young, and we gave our lives to religion and art. And both of them have used us up and thrown us out.

"The theatre may be the devil's and your church may be God's very own, but we've both been chucked into the discard, Jordan_dear; and that's all there is to it. So don't preach, for I won't listen to you any more than you'll listen to me. And now I really must go. I owe it to my audience to give a performance to-night, for something tells me I will never give another." She rose again and he dogged her steps, murmuring:

"Can't we meet again to-morrow? To-morrow is the Sabbath, Fanny. Will you go to church with me? Just this once.'

"Thanks, dear, but I don't go in much for mornings. I have kept night watchman's hours all my life and the sleep will do me more good than any sermon. Besides, I've got to get back to New York and see if there is any possible chance for another job. So give me your address and I'll write you. You can always find me through the agencies or better, here's my card. Where can you be found?"

He gave her the name of the publishers of the book he vended, took from her the card she put into it, and left her at the door of a cheap lunch

room.

He would have forsaken his principles gladly now to feast the beloved actress, but he did not need to search his pockets to know that he had not money enough for such a tribute.

He clung to her hand and drank deep of her sorrowful smile before he let her go. Then he waited and stared through the frosted window and saw her find a table, sink into a chair and wearily order a little food.

He turned away and trudged heavily the long and back-slipping way to the shoddy boarding house where he ate lonesomely in a crowded room.

THE

HE next day being the sacred day, he was distressed to find in his heart a reluctance to sit at another preacher's feet in silence.

But he forced himself to do his duty. He went to the grandiose edifice with the moving-picture advertisement in front of it. It must have cost far more than all his churches put together. And it had two preachers, one of them paid ten thousand a year, and a hired choir. And there were not two hundred people in the church!

The glistening clergyman took for his theme the Interchurch World Movement. He used language whose eloquence there was no denying, but whose elegance somehow offended Jordan. But it exerted no apparent influence upon the congregation, all of whom seemed to be taking after-dinner siestas, though it was still morning.

He exhibited a chart of the appalling

irreligion of the United States: in a population of over a hundred million, there were only forty-five million church members, and he had to confess that nearly half of these were Catholics, and three million Jews. In the great West the percentage of unchurched was incredibly large: In Nevada less than 13 per cent belonged; in Oklahoma, Wyoming, Arizona, Washington, Oregon, West Virginia less than 30 per cent.

clubs, and in some cases even with dra

matic entertainments and dances.

Neither method was ideal, or successful; and until Christianity itself was at unity there could be no hope of unifying the indifferent public.

The property of the Protestant churches in America was valued at over two billion dollars, yet the churches were practically empty all the week save on prayer-meeting nights and at Sunday services, and even then mere handfuls attended unless sensational inducements were held out.

Millions of money were needed and at once, and he called upon the dozing congregation to "subscribe till it hurts. The congregation went on dozing, but the old apostle in the lonely pew trembled with an anguish of fear.

Ji

ORDAN LOOMIS had listened impatiently to all the money talk. He had wondered whether he had entered an auction room or a church. He had noted that there was no refer ence to a plan to help the clergy, to raise the pay of the active men, or to provide for the superannuated.

But he forgot himself in a terror for the gospel he had preached. He wanted to leap to that pulpit and hurl pontifical thunders about the world, sending the stiff-necked people to their knees before the offended Jehovah while yet there was time. He longed to rise and denounce the sleek rhetorician who implored the people to save God's church; to thrust him from the pulpit and warn the people to save themselves from God's wrath.

But his knees were too weak to lift him. His voice could not force its way out of his aching throat, and when the benediction had dismissed the little crowd, he did not stay to remonstrate. He slunk out into the street and went back like a whipped dog to his kennel.

He had only his dreams for luxury. Sometimes at night his narrow cell and his miserable pallet were magically changed to a cathedral thronged with multitudes who were caught up into the clouds by the storm and glory of his words.

He had agonized thus for twenty-five years, twenty-five years of bitternesses prolonged and multiplied, but none so cruel as the mocking of the dream that he was preaching again.

Days and nights dragged on as before except that he had now the added irony of the comfort and the torture of remembering Fanny Keeney. He had let her escape without winning her to the Cross. He had let her go to hunger and dismay without offering her a penny or a loaf of bread.

He tried to excuse himself to himself on the ground of his poverty, but the excuse was only a further shame.

NE

in afternoon, after a day of hard

going and unending rebuff, he wandered back to the office of the publishers of the book he peddled with such small success. He found there a letter. The envelope was addressed in a brave and citified hand that made him wonder if it were really for him. But when he opened it a voice seemed to issue forth, a familiar soul spoke to his eyes:

HOLMESBURG, PA., Jan. 3, 1921. DEAREST JORDAN:

I am in, or near, Philadelphia again

after a sad sojourn in New York. You will be glad to hear that I have found shelter with some very charming people, and my worries are over. Indeed, I am so perfectly at home-Home with a capital H-that I want you to come for dinner with me on Thursday at one. It is my birthday, and I shall be heartbroken if you fail me. It's a long trolley trip of an hour and a half, but take it for me. I will be waiting for you at persons twelve. FANNY. one of

The percentage of attendance was still more harrowing. For example, of the twenty million people dwelling within a radius of a hundred miles of New York, only 30 per cent were affiliated with the church and only 11 per cent of the seats were filled. In a district where there were two synagogues, four Catholic, and thirteen Protestant churches having a total seating capacity of over sixteen thousand people, fewer than two thousand attended; while in the same district seventy-five thousand crowded into the theatres and moving-picture houses. There was a wide divergence of opinion, he said, as to the ways for altering this condition. Some clergymen advocated the closing of all places of amusement on Sunday and even all forms of transportation. Others believed in enticing the people, as it were, with moving pictures, bowling alleys, social

Affectionately,

delight that Fanny was no longer a Jordan's first thought was road-weary, abodeless gypsy. Then he blushed. He caught the meaning of that "Home with a capital H." She was in a Home, a charitable institution, a poorhouse of some kind.

