14. Chapter 15 of Gentle Julia by Booth Tarkington. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Reading by Bologna Times. By the end of October, with the dispersal of foliage that has served all summer long as a screen for whatever small privacy may exist between American neighbors, we begin to receive the rise of our autumn high tides of gossip. At this season of the year and our towns of moderate size and ambition, where apartment houses have not yet condensed, and at the same time sequestered the population, one may look over backyard beyond backyard, both up and down the street, especially if one takes the trouble to sit for an hour or so daily upon the top of a high fence at about the middle of a block. Of course, an adult who followed such a course would be thought peculiar. No doubt he would be subject to inimical comment, but boys are considered so inexplicable that they have gathered for themselves many privileges denied their parents and elders, and a boy can do such a thing as this to his full content without anybody's thinking about it at all. So it was that Herbert Illingsworth Atwater, Jr. sat for a considerable time upon such a fence, after school hours, every afternoon of the last week in October, and only one person particularly observed him or was stimulated to any mental activity by his procedure. Even at that, this person was affected only because he was Herbert's relative of an age sympathetic to his and of a sex antipathetic. In spite of the fact that Herbert, thus seriously disporting himself on his father's back fence, attracted only an audience of one, and she hostile at a rather distant window, his behavior might well have been thought piquant by anybody. After climbing to the top of the fence, he would produce from interior pockets a small memorandum book and a pencil. His expression was gravely alert, his manner more than businesslike, yet nobody could have failed to comprehend that he was enjoying himself, especially when his attitude became tenser as it frequently did. Then he would rise, balancing himself at a droid ease, his feet one before the other on the inner rail, below the top of the boards, and with eyes dramatically shielded beneath a scoutish palm, he would gaze sternly in the direction of some object or movement that had attracted his attention, and then having satisfied himself of something or other, he would sit and decisively enter a note in his memorandum book. He was not always alone. Sometimes he was joined by a friend, male and though shorter than Herbert, about as old, and this companion was inspired, it seemed, by motives precisely similar to those from which sprang Herbert's own actions. Like Herbert, he would sit upon the top of the high fence. Like Herbert, he would rise at intervals for the better study of something this side, the horizon. Then, also like Herbert, he would sit again and write firmly in a little notebook, and seldom in the history of the world would have any such sessions been invested by the participants with so intentional an appearance of importance. That was what most irritated their lone observer at the somewhat distant upstairs-back window. The important importance of Herbert and his friend was so extreme as to be all too plainly visible, across four intervening broad-back yards. In fact, there was sometimes reason to suspect that the two performers were aware of their audience and even of her goaded condition, and that they deliberately increased the outrageousness of their importance on her account, and upon the Saturday of that week, when the notebook writers were upon the fence, the greater part of the afternoon, Florence's fascinated indignation became vocal. Vile things, she said. Her mother, sewing beside another window of the room, looked up inquiringly. What are, Florence?  Are you watching them again? Her mother asked. Yes, I am, said Florence, and added tartly, not because I care to, but merely to amuse myself their expense. Mrs. Atwater murmured. Couldn't you find some other way to amuse yourself, Florence? I don't call this amusement, the inconsistent girl responded, not without chagrin.  Then why do you do it? Why do I do what, Mama? Florence inquired, as in despair, of Mrs. Atwater's ever learning to put things clearly. Why do you spend all your days watching them? You don't seem able to keep away from the window, and it appears to make you irritable. I should think, if they wouldn't let you play with them, you'd be too proud. Oh, good heavens, Mama. Don't use such expressions, Florence, please. Well, said Florence, I've got to use some expression when you accuse me of wanting to play with those two vile things. My goodness, Mercy, Mama. I don't want to play with them. I'm more than four years old, I guess, though you don't ever seem willing to give me credit for it. I don't have to play all the time, Mama.  Aren't they? Mrs. Atwater inquired.  Wasn't that it? Florence sighed. No, Mama, it certainly wasn't. They weren't rude to you. Yes, they certainly were. Well, then.  Florence turned from the window to beseech Mrs. Atwater's concentration upon the matter. It isn't playing. I didn't want to play being a reporter. They ain't playing. Aren't playing Florence. Yes, they're not. Herbert's got a real printing press. Uncle Joseph gave it to him. It's a real one, Mama.  