He knew what dismal penitentiaries these places were, where they punished

people for the crimes of not being rich and not dying. Some of the religious denominations had such retreats for their foredone pastors. They were a kind of internment camp, and even when the jailers had the kindest intentions they could not rob the places of their dreadful significance.

It would have been glorious if he could have gone to Fanny and said: "Repent and reform, and I will take you from the misery your wicked worldlings have abandoned you to, and I will lead you to the peace and beauty my church provides for those who have served it well." But his church provided him with no place at all, not even a Home.

He took the suburban trolley as Fanny directed, and was thankful at least for the relenting weather that filled the air with dazzling sunlight and warmth. When at last he left the trolley at Holmesburg, he looked about for some humble woman. There was no one there at all, but he heard that voice of Fanny's with a lilt of youthful mischief in it, crying to him: "Jordan! Oh, Jordan! Here I am, over here."

And there she was indeed, with her head sticking out of a carriage. The negro driver saluted the preacher from the box, and Fanny helped him in. She leaned forward and called up to the coachman: "You might drive round a little before you take us home." "Yassum!"

Jordan stared at her with incredulity. "You have a carriage! You give orders! Have you inherited money?" "Yes and no.'

"What sort of place is this-a fairyland?"

"Yes and no. A wealthy man in New York, who had seen me play when he was a boy-he said I was the first actress he ever loved-he told me I had a right to this estate. There was a vacancy. Only twelve people share it. It was all left and arranged for in a will. The man who owned this home and left it to us said he would rather have twelve comfortable guests than a crowd in misery. So everything is done for our comfort. The estate is very largehundreds of acres, I think. I can't get about it now in the snow, but they tell summer. The

me it is beautiful in the lus med chains

out under the trees, and visit one another. The farm is kept up, and we raise our own vegetables and mushrooms and things, our own eggs and chickens and milk-you see, Jordan, I'm saying 'our own,' for I feel as if it were home. We are made to feel that.

"The day I went there I was, oh, so dejected, so shamed and crushed! But I was met by a carriage, and the manager treated me as if I were a queen come visiting. My room-I wish you could see it-my own room, a lovely

old-fashioned, great love of a room!

And there were flowers on my table.

"I was asked what newspaper I would like to have every day. And at night, when I went to bed, I found a tray of supper waiting for me. They knew how the actress wants a little food at night. And there was no curfew bell. We sit up as late as we want to.

"They tell me that twice a year I may go to the shops in the city and buy my spring and winter clothes. I have the right to the carriage for a drive. I can go to any theatre in the city free. And I am called a guest!

"This morning, since it was my birthday, I had a letter from the Board of Directors, wishing me many happy returns of the day, and inclosing some money for my present. They used to send a little bottle of wine to each guest on the birthday, but-of course that can't be done any more."

cular drive led up to a big squarefronted house.

Jordan helped Fanny out and followed her into the drawing room, a great chamber with the ceiling high, the furniture of rosewood, and the hangings of yellow brocade. To Jordan it was what he supposed a palace would look like. He had never seen a palace.

In the drawing room a number of ladies and gentlemen of evident cultivation were gathered. Fanny presented the minister, and he felt like a yokel before them. There was a courtliness about them all. Some of the ladies wore jewels. Jordan's dim eyes could catch their flash, but he was not keeneyed enough to detect the liberal rouge and powder-which was fortunate since he had always denounced rouge and powder as immoral to the last degree.

He caught none of the names Fanny murmured, but, as she said, it did not matter, as he had never heard of any of the people.

They all laughed a trifle patronizingly at that, but not unkindly.

"They've all heard of you," Fanny insisted; "I've made you a famous man here, and, though it's my birthday, you're the guest of honor."

She showed him the library, and his heart ached at the sight of the books, solid from floor to ceiling. He thought of the poor little company of his own long-lost books.

"There are five thousand volumes," said Fanny, "and there is only one piece of work expected of the guests. And that is that once a year we come in this room and dust off every volume. Some of them are precious, and all of them were dear to the man who established this little Eden for old folks."

"Who was he?" said Jordan, but Fanny did not seem to hear, and when he moved to examine the books on the shelves and fumbled for his reading glasses, she said: "After dinner you can come in and browse."

It was the same with the portraits on the walls, the statuary, the photographs, the curios. When he would examine them she said: "After dinner."

She led him back to the gracious company in the drawing room.

FTER

Able to the exchange of a few amia

the times in general, a servant appeared and announced: "Dinner is served."

The guests went out in double file, Fanny on Jordan's arm. The table Iwas loaded with silver and china of a richness that dazed Jordan and rendered him a little shy.

He had not often dined in such stateliness. In the far-off days when he had had churches he had been a frequent guest at all sorts of homes, but he had never had a fashionable parish, and it had been thought sufficient to give him chicken and domestic ice cream. He had eaten so many chickens that he had grown to loathe the fowl.

To-day he could tell by the savor in the air that it was to be turkey. And on the sideboard his eye had been caught by a mountain of cranberry jelly like a vast incredible edible ruby.

He had not realized what penury the last quarter century had condemned him to until this moment and this glimpse of a banquet with royal trappings.

He felt such a rush of gratitude and appetite that he was startled to find everybody still standing and waiting for something. Fanny reminded him of a privilege long forgotten in his life sentence to boarding-house scrambles. She said: "Jordan, will you say grace?"

This sudden restoration almost to a pulpit thrilled him with pride, and while the others bent their heads he lifted his and, with wet eyes turned vaguely heavenward, murmured:

"O God, our Father, we thank Thee for the bounty Thy goodness hath vouchsafed unto us this day. May it give us strength to consecrate ourselves unto Thy service and the service of our brothers and sisters. We ask Thee especially to remember the man whose great heart made possible unto these good people this home, this comfort, this plenteous feast. And may Thy loving providence keep watch over this

house and all that dwell herein. And this we ask in the name of our blessed Saviour. Amen!"

One or two low voices echoed his "Amen!" And then the chairs scraped; there was a flutter of getting seated, and the servants began to move about. There were eleven people at the table. Mrs. Shumway, it was explained, was too ill to come down. Her favorite portion of turkey was sent up to her.

"I trust that she is not seriously ill," said Jordan.

Ancient Mr. Crayshaw spoke up: "Don't worry, sir; Cissie is only afraid of making thirteen at table. She's the most superstitious member of the most superstitious profession."

There was so much consternation at this remark, and Mr. Crayshaw was so nudged and hissed at and so covered with confusion that Jordan did not dare ask what profession Mrs. Shumway could have followed.

Hardly anyone could have been so unsophisticated as he, and hardly anyone else could have failed to guess. He was too happy, too greedy to worry. The wonder was merely a piquant sauce whose constituents he could not quite surmise.

HE dinner was long and the chatter brisk. The guests had plainly traveled far and wide and had gleaned much humor from their hardships. They had the art of anecdote, the rare art of telling a funny story funnily, and the rarer art of listening eagerly.

Jordan was moved to get off some of his own best rib ticklers that had shaken Sunday-school picnics and sociables back in '84. It was evident and audible that they were entirely new to this company, for the laughter was superb. He never dreamed that it was the result of long practice in laughing at the same line indefinitely. Jordan was a great success and he roared till the tears bejeweled his beard.

The feast was all too soon finished, and when cigars were passed Jordan felt that he was lacking in something gracious when he shook his head. He had never smoked, and it was too late to experiment.

After the dinner Fanny told him he might take out his reading glasses and look around. She explained that the portraits were of actors and actresses in famous rôles. She led him into the library, and he found almost all the books devoted to the works of playwrights and histories of the stage. And she confessed that all the guests were men and women who had grown old in the theatre.

luckier than I am, Fanny; for they have helpless wives to worry over, and I am all alone. And I shan't suffer long, Fanny. I keep busy and I'm pretty strong, considering. That's the trouble. I'm so strong I don't wear out easy. So promise me you won't worry. I have one great happiness and that is that I leave you in so beautiful a haven."

"But I can't be happy with you out there in the cruel wintry world-and look! It's beginning to snow. I can't let you go back there by yourself."

"I can hardly stay here, can I, dear? Mr. Forrest didn't count on me, you know." He laughed laboriously. "And I must be starting back. It gets dark early and-and-I must be starting back."

"If you get sick, will you send me word, a telegram, and let me come to you? I can always have the carriage, you know."

"I promise. And if you get sick, Fanny, let me come and-I'm not a doctor, but I can pray at your bedside. Will you let me come then?" "Yes, oh, yes."

home. He left it to his sister to enjoy till her death, and then his will provided for this dozen guests. It was his will that we should be called guests and treated as guests, distinguished guests. He still seems to hover about as a watchful host, though he has been dead a long, long while, and many of his guests have joined him in-wherever those people go who have been good actors and actresses.

"We are a better people than you think, Jordan; better than you know. We spend our lives expressing human nature; and sympathy is our whole art and livelihood and charity is our virtue to a vice.

"I could tell you wonderful stories of the goodness of our people to each other and to every cause that appeals for our help. My only solemn moment here, and that was almost sweet, was when I first arrived and I was asked if I cared to make my will, and I was told that I could choose the place where this poor body should be laid when I have finished with it-or it has finished with me. That final courtesy is offered us, and when I said I should like to be sent to lie by the side of my little girl, they Isaid it would be done.

"Who is going to do as much for you, Jordan? Your church-will it take you back to your Bethiah, or will it forget you dead as it has forgotten you while you live?"

THEN at last they had told farewells till their hearts ached to be separated from the intolerable visions of each other's incurable regret, she wanted to order the carriage to take him to the street-car stop, but he forbade it.

"I'd rather walk. It's good for me," he said. "I don't want to take the driver out again-or the poor horses."

"The poor horses!" she wailed. "They get better care than the old ministers, you said it yourself."

"Hush, Fanny, don't cry again, orI can't stand it, that's all. Smile for me, Fanny. Think what a beautiful day we've had, and what a beautiful home you have. Give me a good-by smile to carry with me, and promise me you'll not worry."