I'll try, said Mrs. Atwater. You mustn't get so excited about it, Florence. I'm not Florence returned vehemently. I guess it'd take more than those two vile things in their old printing press to get me excited. I don't care what they do. It's far less than nothing to me. All I wish is they'd fall off the fence and break their vile old necks. With this manifestation of impersonal calmness, she turned again to the window, but her mother protested. Do quit watching those foolish boys.  Florence moaned. They don't upset me, Mama. They have no effects on me by the slightest degree. And I told you, Mama, they're not playing. Then what are they doing? Well, they're having a newspaper. They got the printing press and an office in Herbert's stable and everything. They got somebody to give them some old banisters and a railing from a house that was torn down somewheres. And then they got it stuck up in the stable loft. So it runs across with a kind of gate in the middle of these banisters. And on one side is the printing press and a desk. From that nasty little Henry Reuters mother's attic and a table and some chairs and a map on the wall. And that's their newspaper office. They go out and look for what's the news and write it down in lead pencil. And then they go up to their office and write it in ink. And then they print it for their newspaper. But what do they do on the fence? That's where they go to watch what the news is. Florence explained moroselly. They think they're so grand sitting up there poking around. They go other places too. And they ask people. That's all they said I could be here. The ladies bitterness became strongly intensified. They said maybe I could be one of the ones they asked if I knew anything sometimes if they happen to think of it. I just respectfully told them I'd declined to wipe my oldest shoes on them to save their lives. Mrs. Atwater's side. You mustn't use such expressions, Florence. I don't see why not. The daughter promptly objected. They're a lot more refined than the expressions they used on me. Then I'm very glad you didn't play with them. But at this Florence once more gave way to filial despair. Mama, you just can't see through anything. I've said anyhow 50 times they ain't aren't playing. They're getting up a real newspaper and have people buy it and everything. They've been all over this part of town and got every aunt and uncle they have besides their own fathers and mothers and some people in the neighborhood and Kitty Silver and two or three other color people besides they're going to charge 25 cents a year, collect in advance because they want the money first and even Papa give them a quarter last night. He told me so. How often do they intend to publish the paper, Florence? Mrs. Atwater inquired absently, having resumed her sewing. Every week and they're going to have the first one a week from today. What do they call it? The North End Daily Oriole. It's the silliest name I ever heard for a newspaper and I told him so. I told him what I thought of it. I guess. Was that the reason? Mrs. Atwater asked. Was it what reason, Mama? Was it the reason they wouldn't let you be a reporter with them? Poop, Florence exclaimed, airily. I didn't want anything to do with their old paper. But anyway, I didn't make fun of their calling it the North End Daily Oriole till after they said I couldn't be in it. Then I did, you bet. Florence don't say. Mama, I got to say something. Well, I told them I wouldn't be in their old paper. They begged me on their bended knees, and I said if they begged me a thousand years, I wouldn't be in any paper with such a crazy name, and I wouldn't tell them any news if I knew the president of the United States had the scarlet fever. I just politely informed them they could say what they liked. If they was dying, I declined so much as wiped the oldest shoes I got on them. But why wouldn't they let you be on the paper? Her mother insisted. Upon this Florence became analytical, just so as they could act so important, and she added, as a consequence, they ought to be arrested. Mrs. Atwater murmured absently, but for bore to press her inquiry, and Florence was silent in a brooding mood. The journalist upon the fence had disappeared from view during her conversation with her mother, and presently she sighed and quietly left the room. She went to her own apartment, where, at a small and rather battered little white desk, after a period of earnest reverie, she took up a pen, wet the point in purple ink, and without great effort or any critical delayings produced a poem. It was, in a sense, an original poem, though like the greater number of all-letterary projections, it was so strongly inspirational that the source of its inspiration might easily become manifest to a cold-blooded reader. Nevertheless, to the poetess herself, as she explained later in good faith, the words just seemed to come to her, doubtless with either genius or some form of miracle implied, for sources of inspiration are seldom recognized by inspired writers themselves. She had not long ago been partied to a musical Sunday afternoon at her great-uncle Joseph's house, where Mr. Clairdice