"I promise," she said, surrendering. to his need. That had been her lifelong job, putting on and off expressions, and telling the lies her audiences wanted to hear. She was still at it. She did it well, and when Jordan had shaken hands with all the other guests and wrung her hand at the door, she gave him a smile that went with him like a lantern.

He

He would not let her linger on the stoop to watch him, for the wind was rising and the flakes were swirling once more as when he had found her. closed the door himself on her stubborn smile, and then stumbled down the steps, clutching his old overcoat about him as he pushed into the flying snow.

me.

that. She was in terrible pain, and the doctor not able to ease her much. The priest sent for the head constable of the town and asked him to listen to Eileen's story, for she was conscious. It was only right that her evidence should be taken. But he wouldn't. Maybe he knew that the thing would have to be whitewashed for the military inquiry. You know yourself, ma'am, what the verdict is-that the bullet was fired as a precautionary measure. Such nonsense as that.

"Father Considine was near distracted with grief. Only the Sunday before he had preached a grand sermon, praising the young men of the parish for not having joined in any of the attacks on policemen, and begging them to keep patience and keep the laws. The local police came down that evening and thanked him. And then came these Black and Tans and shot poor Eileen. The priest said Eileen was either killed by a bullet aimed straight at her or else by a bullet aimed in her direction by a policeman who must have seen her and who didn't care whether he hit her or not!

"Ah, the poor soul suffering so, and her with three little children so small that you could take them all up together in your arms. Suffering she

was, and toward ten o'clock she said to the priest: 'Father, I hear Malachy crying. Tell him to come up.' Malachy came up, but he fainted dead away. When they got him revived, the priest left them together, and she talked to Malachy about the children. At ten o'clock it was she died, and downstairs at the same moment all three of the children began to cry. I was two nights at her wake, and people were so quiet; little did they eat or drink, and not a word hardly did they say. The day of the funeral the little yard was packed with cars, and it was all so quiet. You could have heard a pin drop. It's not natural that, for people do be talking at funerals, the men do. But very strange and quiet it all isvery little talking by the people."

Very little talking indeed. My friend and I talked little enough even when Malachy Quinn came with his miserable, haunted face and told her that he could not sleep nights for thinking of his wife. We said nothing when the blacksmith, who had been burned out of house and home because his son was

a Sinn Fein secretary, came and begged a little sand to help him in his effort

to build again. We went back in talk

to the days before the war, before my friend's only child had given his life

for England. She loves England as well as Ireland. I knew it was deep grief that wrung these words from her:

"It is sorrow to me that I can no longer say here in Ireland: 'My son was a British officer.'

I G

When Fear Came

GOT off the train and walked down a gray, quiet road that turned into the main street of a town of some two thousand population, an hour's ride from Dublin-a typical Irish town, the street bending a little, as if wild Irish winds had pushed it out of plumb; the houses built close together, as for protection or warmth; shops and public houses and homes, all small, all somehow gray. Two or three women, standing in a doorway not far from the doctor's house, stopped their chat and watched as I turned to the right and walked down Clonard Street. It is a wide street, momentarily given a pastoral look because a man was milking a cow in front of his doorway, a couple of pigs were nosing after treasure-trove, and several hens were pecking in the middle of the roadway.

But when I

glanced at the houses I lost the pastoral

sense. I was reminded somewhat of the shelled villages of France as they

looked just after they had been "policed
up" by our soldiers. Rubble and fallen
stones and débris were gone, but there
were left roofless houses and blackened
walls, with fragments of pictures, or
iron bedsteads, or other signs of former
living clinging to them.

I remember particularly five neat red
brick houses entirely gutted, and oppo-
site them a row of ten cottages that
had once been thatched and were now
roofless and smoke-stained.
I noticed
the framework of what once was a good-
sized house. Nothing but the kitchen
was left. It was crowded with bed fur-
niture, overpopulated with children. A
woman was ironing in the corner; she
looked at me cautiously, even furtively.
"Indeed, and we are thankful that we
have anything left," she said. "I can't
tell you anything about what happened
before this place was burned. All I
know is that word was brought that
two policemen had been shot, and about
an hour after that the Black and Tans
came, and then some police. They set
fire to the houses where they thought
Sinn Feiners lived. I don't know why
they should have suspected us, I'm sure.
I wrapped up the children and got be-
hind a wall. Go up and down this street
and no one can tell you anything except
that all of a sudden crown forces came
smashing the windows of the cottages.
That was all the warning we got. There
are a lot of helpless people on this street
-a woman with nine children, two sick
girls, a man with one arm, an invalid
widow: how they had time to get out
before the fires started I don't know.
We're all afraid of our lives. If there's
anyone that sleeps sound in this place,
'tis the babies and the innocents. God
knows what the end will be."

Ab

As the Priest Saw It

T the top of the gray street was the big Catholic church and beside it the priest's house, a plain little structure with beautifully laid out shrubbery and late roses climbing everywhere. The blooming maidservant that opened the door greeted me with a sigh.

"The father's just about to sit down to his dinner," she said, "but he's heard the bell, and there's no use me telling him no one's called, for he'd see you going out. I'll tell him."