sang some of his songs again and again, and her poem may have begun to coagulate within her then. The Organest by Florence Atwater The organist was seated at his organ in a church in some beautiful woods of maple and birch. He was very weary while he played upon the keys, but he was a great organist, and always played with ease. When the soul is weary, and the wind is dreary, I would like to be an organist, seated all day at the organ, whether my name might be Fairchild or Morgan. I would play music like a vast amen, the way it sounds in a church of men. Florence read her poem seven or eight times, the deepening pleasure of her expression being evidence that repetition failed to denatured this work, but on the contrary, enhanced an appreciative surprise at a singular merit. Finally she folded the sheet of paper with a delicate carefulness unusual to her, and placed it in her skirt pocket. Then she went downstairs and out into the backyard. Her next action was straightforward and anything but prudish. She climbed the high wooden fences one after the other until she came to a pause at the top of that, whereon the two journalists had lately made themselves so odiously impressive. Before her, if she had but taken note of them, were a lesson in history and the markings of a profound transition in human evolution. Beside the old frame stable was a little brick garage, obviously put to the daily use intended by its designer. Quite as obviously, the stable was obsolete. Anybody would have known from its outside that there was no horse within it. There, visible, was the end of the pastoral age. All this was lost upon Florence. She sat upon the fence, her gaze unfavorably, though wistfully fixed upon a sign of no special aesthetic merit above the stable door. The North End Daily Oriole, Atwater and Router, owners and proprietors, subscribe now twenty-five cents. The inconsistency of the word daily did not trouble Florence. Moreover, she had found no fault with Oriole until the owners and proprietors had explained to her in the plainest terms known to their vocabularies that she was excluded from the enterprise. Then, indeed, she had been reciprocally explicit in regard not only to them and certain personal characteristics of theirs, which she pointed out as fundamental, but in regard to any newspaper, which should deliberately call itself an Oriole. The partners remained superior in manner, though unable to conceal a natural resentment. They had adopted Oriole not out of a sentiment for the city of Baltimore, nor indeed on account of any ornithologic interest of theirs, but as a relic left over from an abandoned club or secret society which they had previously contemplated forming. It's members to be called the Orioles for no reason, whatever. The two friends had talked of this plan at many meetings throughout the summer, and when Mr. Joseph Atwater made his great nephew the unexpected present of a printing press, and a newspaper consequently took the place of the club, Herbert and Henry still entertained an affection for their former scheme and decided to perpetuate the name. They were the more sensitive to attack upon it by an ignorant outsider and girl, like Florence, and her chance of ingratiating herself with them, if that could be now her intention was not a promising one. She descended from the fence with pronounced inelegance, and approaching the old double doors of the carriage-house, which were open, paused to listen, sounds from above assured her that the editors were editing, or at least they could be found at their place of business. Therefore she ascended the cobwebby stairway, emerged from it into the former hayloft, and thus made her appearance in the printing room of the North End Daily Oriole. Herbert, frowning with the burden of composition, sat at a table beyond the official railing, and his partner was engaged at the press, earnestly setting type. This latter person, whom Florence so solemn named otherwise than as that nasty little Henry-Rooter, was of a pure, smooth, fair-haired appearance, and strangely clean for his age and occupation. His profile was of a symmetry he had not yet himself begun to appreciate. His dress was groopulous and moddish, and though he was short, nothing outward about him confirmed the more sinister of Florence's two adjectives. Nevertheless her poor opinion of him was plain in her expression as she made her present intrusion upon his working hours. He seemed to reciprocate. Listen, didn't I and Herbert tell you to keep out of here? He said, look at her, Herbert, she's back again. You get out of here, Florence, said Herbert, abandoning his task with a look of pain. How often we got to tell you we don't want you around here when we're in our office like this? For heaven's sake, Henry-Rooter thought fit to ask, can't you quit running up and down our office stairs once in a while long enough for us to get our newspaper work done? Can't you give us a little piece? The pinkness of Florence's altering complexion was justified. She had not been within a thousand miles of their old office for four days. With some heat she stated this to be the fact, adding, and I only came then because I knew somebody ought to see that this stable isn't ruined. It's my own uncle and aunt's stable, I guess, isn't it? Answer me that if you're kindly pleased to do so. It's my father and mother's stable, Herbert asserted. Haven't I got a right to say who's allowed in my own father and mother's stable? You have not, the prompt Florence replied. It's my own uncle and aunt's stable, and I got as much right here as anybody. You have not, Henry-Rooter protested hotly. This isn't either your old aunt and uncle's stable. It isn't? No, it is not. This isn't anybody's stable. It's my and Herbert's newspaper building, and I guess you haven't got the face to stand there and claim you got a right to go in a newspaper building and say you got a right there when everybody tells you to stay outside of it, I guess. Oh, haven't I? No, you haven't. Mr. Rooter maintained bitterly.  Just try it. That's all I ask. Florence uttered a cry of derision.   Who'll make me, she inquired. You got to behave like a lady as long as you're in our newspaper building anyway, Herbert said ominously. If you expect to come up here after you've been told five dozen times to keep out, for heaven's sakes, his partner interposed, when we go in to get our newspaper work done, she's your cousin, I should think you could get her out. Well, I'm going to, ain't I? Herbert protested plaintively. I expect to get her out, don't I? Oh, do you, Miss Atwater, inquired with severe mockery, pray, how would you expect to accomplish it? Pray. Herbert looked desperate, but was unable to form a reply consistent with a few new rules of etiquette and gallantry that he had begun to observe during the past year or so. Now see here, Florence, he said, you're old enough to know when people tell you to keep out of a place, why it means they want you to stay away from there. Florence remained cold to this reasoning. Oh, poop, she said. Now look here, her cousin remonstrated and went on with his argument. We got our newspaper work to do, and you ought to have sense enough to know newspaper work like this newspaper work we got on our hands here isn't. Well, it ain't any child's play. His partner appeared to approve of the expression for he nodded severely and then used it himself. No, you bet it isn't any child's play, he said. No, sir, Herbert continued, this newspaper work we got on our hands here isn't any child's play. No, sir, Henry Rutter again agreed. Newspaper work like this isn't any child's play at all. It isn't any child's play, Florence, said Herbert. It ain't any child's play at all, Florence. If it was just child's play or something like that, why, it wouldn't matter so much. You're always poking up here. And, well, his partner interrupted judiciously. We wouldn't want her around even if it was child's play. No, we wouldn't. That's so, Herbert agreed. We wouldn't want you around anyhow, Florence. Here, his tone became more plaintive.  What you want, anyhow? Well, I guess it's about time you was asking me that, she said, not unreasonably. If you'd asked me that in the first place instead of acting like you'd never been taught anything and was only fit to associate with hoodlums, perhaps my time is of some value myself. Here the lack of rhetorical cohesion was largely counteracted by the strong expressiveness of her tone and manner, which made clear her position as a person of worth, dealing with the lowest of her inferiors. She went on, not pausing. I thought being as I was related to you and all the family and everybody else is going to have to read your old newspaper. Anyway, it'd be a good thing if what was printed in it wasn't all a disgrace to the family, because the name of our families got mixed up with this newspaper. So here, thus speaking, she took the poem from her pocket and with dignity, held it forth to her cousin. What's that? Herbert inquired, not moving a hand. He was but an amateur, yet already enough of an editor to be suspicious. It's a poem, Florence said. I don't know whether I exactly ought to have it in your old newspaper or not, but on account of the family's sake, I guess I better. Here, take it. Herbert at once withdrew a few steps, placing his hands behind him. Listen here, he said. You think we got time to read a lot on nothing in your old handwriting that nobody can read anyhow, and then go and toil and moil to print it on our print and press? I guess we got work enough printing what we write for our newspaper, our own cells. My goodness, Florence, I told you this isn't any child's play. For the moment, Florence appeared to be somewhat baffled. Well, she said. Well, you better put this poem in your old newspaper if you want to have anyhow one thing in it that won't make everybody sick that reads it. I won't do it, Herbert said decisively. What you take us for, his partner added. All right then, Florence responded, I'll go and tell Uncle Joseph and he'll take this printing, press back. He will not take it back. I already did tell him how you kept poking around, trying to run everything, and how we just worried our lives out trying to keep you away. He said he bet it was a hard job. That's what Uncle Joseph said.  