She came out of his study presently and ushered me in, and I could hear her putting back food in the oven to keep warm. A tall, scholarly looking old man was the priest, with all the sorrows of the world in his face. He took it for granted that I knew all about the tragedy in his town. He said nothing of the policemen that had been shot, nothing of any previous provocation. He dwelt only on the items that interested him, and he talked in a weary old voice, as of one who does not understand, but leaves these things to God. "It was a spy that went about," he said, "giving the names of those supposed to be Sinn Fein, and getting their houses burnt over their heads. There were two poor fellows the crown forces got, Leeson and Gibbons. They, were in their beds. They were told that they would not be hurt, that they must come to the barracks and be examined. Leeson's son tried to help his father, and they fired on him. Leeson was covered with blood by the time they got to the barracks. I believe they were shot first and finished afterward with bayonets. I saw their poor mutilated bodies. I didn't want to, but their people begged it. Their faces were full of bayonet stabs, and had the most agonized expression. One of them had great gashes on the inside of his legs. this weary world." God help

I talked to this and that one, re

Dublin Castle party think he protected the Sinn Feiners. He suffered the fate of all men in Ireland just now who try

to see both sides.

The doctor is a broad, fresh-faced, blue-eyed, middle-aged man, with an attribute which is invaluable in Ireland-common sense. He struck me as devoted to his townspeople and deeply harassed over the state of the country. We talked in his little waiting room, carpeted with an old-fashioned blue and yellow oilcloth, and smelling pungently of disinfectants.

They Never Count Consequences

['LL tell you all I know of what hap

some of it is from hearsay. Maybe you have already found how hard it is to get facts in this country. People believe what they want to believe. There was a police inspector named Burke who drove down here with his brother. He had just been promoted, and I suppose he wanted to celebrate. There were two other police with them on the car. Their driver told the priest that they had already taken drink before ever they came to Smith's public house. Anyway, they went in there, and the place was full, and more and more people kept coming in. You know how it is in an Irish bar. There was boasting, and maybe threats and words passing. I am told that the police refused to pay for their drinks, but I don't know about that. I am told that the barmaid sent for the local police, and that when they found this party were also police they wouldn't interfere. Then she sent for the Irish Republic police patrol. These men put them out. There was a fight; who started it I don't know, or who drew first or fired first. Anyway, the first thing I knew the two Dublin police were brought in here, both wounded, and one dying.

"Well, there the dead man lay on that very blue line at your feet"-I moved my chair back-"and the other police stood and knelt there beside him, crying and cursing and praying. 'Come out, man,' one was saying, 'come out and kill those divils that did for poor Pether. Oh, for God's sake lave me say a few prays for poor Pether, and quit your bawling and cursing till I've the prayers said. I'll do all the killing you plaze then. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, have mercy on his soul. Those divils that did for you, me darlin' Pether, lave me at them, and I'll tear them to pieces.' You'd have cried and laughed the one time if you'd been here.

"Maybe an hour later a party of crown forces, maybe British Black and Tans, or maybe Irish police in the pay of the British, or maybe both, came down from the military camp at Gormanstown, two miles away. They had rifles, revolvers, bayonets, petrol, and, I believe, hand grenades. They fired a good many houses on Clonard Street that they thought Sinn Fein sympathizers lived in. They killed two men said to be Sinn Fein leaders. They wanted two for their own two that had been shot, though only one of theirs was killed. I did not go out into Clonard Street, though I could hear the screaming and the shouting and the sounds of people running, and I could see the red glare. I didn't go out, for there were some that might have said I was giving information. I knew the crown forces would be maddened at the loss of their men, and I stayed where I was till they came to my own street.

"Then I went out and I met them as they were coming with the patrol. Now, mind you, it was Black and Tans I talked to, but they weren't all bad. No, they are not. I will say that at Gormanstown, when they get hold of

ceiving only impressionistic pictures a lot of brutal divils they send them of pain and loss, a sense of tragedy, back to England. If the decent ones but no coherent story of the events that get out of hand now and then, what had desolated this small town. So I might you expect of criminals? I said went to call on the doctor. Since neither to them: 'For God's sake, don't harm side wholly approved of him, I thought the women and children!" And one of he would be, if not a neutral, at least them said back to me: 'We're not. a middle-ground man. He is a Catholic There was a woman back in a house and a Dominion Home Ruler. The Sinn there that couldn't run away, for she Feiners think he saved his own prop- had nine children, and I put up a sign erty in the debacle, and did not sufficiently curse out the crown forces. The let alone.' on the house saying she was to be

"Well, and then they started up my own street, and I said to them: 'For God's sake, what are you doing? That house you are after standing against belongs to a decent widow that knows nothing of politics. In the next is an ex-soldier. Next to that again is the place of two young girls struggling to make ends meet. Across the road is an old coast guard.' 'You are giving your street a very good character,' they said. 'Doesn't the brother of De Valera live in that thatched house on the corner?' 'He does,' I said, 'but he doesn't own the house. If you burn it, you'll only be hurting his landlord, who is a good man.' 'Will you point us out some Sinn Fein houses?' they said, and I said:

on the people of my own town that grew up under me, but I assure you that all the people on this street are decent and law-abiding.'

"So there it is. I lost four babies through this, and two of my patients died of shock. One factory burned, and

it is not owned by a Sinn Fein either.

Over a hundred people in this town thrown out of employment, and thirty or forty in the next town. Between three and four hundred pounds a week lost in wages. The most of these people are not Sinn Fein; we returned seven local representatives this morning, and only one was Sinn Fein. We resent the injury to our town and our industry. Torture like this is not the way to teach people to sing 'Rule, Britannia.'

"Mind you, I see both sides-I hope. There are scoundrels among the Black and Tans, but the Irish are doing things to the Irish. The Irish policemen have in mind what has happened to some of their friends, and they go mad. I try to put myself in their place. I think if I were a policeman, and suspected that a fellow had killed my friend, I wouldn't wait for evidence, but I should say: 'Well, I am not sure, but the times are not normal, and by the way you grin when you pass the barracks I think 'twas yourself did it.' I tell you the Irish never count the consequences. I have seen men, and women too, when an enemy was sneering at them on the other side of a window, smash straight through the glass to get at them. I have dressed their wounds. An Irishman says: 'I'll do it!' and then he goes to the end without regard for friends or country. If ever hell is stormed, it will be by an Irishman seeing red."

A

Whispered Fears

was to rise, and everybody, gentry and farmers and peasants, got out their motors and side cars and bicycles and ass carts and came down and sat on the walls, waiting for Gorey to begin.

No matter what the danger is, the crowds are there, especially in the cities. I suppose they have the feeling the soldiers had in the war, that the shells are going to kill somebody else. In Dublin, during the rebellion and the storming of the post office, the Government forces had infinite difficulty in shooing away the women and children who would come up to the very mouths of the guns, apparently afraid they might miss something.

They are like no other crowds I have ever seen; no ripples, no shuffling, none of the eddying and swaying and bursts of sound one is accustomed to in American or British crowds. They are utterly still, intent, inscrutable.

Hannah Carty's Story

Tell's Bridge in Dublin. As usual, it

HE other day I came across O'Con

was crowded with watching people. So was the quay on both sides of the Liffey, as far up as the customhouse. So far as I could see, there was nothing going on. They were just there, waiting and watching, the way they always do, whether a house is being raided or a group arrested or a procession of lorries is sweeping past up to Dublin Castle.

I was on my way to see Mr. Tom Johnson of the Labor party, not aware at that moment he was being arrested. I proceeded, and as I was walking along a very narrow sidewalk, not far from the Abbey Theatre, I noticed a few people scattering. The next thing I knew an armored car had swooped upon the sidewalk and was chasing me. That is a diversion of the Black and Tans. Where danger is concerned the war has taught me to have no dignity; I ran, and the next moment found me in a saloon with a lot of corner boys. "So you got in safe, miss," said they quietly and friendly. Funny-but not entirely so. It is an adventure that might befall any peaceable person going about his business in Dublin-that or worse.

But this is not funny-the night time, when thousands of people in the disturbed areas sleep in the fields or hide in the hayricks, for they know that vengeance has wide wings. Better the misery of the open than that dreadful knocking on the door that no bars can withstand.

I give you this picture: Hannah Carty, groaning because the damp has given her rheumatism, longing to lie in her good warm bed, and yet afraid of what the night may bring forth. She cannot forget the picture made by the flames of the burning creamery; she feels menace in the very air she breathes. She rises from the little creepie stool where she has been crouched over the fire, banks it up, takes a look at the three hens that are sheltering under the dresser, and then she calls her little girl, asleep on the trundle-bed. child gets up, tumbles to the press, and takes out a shawl and quilt. Hannah collects her blankets and a gray goose pillow. Then they drive the black pig inside the kitchen and lock the door.

The

They cross the potato field and barley field, and stop at Maggie O'Toole's cottage. Maggie has three little ones, all arm size, and Hannah generally carries one of them for her. The little procession, queerly bulky with coverlids and shawls, plods on to the upland field well away from the road, not to be reached by any vehicle, and bounded by a thick high hedge. Under this hedge the women have spread straw, which they try to keep dry in the daytime with bags or canvas and rags. They brush these aside and lie down, the children between them, their rosaries in their hands. They tell their beads, looking up at the stars:

"Mother of God, protect us. Holy Mary, Joseph, and' Peter, pray for us this night. Mother of holy pity, we come to thee in this our sorrow. Almighty God, wipe away all tears from all eyes-"

...

Avalon had been entered in the Sonora Handicap, which was to be run off on Wednesday, the 15th of February. Pension day was the 12th of the month. Everything fitted together nicely, and the pool was quite respectable. It was arranged that the Death Watch should go over to Tia Juana, arriving there about noon.

ARLY on the eventful morning Mr. EARLY on hitched Avalon

to the sulky, and drove slowly out of town through the mist. After a careful drive, they reached the famous Mexican track, and Avalon was chucked into a stable to wait for the hour of his trial. The Sonora Handicap was the first race on the card, timed to start at one o'clock. And when the bookmakers began to drift in from San Diego, there was plenty of joking. "Avalon's running to-day," Mr. Levy commented to a group of his fellows. Mr. Levy was the fattest and richest bookmaker in California and was listened to with respect. He wore the large diamonds of his breed and regarded the public as a lot of ninnies. "I thought Avalon was dead and buried," some one said.

"He is dead, but he ain't buried yet. Probably Johnny Windle will bury him after to-day."

"Chicken Johnny Windle own him?" demanded the man at the next stool. "That old fool? Why, when I was a kid-"

"I thought Chicken Johnny was down and out," interjected another. "He is," said Mr. Levy. "This is his comeback."

Then they all laughed and prepared for the serious business of the afternoon. Among the older bookmakers

By Ten Feet

Continued from page 12

TR.

and when the ring assembled for the day they greeted the old man after the manner of their kind.