You don't get your old poem in our newspaper. Not if she lived to be two hundred years old, Henry wrote or added. Then he had an afterthought, not unless she pays for it. How do you mean? Herbert asked, puzzled by this codicell. Now Henry's brow had become corrugated with no little professional impressiveness. You know what we were talking about this morning? He said, how the right way to run our newspaper. We ought to have some advertisements in it and everything. Well, we want money, don't we? We could put this poem in our newspaper like an advertisement. That is, if Florence has got any money, we could. Herbert frowned, if her old poem isn't too long, I guess we could. Here, let's see it, Florence, and taking the sheet of paper in his hand, he studied the dimensions of the poem without painting himself to read it. Well, I guess maybe we can do it, he said. How much ought we to charge her? This question sent Henry wrote her into a state of calculation, while Florence observed him with veiled anxiety. But after a time he looked up, his brow showing continued strain. Do you keep a bank of Florence for nickels and dimes and maybe quarters, you know? He inquired. It was her cousin who impulsively replied for her. No, she don't, he said. Not since I was about seven years old. And Florence added sharply, though with dignity. Do you still make mud pies in your backyard? Pray. Now see here, Henry objected. Try and be a lady anyway for a few minutes, can't you? I got to figure out how much we got to charge you for your old poem, don't I? Well, then, Florence returned, you better ask me something about that, hadn't you? Well, said Henry wrote her, have you got any money at home? No, I haven't. Have you got any money with you? Yes, I have. How much is it? I won't tell you. Henry frowned. I guess we ought to make her pay about two dollars and a half, he said, turning to his partner. Herbert became deferential. It seemed to him that he had formed a business association with a genius, and for a moment he was dazzled. Then he remembered Florence's financial capacities, always well known to him, and he looked depressed. Florence herself looked indignant. Two dollars and a half, she cried, why, I could buy this whole place for two dollars and a half, print and press, railing and all. Yes, and you thrown in Mr. Henry Reuter. See here, Florence, Henry said earnestly, haven't you got two dollars and a half?  Well, then, said Henry gloomily, what we're going to do about it. How much do you think we ought to charge her? Herbert's expression became noncommittal. Just let me think a minute, he said, and with his hand to his brow he stepped behind the unsuspicious Florence. I got to think, he murmured, then with the straightforwardness of his age he suddenly sees his damsel cousin from the rear and held her in a tight but far from affectionate embrace, pinioning her arms. She shrieked, murder, and let me go, and help, help! Look in her pocket, Herbert shouted, she keeps her money in her skirt pocket when she's got any, it's on the left side of her. Don't let her kick you, look out. I got it, said the dexterous Henry, retreating and exhibiting coins, it's one dime and two nickels, twenty cents. Has she got any more pockets? No, I haven't, Florence fiercely informed him, as Herbert released her, and I guess you better hand that money back if you don't want to be arrested for stealing. But Henry was unmoved. Twenty cents, he said calculatingly. Well, all right, it isn't much, but you can have your poem in our newspaper for twenty cents, Florence. If you don't want to pay that much, why, take your old twenty cents and go on away. Yes, said Herbert, that's as cheap as we'll do it, Florence. Take it or leave it. Take it or leave it, Henry Ruder agreed. That's the way to talk to her. Take it or leave it, Florence. If you don't take it, you've got to leave it. Florence was indignant, but she decided to take it. All right, she said coldly, I wouldn't pay another cent if I died for it. Well, you haven't got another cent, so that's all right, Mr. Ruder remarked, and he honorably extended an open palm toward his partner. Here, Herbert, you can have the dime or the two nickels, whichever you rather. It makes no difference to me. I'd as soon have one as the other. Herbert took the two nickels and turned to Florence. See here, Florence, he said, in a tone of strong complaint. This business is all done and paid for now. What you want to hang around here any more for? Yes, Florence, his partner faithfully seconded him at once. We haven't got any more time to waste round here today, and so what you want to stand around in the way and everything for, you ought to know yourself, we don't want you. I'm not in the way, said Florence, hotly. Who's way am I in? Well, anyhow, if you don't go, Herbert informed her, we'll carry you downstairs and lock you out.   Anyway, if you did, those old doors haven't got any lock on them. I'll come right back in and walk straight up the stairs again. Herbert advanced toward her. Now you pay attention to me, he said. You've paid for your old poem, and we got to have some peace around here.  Florence gave up. What difference would that make, Mr. Tattletail? She inquired mockingly. I wouldn't be here when she came, would I? I'll thank you to notice there's some value to my time myself, and I'll just politely ask you to excuse me, pray. End of Chapter 15.