"So you're starting Avalon, Johnny," Mr. Levy remarked politely. "I suppose you'll be wanting to make a bet on him."

"You're supposing right," returned Johnny. "I ought to get a price too." "You ought indeed," Levy laughed. "You ought to get the best price in the world."

"What are you going to lay?"
"Anything you say, John. You say
what you want and we'll lay it. And,
at that, I won't feel any too good tak-
ing money from an old friend like you."
"You're no friend of mine," Johnny
snorted. "And, besides, you're liable to
feel kind of old yourself before the
day's ended."

It was a
T was a dismal and foggy day for

weather Mr. Windle desired. The air was filled with a Scotch mist that blotted out distant objects, and when the race goers began to drift in from San Diego they came with upturned collars. Johnny fussed about the stables EARN SHOCARD WRITING during the hours of the late morning,

PATENTS

nature. terms.

and presently he began to look for the Death Watch. At noon the five of them Rock, Ark. arrived, led by Pat Grogan. Mr. Windle

SOUTHERN SHOWCARD SCHOOL
Donaghey Bldg.

Writefor free Illustrated Book and "Evidenceof Conception Blank". Send model or sketch and description for free opinion as to its patentable Highest References. Prompt Attention. Reasonable VICTOR J. EVANS & CO., 631 Ninth. Washington, D. (.

ONE MINUTE NOW will put you in the way to earn from $5.00 to $20.00 a month, in your spare time, acting as our representative for The American Magazine, Woman's Home Companion, Collier's-The National Weekly, and Farm and Fireside. Fill out and mail coupon below Chief of Staff. Desk C43, THE CROWELL PUBLISHING COMPANY 416 West Thirteenth Street, New York City

Please tell me how I can act as your representative and earn enough to pay my most bothersome bills.

Name Address

"You better win it," replied Johnny. "In case you lose it, I'm goin' to take you out in the garage when we get home."

Mr. Windle then returned to the stand, hunted for the Death Watch, and found them perched up among the rafters on the very highest row. The crowds began to file in from the field and ring, and then came a brief hush as the eleven horses in the Sonora Handicap walked slowly out of

at two hundred.

the paddock and up the track to the start. Ernie Windle and Avalon were the last in the solemn line, and Avalon moved quietly along, his head bowed down, as though thinking that here was a serious job, and a patriotic one too. The other horses danced or shook their heads irritably. Ernie wore the old Windle colors-yellow jacket and scarlet cap.

There had been no betting on second or third place. They were plungers all.

"And he looks pretty good at that," Mr. Grogan remarked. "He's a nicelooking horse."

The track in front of the stand was ankle deep with the woozy Mexican mud upon which Johnny was staking his all; and it was equally deep with that same foot-retarding mud all the way round.

"Nothing to this at all," Mr. Windle said to the Death Watch, watching the water spurt from beneath the horses' feet. "All mud and nothing but mud. We're going to make a lot of money today, providing Ernie rides him right. And he better." He beamed upon the gang.

"We ought to win," commented Mr. Ledert. "We worked hard enough."

"You worked?" queried Chicken John. "You mean putting up the money? Call that work?"

"I don't mean that at all," returned August, and what he did mean was lost for the moment, because things were getting momentous. The horses were already pawing and prancing at the post. The little group up under the rafters cheered once or twice, causing the crowds to look at them in astonishment. Pat Grogan remarked that he felt a little like he did just before the charge at Lookout Mountain. And, over in the fog and rain, Avalon stood quietly at the extreme outside end of the line, waiting for the netting to rise.

"They're off," whispered the grand stand, as it always whispers.

"Whoopee!" shouted the G. A. R., and again the crowd turned to the little knot of aged men.

As the barrier shot up, the line leaped forward, floundered for an instant with the water and mud flying, and then splashed ahead on their mile and a quarter jaunt through the muck. Chicken eyes. He suddenly took them away and Johnny held a pair of glasses to his sat down. He gave way limply, and there was a stunned expression on his wrinkled face. "That settles it," he said.

"What settles what?" Mr. Grogan inquired.

"Look where the little hound is-look where he is! And after I told him!"

HE Death Watch looked, and with

were splashed with mud, which had dried to their garments.

"Where you all been?" he asked. "Just comin' along," Pat replied. "Nasty weather, ain't it?"

"It is not," said Johnny. "It's beautiful weather. Do you want the sun to begin shining? You can sail a schooner around that track."

He chuckled, took brisk command of the five cronies, and led them toward the betting ring.

"Now what do we do?" Abner Fields asked.

"Come with me," responded Johnny. "Now we get to the real business of the day."

The race crowds were pouring into the track in a steady stream when Chicken Johnny started for the ring with his five henchmen at his heels. The old gentlemen were buffeted this way and that by the eager throngs, but they stuck to Mr. Windle. On the high stools the bookies were marking the figures on little blackboards, and Johnny explained that it would be best to scat

would do no good to come loping in second.

"It's a shame," said Levy to his hirelings. "Those old men shouldn't be allowed to run around loose this way."

Mr. Windle told the Death Watch to climb up into the grand stand, while he went around to the stables and had a final word with Ernie. Ernie, of course, was to ride. The boy was feeding Avalon a handful of sugar when his grandfather found him.

"Listen," said Chicken Johnny, "when they get off, you take him across from the outside and lay him up against the inner rail. Y'hear?"

"Yes, sir," said Ernie. "You told me that yesterday."

"Git him over against the rail as quick as you can. And stay there." "Yes, sir."

"Don't move away from that rail-if you have to knock 'em over."

Ernie nodded his head vigorously and patted Avalon.

"We're goin' to win this race, granddad," he said.

it was the start of a horse race. Nobody else in the stand was surprised at what Avalon and Ernie were doing, because the general public was interested in two other horses named Fig Tree and Flying. These two were admittedly the best of a bad lot, and they led the parade by the stand.

He

"Look at him," Johnny moaned as Avalon swept past the stand. cursed a couple of feeble curses and shook his ancient fist, but nobody heard him, because the stand was roaring encouragement to Fig Tree and Flying. The mistake that little Ernie had made was beyond all understanding, because, instead of crossing over to the inside rail, the boy took Avalon immediately to the outside. He passed the yelling stand within ten inches of the wire fence, with the other horses on the opposite side of the track, where they be longed. It looked as if Avalon had decided not to associate with his competitors.

And so they plunged along toward the first turn. Avalon still hugged the

HERE was nothing for him to do but to wait miserably where he was and see whether Flying would be able to outrun Fig Tree. He admitted that the others were out of it. Off in the haze and rain, the eleven equines fought it out, beyond the sight of man. Nobody knew what was happening, but the sports who had wagered on Fig Tree and Flying enjoyed themselves while they could. Presently a dark mass appeared again in the mist, now coming from the other direction, and as it smashed along through the fog and turned for the final run home, a low cry arose. It was seen that a miracle had again happened in modern racing.

A horse bearing a jockey in a yellow jacket and a scarlet cap was racing his pursuers to death. He was ahead of them, about as far as a strong man can throw a kitchen chair. He was Avalon, the ruin, and he was running his fool head off, still on the outside rail, where never a horse had finished a race before.

On he came, hugging tight to the wrong rail. Ernie was riding him easily, still high up on his neck, with never a touch of the whip, and the old weak-lunged, watery-eyed cuss was moving with a smooth, effortless speed that had spread-eagled the whole field. On the opposite side the ten opponents splattered and splashed through the ooze, with no more chance than so many wild buffaloes.

Chicken Johnny Windle arose from his stupor.and gave off a yell that rose from the stand and split the fog wide open. The Death Watch, which had been standing mutely in one spot, now burst into cheers and began dancing. It was a fine moment for the Soldiers' Home. The rest of the racegoers simply sat still in stunned amazement and watched the finish of as miraculous a race as has been run. Here was a twohundred-to-one shot winning by yards, and not a dollar down, except the money wagered by some old soldiers, and an old-timer named Windle. Avalon passed under the wire, with enough leeway to go out and telephone a friend, and the judges held their heads in their little pagoda. In silence the stand emptied

itself.

The six old gentlemen, whose ages were four hundred and twenty-five years, moved majestically down the steps and out toward the betting ring long before the result was hung up. There was no need to wait for the board, and they didn't know about the board, anyhow. They crowded into the betting ring with Chicken Johnny leading them, and began the pleasant business of collecting from as dumfounded a set of bookies as ever made a chalk mark. All season Mr. Levy would re

member that afternoon.

From book after book Chicken Johnny drew down his hundreds and his thousands. Pat Grogan trampled upon young and old in his eager round of the stools. Ritchie Woodman paused only to stuff the bills into his pants and consult his list. August Ledert, who was a pro-German as late as 1870, was using his hat as a cash register. The bookies paid them off with both hands and Pat Grogan paused before Mr. Levy.

"You said not to go way, and I didn't," said Pat. "All big bills. I don't want any little bills at all."

Johnny Windle approached the Death Watch. "Didn't I tell you we'd be rich?" he asked. "Did I lie to you?"

"You did not," returned Mr. Grogan. "Didn't I say we'd have automobiles and silk shirts?"

"You certainly did," admitted Woodman, who was having difficulty tying a shoe lace about a roll.

"There's just one thing, though," said Johnny. "I don't understand how Ernie come to run around the outside rail. I been in this business fifty years, and, by golly, that's the first time I ever saw that."

Mr. Woodman grinned. "Let's tell him," said Pat. "We got to tell him."

"You see, Johnny," explained Mr. Fields, "it's like this. You're an old racing man. You know all about mud horses, and when you said Avalon would win this race, we took your word, because we know you."

"And that's the truth," Pat interrupted.

"But," continued Abner, "we couldn't afford to lose our pension money. You know that, Johnny. It ain't much, but we couldn't take any chances."

"And that's why we did it," Pat grinned.

"Why you did what?"

"Well, we told Ernie not to pay any attention to what you said. We told him to do what we said, and he did. We had a little talk with Ernie, and we said to Ernie, you better ride this horse around the outside railing."

"Huh!" Johnny exclaimed. "You told Ernie to disobey me. What for?"

"Our money was bet, and we couldn't afford to take chances, so we worked all night, Johnny-me and the boys." Here he swept the Death Watch with a wave of his hand. "We started in late last night, and we never quit till daylight; and that's a fact."

"You worked?" Mr. Windle repeated, his astonishment growing.

"You said Avalon was a mud horse, and mebbe he is; but likewise he can also run pretty good on a nice, hard path. We felt that if he had a nice, hard path to run on, we'd be more sure of this money. And so it turned out."